“How long are you staying?” he asked Teresa. “Just until Wednesday.”
“Me, too,” said Banks. “You’re English, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Banks said. “Thank you for not guessing Australia or New Zealand. Not that I have anything against those places, mind you, but I get it a lot.”
“Oh, I wasn’t guessing. My grandfather was English. From Hull.”
“Really? I know it. In fact, I don’t live all that far away from Hull. If you don’t mind my asking, how on earth did you…you know?”
Teresa laughed. “How does a girl who looks like me have relatives from Hull? Easy. Don’t laugh. They owned a Chinese restaurant.” Banks couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You should see your face,” she said, laughing at him. “I’m joking, of course. I’m not Chinese. My grandfather was a sailor, and somehow or other he found himself on a French merchant ship. He made many visits to the Far East and ended up settling in Vietnam. So, you see, I, too, have English blood in me. Hull blood.”
Banks lowered his voice and leaned closer to her. “It’s not something I’d boast about in public,” he said. “You know what they say about Hell, Hull and Halifax?” He caught of whiff of her perfume, delicate but a little sweet and heady, cut with a hint of jasmine.
“No. Tell me.”
“It was the thieves’ litany. ‘From Hell, Hull and Halifax may the Good Lord deliver us.’ Sixteenth century. There was a particularly nasty jail in Hull and the gallows at Halifax. I think Hell rather speaks for itself.”
Teresa laughed again. “You English people are so strange,” she said. “I’ve never been there, but I’d like to go sometime, just to see it.”
Banks couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to go to see Hull-it wasn’t exactly a major tourist destination-though he enjoyed its rough charm, the docks and its down-to-earth people. Hull also had a Premier League football team, a big plus in the northeast these days. “Maybe one day you will,” he said. “Look, I know this probably sounds a bit forward, but are you here by yourself?”
He thought Teresa blushed before she averted her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I…I…” Then she made a dismissive gesture with her free hand. “I’m sorry. It’s a long story.”
“Maybe you’d like to have dinner with me tonight and tell me? I don’t have any plans, and I’m a good listener.”
Teresa put her hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I mean, I would, you know, really, but I can’t. I’ve already got…I have to be somewhere.”
“Of course,” said Banks, embarrassed that he had asked. “I understand.”
She rested her hand on his arm. “No, it’s nothing like that,” she said. “Really. I’m going to have dinner with my son and daughter-in-law and their kids. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. In fact, I must hurry. I just felt I needed another drink before facing the little terrors. My grandchildren, that is.”
Banks didn’t think she was old enough to have grandchildren, but he thought it would sound like a terrible come-on line if he told her that. “I see,” he said.
She widened her eyes. “Tomorrow? I mean, that’s if you’re not, you know, you don’t…”
“Tomorrow would be perfect,” said Banks. “My last night here.”
“Mine, too.” Teresa knocked back the rest of her drink, set the glass on a nearby table and took a packet of breath mints from her handbag, or purse, as they called them in America, Banks had learned. She caught Banks looking at her. “It’s all right. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not in the habit of doing this. It’s just with the kids, you know, and my daughter-in-law is so disapproving. Religious. Her father’s a Baptist minister. Shall we meet here?”
“Fine,” said Banks. “Same time? Seven? Shall I make a reservation somewhere?”
“Let me do it,” said Teresa. “I know the city.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “See you tomorrow.”
Then Teresa hurried off and Banks was left alone. The tarot reader glanced over at him with a conspirational smile, and for a moment he considered having his fortune told. He quickly dismissed the idea. It would either depress him or give him false hope. He smiled back, finished his drink and headed out to see what the evening had to offer.
The first thing he saw, around the corner on Taylor, was an old street lady being sick in the gutter. After she had staggered away, three pigeons swooped down and started pecking at the chunks. Sadly, it wasn’t such an unusual sight in this area of the city. As Banks walked along Geary, a homeless black man in rags followed him for about half a block raging about how mean people were. It could have been London, Banks thought, until he got to Union Square and saw the cable car go by with people hanging off the sides laughing and whooping, heard the bell clanging, the underground cables thrumming. With no particular destination in mind, he crossed the square and started wandering the downtown streets. Sooner or later, he knew, he would find a friendly-looking bar or restaurant, where he could while away the evening.
THE ROOM on the ground floor of the Western Area Headquarters that the officers always used for their press conferences had a small elevated area that passed for a stage and contained all the wooden chairs they could rustle up. Annie and Superintendent Gervaise had gone over the developments with ACC McLaughlin in regard to what should be mentioned and what they should keep to themselves for the moment. The best they could hope for, Annie thought, was to dispel a few rumors and douse the flames before they roared out of control. Already, she felt, it was getting a bit late for that.
Patrick Doyle’s death had thrown a spanner in the works, not only because it had occurred during a sanctioned police operation, but because a Taser was involved. One piece of information that had come to light at the hospital was that Patrick Doyle had suffered a heart attack two years ago. Though he had been responding well to medication, and his recent ECGs and echoes had all been good, there remained some minor damage to the heart that would never repair itself. They should have known that before sending Warburton and Powell in with Tasers. That’s what the media would say, too, when they got hold of the story. The Taser debate sold a lot of newspapers.
In addition to the local press and TV, there were reporters from the major national dailies-Mail, Sun, Guardian, Telegraph, Express, Times, Independent, Mirror-and one or two feature writers looking for something a bit more in-depth-gun crime, today’s youth, or police-related deaths.
The small room was buzzing with speculation and excitement when Annie and Gervaise entered that Tuesday morning and stood by the door to observe ACC McLaughlin in action. The space wasn’t so large that anyone needed a microphone, but the conference had been set up so that the proceedings could be recorded on digital video, and there were also a couple of TV cameras discreetly positioned in the back corners.
Annie surveyed the room and noticed the backs of a few familiar heads, including some she had seen at Laburnum Way yesterday. She leaned against the back wall by the door and sipped coffee from the mug she had brought with her as the reporters settled down and McLaughlin began his prepared statement.