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‘But what interest would that possibly hold for anyone?’

‘She’s Lady Chalmers now.’

‘I know. But they’re not going to take that away from her just because she had a fling with a striking miner forty years ago, are they?’

‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘think about it. She was a rich girl, and you, as you say, were a striking miner. It makes an interesting story. And with her nephew Oliver Litton about to become Home Secretary, or so the pundits would have us believe, and your history of Russian connections, communism, backroom deals, trips to Moscow and the like, any journalist worth his salt could easily make something out of it.’

‘That gives your future Home Secretary a motive perhaps, but not Ronnie.’

‘Except Oliver Litton doesn’t know anything about it. At least, I’m assuming he doesn’t, if neither you nor Ronnie told anyone. Her immediate family doesn’t even know.’

‘I didn’t, and I doubt that she did.’ Jarvis started coughing again. When he had finished, he said, ‘I don’t know how I can help you. I don’t really understand what any of this means.’

‘Me, neither,’ said Banks, smiling. ‘That’s why I’m asking the questions.’

‘If you think this Gavin Miller was blackmailing Ronnie over her fling with me,’ Jarvis said, ‘and that it had any importance for her, that he was a threat of any kind, then it seems to me as if you’re saying it gives her a pretty strong motive for killing him.’

‘Not necessarily. We know she couldn’t have done it.’

‘Hired someone, then.’

‘It’s possible,’ Banks said. ‘But if Miller was blackmailing Lady Chalmers, there may have been others, victims we don’t know about, and one of them might have killed him. He was desperately short of money when he was killed, and who’s to know to what lengths he might have gone, who he might have antagonised?’

‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ said Jarvis.

Banks smiled. ‘No,’ he said. He heard a low-flying aircraft pass overhead on its way to some regional airport. It was late afternoon, and already getting dark.

‘You think I might have hired a Russian hit man? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have those contacts any more. Everything’s changed over there. They’re not interested in the revolution any more. The communists used to take over countries with tanks; now if they want another country, the Russian mafia just buys one.’

‘I did have a theory that both Ronnie and Gavin Miller might have been recruited by the Russians back in the day.’

Jarvis laughed. ‘Them? Recruited? That’s a good one.’

‘But they were active, weren’t they, the Russians? In 1972. With money, with helping spread chaos and setting the scene for a communist revolution?’

‘They were buzzing around, yes, but it was the union leaders they were interested in, not students standing on the sidelines, like Ronnie and Miller. Oh, they had a few agitators there, people who could turn a peaceful demonstration into a riot. But the Russians had no use for intellectuals. No more than Pol Pot did. And when it comes right down to it, I really didn’t have a lot of time for the Russians. I didn’t like them, and I never trusted them. We used each other. It was a convenience.’ He looked around the allotment and said, ‘Believe it or not, I love this place. I love this country. I’m proud of my homeland. It’s where I belong. It’s where I’ll die. Now if only we could get rid of the bastards in power and change the system, make it a fairer and more egalitarian place to live, I’d die a happy man.’

‘I’m not sure Lady Chalmers would want to change it now.’

‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she? I must say, you disappoint me, Mr Banks. Russian sleepers? Your ideas are getting very far-fetched.’

Banks scratched his chin. ‘I disappoint myself sometimes,’ he said. ‘Too much imagination, I suppose. You can’t help me any further, then?’

‘I don’t see how I can, do you? I’ve got nothing to hide. Yes, we had a fling, yes, I’ve had a soft spot for her in my heart ever since, and I’ve followed her career. But from a distance. Vicariously. The closest I’ve got is reading a Charlotte Summers book.’ He smiled. ‘And what drivel that was. We’ve never met, written or spoken in all the intervening years, though I have thought of it many times, and I haven’t told anyone about the affair. Including my wife and family, though I didn’t marry until two years after Essex. And I’d very much appreciate it if you’d respect that and give me the same courtesy. It’s not as if you’ll have to hold your tongue for very long.’

‘It’s not in my plans to spread the word, Mr Jarvis, believe me. What happened with your own family? Did you have children?’

‘Aye. A girl and a boy.’

‘Did the lad become a miner?’

‘Shit, no! Do you think I’d encourage them to do that after what you’ve heard me say here today? No.’ His expression turned sad. ‘Though it might have been better in some ways if he had.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Oh, Eddie’s turned out, all right, I suppose. He’s a lathe operator, but you know what the manufacturing sector’s been like these past three decades or so. Thatcherland. She gutted the north. He’s been in and out of work like a yo-yo most of his life. It takes its toll. He drinks. Got divorced last year, lost custody of the kids. And my daughter Stef married an idle sod who doesn’t know the meaning of the word “work”. Never done a day’s hard graft in his life, like his father before him. All he does is go to the pub and back and provide her with more mouths to feed. I warned her. I told them. But do they listen?’ He shook his head. ‘For all my ideals and my beliefs, Mr Banks, I can’t exactly say I’ve brought up a family to be proud of.’

‘You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.’

‘Easy for you to say, with a son in a successful rock band.’

Banks couldn’t mask his surprise. How...?’

‘I read the papers, Mr Banks, and I watch telly. I might be old and dying, but I’m not square. There aren’t that many coppers with sons in the charts. Now, I’m more of a Shostakovich man myself.’ Jarvis reached for another cigarette.

‘About Shostakovich,’ said Banks. ‘I’m very fond of him, myself. I think the whole question of where he stood in relation to Stalin is fascinating. Any insights into that?’

Chapter 13

The red sports car was parked in its usual place on the gravel drive outside Brierley House. Clearly, Lady Chalmers’ local garage hadn’t got around to taking it in for repairs yet. When Banks got out of the Porsche, he walked over to the MG to check out the damage. It wasn’t too bad, he thought. The front headlamp was smashed, the tyre ripped, the fender and passenger door gouged and dented by the crash through the fence. But all that could be easily fixed. What interested Banks were the scratches and dents on the driver’s side. They could hardly have been caused by the fence.

Neither Oriana nor Lady Chalmers was in immediate evidence, and it was a dishevelled Sir Jeremy who opened the door. Wearing a baggy grey sweater and faded jeans, he was unshaven and looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. The telltale tufts of hair sculpted into whorls and flattened areas by a pillow showed that he had at least tried to catch a nap.

‘Banks, it’s you,’ he said, clearly distraught. ‘Have you seen it? We were expecting it back yesterday, but it didn’t get here until this morning, just before you arrived. Come in. I want to talk to you.’

He led Banks into a study, or office, that was clearly his, with theatrical posters on the walls, the iconic Les Mis and Cats, along with some for his own productions: The Power and the Glory, Carmilla and On the Beach. There were a number of trophies and awards of various shapes, sizes and materials on the bookcases, slotted between rows of theatre books and bound scripts. The wainscoting was dark and the wallpaper above it not much lighter. This room didn’t have the panoramic view of the town, but of the house next door across the separating lawn. Banks guessed that Sir Jeremy probably didn’t spend a lot of time here, as he had offices in London and spent a great deal of time travelling.