“True,” Banks said. “But it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.”
“What if Bradford was using the newsagent’s shop as an outlet for distributing porn?” Banks suggested.
“And Graham delivered it?”
“Why not? He always seemed to be able to get his hands on it. That’s another thing I remember. A bit of Danish submission with your Sunday Times, sir? Or how about some Swedish sodomy with your News of the World, madam? Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘Sunday supplement,’ doesn’t it?”
Michelle laughed. “Maybe he just found out about it.”
“Is that worth killing someone for?”
“Who knows? People have killed for less.”
“But all we’re assuming is that Bradford was a minor porn dealer.”
“He had to get it from a wholesaler, didn’t he? Maybe Bradford was working for someone with even more at stake?”
“Someone like Carlo Fiorino?” suggested Banks. “And Harris was on Fiorino’s payroll? It’s possible, but still speculation. And it doesn’t get us a lot further with the missing notebooks.”
“Unless Proctor and Shaw inadvertently hit on the truth during their interviews, and it was recorded in Shaw’s notebooks. I don’t know how we’d find out, though. It’s not as if we can talk to Harris or Proctor.”
“Maybe not,” said Banks. “But we might be able to do the next best thing. Were they married?”
“Harris was. Not Proctor.”
“Is his wife still alive?”
“As far as I know.”
“Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something. Think you can find her?”
“Piece of cake,” said Michelle.
“And let’s delve a little deeper into Donald Bradford’s domain, including the circumstances of his death.”
“Okay. But what about DS Shaw?”
“Avoid him as best you can.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult these days,” Michelle said. “He’s off sick half the time.”
“The booze?”
“That’s what I’d put my money on.”
“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Banks finished his drink. “Another?”
Michelle looked at her watch. “No. Really. I’d better go.”
“Okay. I suppose I should go, too.” Banks smiled. “I’m sure my mum’ll be waiting up for me.”
Michelle laughed. It was a nice sound. Soft, warm, musical. Banks realized he hadn’t heard her laugh before. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked.
“Oh, no. Thank you,” said Michelle, standing up. “I’m just around the corner.”
“I’ll walk with you, then.”
“You don’t need to. It’s quite safe.”
“I insist. Especially after what you’ve just told me.”
Michelle said nothing. They walked out into the mild darkness, crossed the road and neared the riverside flats, close to where Banks had parked his car. Michelle had been right; it really was within spitting distance.
“This is right across the river from where they used to have the fair when I was a kid,” he said. “Funny, but I was just thinking about it as I was driving down.”
“Before my time,” said Michelle.
“Yes.” Banks walked her up to her door.
“Well,” she said, fumbling for her key, giving him a brief smile over her shoulder. “Good night, then.”
“I’ll just wait and make sure everything’s okay.”
“You mean until you’re sure there are no bogeymen waiting for me?”
“Something like that.”
Michelle opened her door, put on the lights and did a quick check while Banks stood in the doorway and glanced around the living room. It seemed a bit barren, no real character, as if Michelle hadn’t put her stamp on it yet.
“All clear,” she said, emerging from the bedroom.
“Good night, then,” said Banks, trying to hide his disappointment that she didn’t even invite him in for a coffee. “And take care. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She gave him a smile. “Tomorrow.” Then she closed the door gently behind him, and the sound of the bolt slipping home seemed far louder than it probably was.
It was all very well for Gristhorpe to tell Annie to get a good night’s sleep, but she couldn’t. She had taken more paracetamol and gone to bed early, but the pain had returned to her mouth with a vengeance. Every tooth ached, and now two of them felt loose.
The blow from Armitage had shaken her more than she had cared to admit to either Banks or Gristhorpe because it had made her feel the same way she had felt when she was raped nearly three years ago: a powerless victim. She had sworn afterward that she would never allow herself to feel that way again, but down in the cramped, dank space of Norman Wells’s book cellar, she had felt it, the deep, gut-wrenching fear of the female powerless against male strength and sheer brute force. Annie got up, went downstairs and poured herself a glass of milk with shaking hands, sitting at the kitchen table in the dark as she sipped it. She remembered the very first time Banks had been to her house. They had sat in the kitchen and eaten dinner together while the light faded. All the while Annie had been wondering what she would do if he made a move. She had impulsively invited him into her home, after all, offering to cook dinner instead of going to a restaurant or a pub, as he had suggested. Had she known right then, when she did that, what was going to happen? She didn’t think so.
As the evening wore on, their mood had got more and more mellow, thanks partly to liberal quantities of Chianti. When she had gone outside into the backyard with Banks, who wanted a cigarette, and when he had put his arm around her, she had felt herself tremble like a teenager as she had blurted out all the reasons about why they shouldn’t do what they were about to do.
Well, they had done it. And now she had ended the affair. Sometimes she regretted that and wondered why she had done it. Partly it was because of her career, of course. Working in the same station as the DCI you’re screwing was bad policy. But maybe that was just an excuse. Besides, it didn’t have to be that way. She could have worked in another station, somewhere where the opportunities were just as good, if not better than at Western Area Headquarters.
It was true that Banks still seemed tied to his past, to his marriage, but she could have handled that. It was also something that would have waned in time. Everyone had emotional baggage, including Annie herself. No, she thought, the reasons for what she did were within herself, not the job, not Banks’s past. Intimacy had felt like a threat to her, and the closer she had got to Banks, the more she had felt suffocated and tried to pull away.
Would it be like that with every man she met? Was it to do with the rape? Possibly, she thought. Or at least partly. She wasn’t sure she would ever completely get over that. What happened that night had certainly damaged her deeply. She didn’t think she was beyond repair, just that she had a long way to go. She still had occasional nightmares, and though she had never told Banks this, sex had sometimes been an effort for her, had even hurt at times. Sometimes the simple act of penetration, however consensual and gentle, had brought back the surge of panic and the feeling of sheer powerlessness she had first experienced that night. Sex certainly had its dark side, Annie knew. It could be demonic, close to violence, pushing you into dangerous and vaguely imagined desires and dark areas, beyond taboo. It was no wonder, then, she thought, that the idea of sex was so often mentioned in the same breath as violence. Or that sex and death were so intimately linked in the words and works of so many writers and artists.
Annie finished her milk and tried to laugh off her morbid thoughts. Still, they seemed to be the only kind she had at night, alone and unable to sleep. She put the kettle on for tea and went into the living room to browse through her small video collection. In the end, she settled on Doctor Zhivago, which had always been one of her favorite films, and when the tea was ready, she lounged on the sofa in the dark with her steaming mug, legs tucked under her, and gave herself up to the haunting theme music and the epic story of love in a time of revolution.