“Secret lives don’t always have to be lived at night.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Is it? Probably. All I’m saying is we don’t talk enough to know.”
Banks slumped back and sipped his drink. “I suppose so,” he said. “Is it my fault? You always seemed to handle my absences so well before. You understand the Job better than any other copper’s wife I’ve met.”
“I don’t know,” Sandra said. “Maybe it just took longer for the strain to work its way through. Or maybe it’s just worse because I’m busy a lot now, too.”
He put his arm around her. “I don’t know what’s been happening to us lately, either,” he said, “but maybe we’ll go away when this is all over.”
He felt Sandra stiffen beside him. “Promises,” she said. “You’ve been saying that for years.”
“Have I?”
“You know you have. We haven’t had a bloody holiday since we moved to Eastvale.”
“Well, dust off your camera. I’ve got a bit of leave due and I might just surprise you this time.”
“How long do you think the case will last?”
“Hard to say.”
“There you are, then.”
He stroked her shoulder. “Tell me you’ll think about it.”
“I’ll think about it. Tracy comes back on Sunday.”
“I know.”
“Won’t you be pleased to see her? Will you even be around to meet her at the airport?”
“Of course I will.”
Sandra relaxed a little and moved closer. A very good sign. The Drambuie was clearly working. “You’d better,” she said. “She phoned earlier tonight. She sends her love.”
“How’s she getting on?”
Sandra laughed. “She said it’s not quite like A Year in Provence down there, but she likes it anyway. She hasn’t bumped into John Thaw yet.”
“Who?”
“John Thaw. You know, the actor who was in A Year in Provence on television? I liked him better as Morse.”
“Who?”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “You know quite well who I’m talking about. I know you liked Morse. He used to be in The Sweeney, too, years ago, and you used to watch that down in London. Remember, in your old macho days? Didn’t you even go drinking with him once?”
“What do you mean, ‘old’?” Banks flexed his biceps.
Sandra laughed and moved closer. “I don’t want to fight,” she said. “Honest, I don’t. Not since we’ve seen so little of one another.”
“Me neither,” said Banks.
“I just think we’ve got a few problems to deal with, that’s all. We need to communicate better.”
“And we will. How about a truce.” He tightened his arm around her shoulder.
“Mmm. All right.”
“I’ll have to call the station and see if there’s been any developments,” he said.
But he didn’t move. He felt too comfortable. His limbs felt pleasantly heavy and weary, and the warmth of the malt whisky flowed through his veins. The slow second movement started in its haunting, erotic way. Soon, the eerie flex-atone entered and sent shivers up and down his spine. A cheap effect, perhaps, but sometimes effective if you happened to be in the right mood.
Banks drained his glass and put it on the table by the sofa. Sandra let her head rest between his shoulder and chest. Definitely a good sign. “Remember that silly film we saw on TV a while back?” he said. “The one where the couple has sex listening to Ravel’s Bolero?”
“Hmm. It’s called 10. Dudley Moore and Bo Derek. And I don’t think they were really listening. More like using it as background music.”
“Well, I’ve never really liked Bolero. It’s far too ordered and mechanical. It’s got a kind of inevitability about it that’s too predictable for my taste. I’ve always thought this Khachaturian piece would be a lot better to make love to. Much better. Wanders all over the place. You never really know where it’s going next. Slow and dreamy at the start, with plenty of great climaxes later on.”
“Sounds good to me. Have you ever tried it?”
“No.”
Sandra moved her head up until she was facing him, her lips about two inches away. He swept back a strand of hair from her cheek and let his fingers rest on her cool skin. “I thought you had to call the station?” she said.
“Later,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Later. Are the curtains closed?”
3
Boredom. They never told you about that down at the recruitment drives, thought PC Grant Everett as he rolled down the window of the patrol car and lit a cigarette. His partner, PC Barry Miller, was good about the smoking. He didn’t indulge, himself, but he understood Grant’s need to light up every now and then, especially on a quiet night like this one.
They were parked in a lay-by between Princes Risborough and High Wycombe. To the south, through the rearview mirror, Grant could see the faint glow of the nearest town, while to the north only isolated lights twinkled from scattered farms and cottages. All around them spread the dark, rolling landscape of the Chilterns. It was an attractive spot on a nice day, especially in spring with the bluebells and cherry blossoms out, but in the dark it seemed somehow forbidding, inhospitable.
A light breeze swirled the smoke out of the car. Grant inhaled deeply. It had just stopped raining and he loved the way the scent of rain seemed to blend with the tobacco and make it taste so much better. It was at moments like this when he understood why he smoked, despite all the health warnings. On the other hand, he never quite understood it when he got up after a night’s chain-smoking in the pub and coughed his guts up for half an hour.
Next to him, Barry was munching on a Mars bar. Grant smiled to himself. Six foot two and sixteen stone already and the silly bugger still needed to feed his face with chocolate bars. Who am I to talk? Grant thought, sucking on his cigarette again. To each his own poison.
Grant felt sleepy and the cigarette helped keep him awake. He had never got used to shift work; his biological rhythms, or whatever they were, had never adapted. When he lay down his head in the morning as the neighbor’s kids were going to school, the postman was doing his rounds and everyone else was off to work, he could never get to sleep. Especially if the sun were shining. And then there was Janet, bless her soul, doing her best, trying hard to be as quiet as she could around the house, and Sarah, only six months, crying for feeding and nappy-changing. And the bills to pay, and… Christ, he wasn’t going to think about that. At least the job got him out of the house, away from all that for a while.