“Stay in touch?”
“I use her firm whenever I need legal work done, which isn’t often. But do we play golf or go out to the pub together? No. Anyway, I don’t need a criminal lawyer. Mostly I deal with Constance. Constance Wells. We’re quite friendly, I suppose. She helped me find this place.”
Of course, Annie thought, remembering the framed illustration on Constance Wells’s wall. One of Maggie’s, no doubt. “You gave her that Hansel and Gretel drawing.”
Maggie looked surprised. “Yes. You’ve seen it?”
“I was in her office last week. It’s very good.”
“You don’t have to patronize me.”
“I wasn’t. I mean it.”
Maggie gave a little dismissive gesture with her shoulders.
“Where were you at about midnight last night?”
“I’d just got home from London. I had a meeting with my publishers on Friday afternoon, so I decided to stay down until Saturday, do some shopping. That’s about as much of London as I can take these days.”
“Where did you stay?”
“Hazlitt’s. Frith Street. My publisher always puts me up there. It’s very convenient.”
“And they would verify this?”
“Of course.”
Well, Annie thought, getting ready to leave, it had been a long shot, but subject to corroboration of her alibi, it didn’t look as if Maggie Forrest could have killed Kevin Templeton. When it came to Lucy Payne, though, Maggie was still high on the list. And she didn’t have an alibi for that.
Banks arrived first at the bistro, and it wasn’t so busy that Marcel, the genuine French maître d’ couldn’t give him an effusive welcome and a quiet secluded table, complete with white linen tablecloth and a long-stemmed rose in a glass vase. He hoped it wasn’t over-the-top, that Sophia wouldn’t think he was trying to impress her or something. He had no expectations of anything, but it felt good to be having dinner with a beautiful and intelligent woman. He couldn’t remember how long it had been.
Sophia arrived on time, and Banks was able to watch her as she handed her coat to Marcel and walked toward the table, fixing his eyes with hers and smiling. She was wearing designer jeans and some sort of wraparound top that tied at the small of her back. Women have to be pretty good at using their hands behind their backs, Banks had noticed over the years; they spent so much time fastening things like ponytails, bras, wraparound clothes and difficult necklace clasps.
Sophia moved elegantly toward him, with unhurried grace, and seemed to flow naturally into a comfortable position once she sat. Her hair was tied loosely at the nape of her long neck again, and a few dark stray tresses curled over her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes were every bit as dark as he remembered, shining and obsidian in the candlelight. She wore no lipstick, but her full lips had natural color, well set off by her flawless olive skin.
“I’m glad you could make it,” said Banks.
“Me, too. I knew our walk was out of the question when I heard the news. Look at you. I’ll bet you didn’t get much sleep.”
“None,” said Banks. He realized as he spoke that not only hadn’t he slept or eaten since he had seen Sophia last night, but he hadn’t even been home, and he was wearing the same clothes he had worn to Harriet’s dinner party. He had to remember to keep a change of clothing at the station. It was embarrassing, but Sophia was clearly too much of a lady to say anything about it. They studied the menu and discussed a few items — Sophia, it turned out, was a keen gourmet cook and a food nut — and Banks ordered a bottle of decent claret.
“So it’s Sophia, is it?” Banks asked when they had ordered — steak and frites for him and sea bass for Sophia, with Stilton, pear and walnut salad to start.
“Sophia Katerina Morton.”
“Not Sophie?”
“No.”
“Kate?”
“Never.”
“Sophia it is, then.”
“Just don’t call me ‘Sugar.’”
“What?”
She smiled. “It’s a song. Thea Gilmore. It’s a bit cheeky, actually.”
“I know her,” Banks said. “She did an old Beatles song on one of those MOJO freebies. I liked it enough to buy a CD of other covers she’d recorded.”
“Loft Music,” said Sophia. “That’s good, but you should try her own songs.”
“I will. Do you work in the music business?”
“No. No, I’m a producer with the BBC. Arts radio, so I do occasionally get involved in music specials. I did a series about John Peel not too long ago, and I’ve done a few programs with Bob Harris.”
“The Old Grey Whistle Test Bob Harris?”
“One and the same. He introduced me to Thea at his birthday party.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You would have been. Robert Plant was there, too. I’ve never met your son, though.”
“Ah, I see. You’re wooing me just to get to my son. They all try it. It won’t work, you know.”
Sophia laughed, and it lit up her features. “I’d hardly call this wooing.”
“You know what I mean.” Banks felt himself blushing.
“I do. He is a remarkable success, though, your Brian. Cute, too. You must be very proud.”
“I am. It took a while to get used to, mind you. I don’t know about the cute bit — you should have seen him when he was a surly, spotty teenager — but it’s not the easiest thing to deal with when your son decides to give up on higher education and join a rock band.”
“I suppose not,” said Sophia.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Banks said, “what were you doing at Harriet’s dinner party last night? I mean, I must admit, it didn’t really seem like your scene at all.”
“It wasn’t. And I wasn’t going to go.”
“So why did you?”
“I wouldn’t have wanted to pass over a chance to meet Eastvale’s top cop.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously! I’d heard so much about you over the years. It might sound silly, but I’ve felt I’ve known you ever since that first meeting. When Aunt Harriet told me she was inviting you to the dinner, I said I’d do my best to get there. Really, I wasn’t going to go. That’s why I was late. I only decided after it had started that I’d kick myself if I didn’t take the chance. It could have been a dreadful bore, of course, but…”
“But?”
“It wasn’t.” She smiled. “Anyway, you clearly enjoyed it so much you didn’t even want to change your clothes. I must say, it’s the first time I’ve been out with a man who wore the same clothes two nights in a row.”
So not too much of a lady, then. Banks liked that. He smiled back, and they laughed.
Their starters arrived, and they toasted with the wine and tucked in. Banks felt he would probably be better off wolfing down a burger and chips rather than the delicate and beautifully presented salad, but he tried not to let his hunger show. At least the steak and frites would fill him up. Sophia took tiny bites and seemed to savor each one. As they ate they talked about music, London, country walks — anything but murder — and Banks found out that Sophia lived in a small house in Chelsea, that she had once been married to a successful record producer but was now divorced and had no children, that she loved her job and enjoyed the luxury of her father’s Eastvale flat to visit whenever she wanted.
She was half Greek and half English. Banks remembered Harriet saying something about having a brother in the diplomatic service, and that was Sophia’s father. He had met her mother while posted in Athens, where she had worked in her father’s taverna, and against all advice they had married and had just celebrated their ruby wedding anniversary. They were away in Greece at the moment.
Sophia had spent a great deal of her childhood moving from place to place, never settling long enough in a school or a city to make friends, so now she valued those she had more than ever. Through her job, she met a lot of interesting people in the various arts — literature, music, painting, film — and she went out to a lot of events — concerts, exhibitions, festivals.