“That sounds reasonable,” I told her. “What did Michael Stanhope have to say?”
“Oh, he agreed in the end. But he’s not happy about it. Thinks it’s one of the best things he’s done, blah-blah-blah, opens up a new direction for him. Says his career needs a boost and this could give it one. He also argued that Matthew wouldn’t be any the wiser and that even if he did see it he wouldn’t recognize who it was. He’s probably right. I’m being silly.”
“But he did agree?”
“He complained a lot, but, yes, he agreed in the end. He likes to play the miserable cynic, but he’s pretty decent, deep down. He’s got a good heart.”
And there she finished. We walked back to Hobb’s End enjoying the sound of the breeze through the leaves and the songs of the birds in the high branches.
I didn’t see Gloria again until a couple of days later, on the afternoon of the seventh of May, and by then everyone knew Germany had surrendered. The war was over and everywhere people started putting up flags and closing up shop.
The last party had begun.
“Enjoy the film?” Banks asked, when he met Annie outside the Leicester Square Odeon at nine o’clock. She had been to see the latest megamillion special-effects extravaganza by one of those highly touted directors who used to make television adverts.
“Not much,” said Annie. “I suppose it had its good points.”
“What?”
“The End, for one.”
Banks laughed. Leicester Square was crowded with tourists, as usual. Street kids, buskers, jugglers, clowns and sword swallowers were all working hard to prize a quid or two out of the punters’ pockets, while the pickpockets took an easier route. The Hare Krishnas were back in force, too. Banks hadn’t seen them in years.
“How were things with your son?” Annie asked.
“We mended a bridge or two.”
“And the band?”
“Pretty good, though I suppose I’m biased. We’ll go see them if they ever play up north, and you can make your own mind up.”
“It’s a date.”
Banks took Annie to a small bistro-style restaurant he knew just off Shaftesbury Avenue. The place was busy, but they managed to get a table for two after a short wait at the bar.
“I’m starving,” said Annie as she squeezed herself into the chair between the table and the wall, twisting around and setting her packages down behind her. “But I can see that eating with you is going to become a serious problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“This kind of place hardly caters to the vegetarian eater,” she whispered. “Just look at the menu.”
Banks looked. She was right: lamb, beef, chicken, fish, seafood, but little in the way of interesting vegetarian dishes, other than salads. Still, as far as Banks was concerned, “interesting vegetarian dish” was up there with “corporate ethics” as far as oxymorons went.
“Sorry,” he said. “Do you want to try somewhere else?”
She put her hand on his arm. “No, it doesn’t matter. Next time, though, it’s my choice.”
“Visions of tofu and seaweed are already dancing before my eyes.”
“Idiot. It doesn’t have to be like that. Indian restaurants do great vegetarian dishes. So do Italian ones. You didn’t complain about the meal I made last week, did you?”
“It was delicate timing. I didn’t want to offend you just before I made a pass.”
Annie laughed. “Well, there’s something to be said for honesty, I suppose.”
“I wasn’t being honest. I was being facetious. It was a great meal. Dessert wasn’t bad, either.”
“There you go again.”
“Anyway, you’re right. Next time, it’s your choice Okay?”
“Deal.”
“How about some wine?”
They chose a relatively inexpensive claret – relatively being the key word – and Banks went for the roast leg of lamb with rosemary, while Annie, pulling a martyred expression, settled for a large green salad and some bread and cheese. The waiter, who must have been imported from France along with the decor and food style, grunted with disapproval and disappeared.
Their food arrived quicker than Banks expected, and they paused until the waiter had gone. The lamb was tender and succulent, still pink in the middle; Annie turned her nose up at it and said her salad was okay. There was a tape of romantic dinner music playing in the background, and beyond the bustling waiters, the hum of conversation, clinking of cutlery and glassware, Banks could hear strains of the andante cantabile from Tchaikovsky’s “String Quartet Number 1.”
After his talk with Brian, he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his mind. There were still problems – Sean, for one – but Brian would just have to learn to live with the way things were. Banks had to admit that this Sean sounded like a real prick. Not for the first time, he speculated about going over there and kicking the shit out of him. Really mature way to deal with the problem, he told himself. A lot of good that would do everyone concerned. The important thing at the moment was that he and his son were talking again. And from what he had heard, the kid had talent; he might make it in the business yet. Banks tried to imagine being father to a famous rock star. When he was old and gray, would Brian buy him a mansion and a Mercedes?
The candlelight brought out the slight wine-flush on Annie’s cheeks and filled her dark eyes with mysterious shadows and reflections. She was still wearing the same business suit she had worn that morning, but she had loosened her hair so that it tumbled over her shoulders in sexy waves. It would probably just brush against the tattoo over her breast.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked, looking up and pushing some stray hair back behind one ear.
Perhaps this was the moment, Banks thought, emboldened by his buoyant mood, to take the plunge anyway. “Annie, can I ask you a personal question?”
She arched her eyebrows and Banks sensed a part of her scurry back into the shadows. Too late now. “Of course,” she said. “But I can’t promise to answer it.”
“Fair enough. What are you doing at Harkside?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. It’s a nowhere posting. It’s the kind of place they send naughty boys and girls. You’re bright. You’re keen. You’ve got a future ahead of you if you want it, but you’ll not get the job experience you need at Harkside.”
“I think that’s rather insulting to Inspector Harmond and the others up there, don’t you?”
“Oh, come on, Annie. You know as well as I do that’s where they want to be. It’s their choice. And it’s not an insult that they choose the easy life.”
“Well, maybe it’s what I’ve chosen, too.”
“Is it?”
“I didn’t promise to answer your question.” Her mouth took on a sulky cast Banks hadn’t seen before, the corners of her lips downturned; her fingers drummed on the tablecloth.
“No, you didn’t,” Banks said, leaning toward her. “But let me tell you something. Jimmy Riddle hates my guts. He isn’t in the business of putting me in the way of anything I might find even remotely pleasant. Now, given that he knows who you are, and given that what’s happened between us since could never in a million years fulfill his idea of the circle of hell he thinks he’s cast me into, I find myself wondering why.”
“Or waiting for the punch line?”
“What?”
“Isn’t that what you’re saying? You think something’s wrong. You think there’s some sort of a plot to get you. You think I’m part of it.”
“That’s not what I said,” said Banks, who realized guiltily that the thought had crossed his mind.
Annie turned her head away. Her profile looked stern. “Annie,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, “I’m not saying I haven’t been suspicious. But, believe me, the only reason I’m asking you now is because I’ve come to… Because I’m afraid you’re being used, too.”