“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”
“Then you will?”
“All right, yes. If you want.”
“And you’ll ring me at the station, send anything you find down there?”
“Yes.” She held out her glass. “You never know; I might even deliver it myself.”
“You want another drink?” Banks asked.
“Please.”
“All right. But I’m afraid you’ll have to drink this one by yourself. I’ve got a long drive home.”
Maria looked disappointed. “Oh, well, in that case I won’t bother… But I thought…”
“What?”
“Well, I don’t live that far away. Maybe you’d like to come for a nightcap, or just a coffee or something?” She wrinkled her nose. “It might perk you up a bit.”
“Thanks for asking,” Banks said, hurriedly finishing his beer. “But perking up’s the last thing I need right now. I really do have to get some sleep.”
“Never mind, then. Some other time.” Maria gathered her things together and stood up to put on her coat. “I’ll ring you in the morning,” she said, and made a hasty exit.
Oh, shit, thought Banks, embarrassed by the looks he was getting from others in the pub. Surely he had never given Maria Phillips any reason to think he wanted more from her than information about the artist? He had only seen her two or three times since Sandra had left, and on those occasions they had simply bumped into each other on the street, or he had visited the community center for one reason or another and had seen her there. They had done nothing but exchange small talk. Still, she had always been a strange one, he remembered, always superficially flirtatious, even when he was married to Sandra. He had thought it was just her way of relating and had never taken her seriously. And maybe that’s all it was, even now. He picked up his overcoat and briefcase. At least she was going to ring him with the information he wanted in the morning, information that might take him a bit closer to the mystery that was Tom.
Annie drove her aching bones home after the postmortem, on Banks’s advice. There was nothing more to be done tonight, he had told her, so best get some rest. That was exactly what she intended to do, she thought, as she locked the door of her small Harkside cottage behind her, the cottage that seemed to be at the center of a labyrinth of narrow winding streets, as Banks had once pointed out. She would have a glass of Chilean cabernet and a long hot bath, then take a couple of nighttime cold-relief capsules and hope for a peaceful night’s sleep. Maybe she’d feel better in the morning.
There was one message waiting for her on her answering machine, and she was absurdly pleased to hear that it was from Phil. He would definitely be coming up to Swainsdale tomorrow and would be staying a few days at his cottage in Fortford. Would Annie care to have dinner with him one evening over the weekend, perhaps, or even early next week, if she wasn’t too busy?
Well, she would, but she didn’t know if she could commit herself right now, what with a big new case on the go and this damn cold dragging on. Still, being a DI gave her some perks, even if it did mean no overtime, and her evenings should be free, barring the necessity to head out somewhere overnight. If she felt well enough, there was no reason why she shouldn’t tentatively agree to dinner tomorrow.
Annie dropped her keys on the table, poured herself a glass of wine and picked up the telephone.
When Banks arrived home after his drink with Maria Phillips, he also found one message waiting for him. It was from Michelle Hart, whom he realized he had forgotten to call. She just wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to see him this weekend as they were all working overtime on a missing-child case. Banks could well understand that. Missing children were the worst, every policeman’s nightmare. It was while Michelle was looking into the disappearance of Banks’s childhood friend, Graham Marshall, whose bones had been discovered the previous summer, over thirty-five years since he had disappeared, that they had met.
Even though he couldn’t get away either, he still felt disappointed. This sort of thing was happening more and more often lately, so much so that they felt and acted like strangers for the first few hours every time they did meet. It was no way to sustain a relationship. First the distance, the long winter drives in fog, driving rain or hail; then the Job, the unpredictable hours. Sometimes he wondered if it was possible for a copper to have anything but the most superficial and undemanding of relationships.
He had also wondered more than once over the past few months where things were going with Michelle. They met up when they could, usually managed to have a good time, and the sex was great. But she always seemed to hold a part of herself back. Most people did, Banks realized, including himself, but with Michelle it was different, as if she were carrying around some great weight she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, share, and in a way it made their relationship feel superficial.
With Annie, Banks had developed a deeper relationship. That was the problem, what had made Annie run: the intimacy, and Banks’s residual feelings for Sandra. And the kids, of course. The idea of Banks’s two children seemed to scare Annie to death. Michelle never talked about children. Banks wondered if she had been deeply wounded by her past in some way. Annie had been raped, and they had talked about that, got it out in the open, but with Michelle… she just wouldn’t open up.
Banks sorted through his post, pleased to see that his copies of Gramophone and Mojo had both arrived, and poured a wee dram of ten-year-old cask-strength Laphroaig, which DS Hatchley had bought him at a duty-free shop. Talk about a drink with teeth; it bit deep into your tongue, throat and gut and didn’t let go. The aroma alone was enough to make you feel pissed.
Banks thought about Michelle again. Was he attracted only to wounded women? he wondered. Did he see himself as some sort of healer, a Travis McGee figure, remembering the books he’d read with prurient interest as an adolescent, along with James Bond, the Saint, Sexton Blake and Modesty Blaise. Just a few days on the Busted Flush with old Travis and you’ll be right as rain. Well, if he did see himself that way, he wasn’t making a very good job of it, was he? And you didn’t get to his age, or Michelle’s, without taking a hefty emotional, even physical, knock or two along the way. Especially if you happened to be a copper. Banks laughed at himself, tilted his head back and tipped his glass.
He phoned back, but Michelle was out, so he left a message of regret on her answering machine. Maybe next weekend, he said, though he doubted either of their cases would have wound down by then.
At least he had had one bit of good news when he called back at the station after his little chat with Maria Phillips: their body was definitely Thomas McMahon. There was only one dentist in the village of Molesby, the nearest settlement to the narrow boats, and DC Templeton had had the good sense to check there first with the dental impression. Thomas McMahon had been there for a filling less than a week before.
Sometimes it was that easy.
It was cold in the cottage, and Banks considered lighting a peat fire. Then he decided it wasn’t worth it; he was sure he wouldn’t be able to stay awake long enough to enjoy it. Besides, after today, there was something about the idea of even the most innocent domestic fire that frightened him. He checked the smoke detectors to see if they were both still working. They were. Then he turned on two bars of the electric fire and poured himself another drink.
He thought of watching a movie on DVD. He had recently bought a player and it had revitalized his interest in movies. He was starting to collect them the way he did CDs. In the end he decided that it was too late; he knew he would fall asleep on the sofa halfway through. Instead he put on Cassandra Wilson’s Belly of the Sun CD and browsed through the Gramophone reviews. God, what a deep, rich sensuous voice Cassandra had, he thought, like melting chocolate as she worked each syllable for all she could get, stretched them out until you thought they’d break, dropped on them from high or crept up underneath them and licked and chewed them out of shape.