But now he had a bath to himself, and soap and shampoo and towels, too. First he turned on the television. It didn’t matter what was on; he just wanted the sound for company. Then he started running a hot bath and made himself a cup of tea. When everything was ready he took his tea into the bathroom, climbed in the tub and lit a cigarette. It was wonderful. He could hear Emmerdale on the television through the half-open door as he lay back and luxuriated in the steamy warmth. This must be what it was like to be normal, he thought. He only wished Tina could be here with him. He knew it wouldn’t all seem so special to her because she’d grown up with all these luxuries, but she would have loved it nonetheless.
He wished he could stay there forever, with the hot water enveloping him, the steam rising and the comforting voices on the television, but he knew he couldn’t. Tomorrow he would have to find a way to get to Scarborough and get a job. Clive’s money wouldn’t last forever, especially if he had to pay so much for a room every night. But maybe he’d find somewhere cheaper in Scarborough. A little flat, even. And then he’d start putting his life back together.
Banks certainly felt as if he needed a drink when half past six came around, but left to his own devices he would have chosen other company than Maria Phillips. Still, he thought, pushing open the pub’s door, duty calls, and she was harmless enough if you kept your distance.
The Queen’s Arms was busy with the after-work crowd, most of whom seemed to prefer standing elbow to elbow at the bar. Banks was the first to arrive, so he managed to get Cyril’s attention, bought himself a pint of bitter and settled by the window to read the paper.
Maria came dashing in ten minutes late, breathless and full of apologies. Someone hadn’t turned up for an evening shift and she’d had to deal with it. Banks offered to get her a drink.
“You dear man,” she said, unbuttoning her coat and unwinding her scarf. “I’ll have the usual.”
When he came back with her Campari and soda, she was composed, smoking a Silk Cut. A momentary pang of desire – for a cigarette, not for Maria – leaped through Banks’s veins like an electric current, then passed as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling vaguely uneasy and fidgety.
“Cheers,” Maria said, clinking glasses.
“Slainte,” said Banks. “So what is it you want to see me about?”
Her eyes sparkled with mischievous humor. “It’s all business with you, isn’t it?”
“It’s been a long day.”
“And I don’t suppose there’s a dear devoted woman waiting for you at home, ready to massage your neck and shoulders and run a nice warm bath for you, is there?”
“Afraid not,” Banks said, thinking there was only Gwyneth Paltrow in Great Expectations and a tumbler of Laphroaig. But Gwyneth wouldn’t be massaging him or running him a hot bath. “There’s not even a faithful dog to fetch my slippers. Policing doesn’t lend itself to pet-owning, especially when you live alone.”
“Wives, either,” Maria said.
“Well, I’d never claim to have owned a woman.”
She slapped him playfully on the forearm. “Silly. You know what I mean. Your job. It must make relationships difficult.”
Damn near impossible, thought Banks, realizing he hadn’t even talked to Michelle in a day or two. He wondered how her missing child case was going. Better than his triple murder, he hoped. His train would pass through Peterborough on his way to London. Maybe she could come to the station and he could lean out of the window and kiss her like a scene in an old black-and-white film. All that would be missing would be the atmospheric steam from the engine. “Well,” he said, “you should probably talk to Sandra about that.”
“I would, except she seems to have deserted all her old friends.”
“She’s burned a few bridges, all right,” said Banks. “So, Maria, what is it?”
“Nothing, really. It’s just that after our little tête-à-tête the other day, well, you know how you start thinking back, trying to remember things?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “That’s why I usually give anyone I question my phone number. They often remember something later.”
“You didn’t give me your phone number.”
“Maria! Stop doing your Miss Moneypenny imitation. You’re just down the street.”
“Just down the street. Story of my life. Ah, well.” Maria laughed. “Oh, don’t look so exasperated. I’m only teasing.”
“You were talking about remembering something.”
“So stern. Yes, like I said, I got to thinking, trying to play the scene in my mind’s eye, so to speak.”
“Which scene would this be?”
“The Turner reception, of course. There were quite a lot of people there, including that pretty young policewoman I’ve seen you with on occasion.”
“Annie was involved in the security. As you well know.”
“I’m surprised you two haven’t…” Then she looked at Banks and opened her eyes wider. “Well, maybe you have. None of my business, anyway.”
“That’s right,” said Banks. “The reception.”
“I’m getting to that. I was trying to picture Thomas McMahon, what he was doing, who he was talking to. That sort of thing.”
“And?”
“Well, he wasn’t talking to anyone most of the time, but I did see him chat with Mr. Whitaker from the bookshop.”
That made sense. Whitaker had told Banks that McMahon bought old books from him. For the endpapers, Phil Keane had suggested, perhaps to make forgeries of period sketches. And Banks was still keeping an open mind as to whether Whitaker was involved in some sort of forgery scam with McMahon and Gardiner, especially after Stefan Nowak had confirmed that the car parked in the lay-by on the night of McMahon’s murder had been a Jeep Cherokee, the same model Whitaker owned. Thanks to Geoff Hamilton’s expert knowledge, they could now check Whitaker’s fuel tank against the accelerant used in the Gardiner blaze.
“What was Thomas McMahon doing?”
“Well, his wineglass was rarely empty, I can say that.”
“But he wasn’t drunk?”
“No. Maybe a little bit tipsy. But not so’s you’d notice that much. I seem to remember he was the kind of chap who could hold his liquor, as they say in the movies. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”
“What is it, then?”
“Just that at one point he was talking to someone who might be able to tell you more about him than I can.”
“Who?”
“That art researcher from London. Well-heeled, yummy-looking fellow. Do you know who I mean?”
Banks felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. Annie’s “friend” Phil. Philip Keane. “Yes,” he said. “I know him. Why do you say well-heeled?”
Maria rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you men. His suit, dearie. You can’t get a suit like that off the peg in Marks and Sparks. That was a made-for-measure job, bespoke, tailor. Beautifully made, too. Best-quality material. Nice bit of schmatter. At a guess I’d say Savile Row.”
“How do you know?”
She winked. “I’ve got hidden depths.”
Banks imagined an art researcher probably made a fair income, and if Phil Keane wanted to spend it on Savile Row suits, good for him. “Go on,” Banks said. “What were they talking about?”
“I don’t know that, do I? I was some distance away doing my hostess routine, seeing that everyone’s glass was full. It was just something I noticed, that’s all, perhaps because most of the time McMahon wasn’t talking to anyone.”
“How long were they talking?”
“I don’t know that, either. My attention was diverted. Next thing I knew, McMahon was studying one of the paintings on the wall and Mr. Art Researcher was chatting up Shirley Cameron.”