“Just a case we’re working on up north,” said Annie. “Thanks, anyway. You’ve been a great help.”
The woman stood there for a moment, until she seemed to realize she’d been dismissed, then she turned, sniffed, and walked back to her house.
“Well,” said Annie, looking at Winsome. “I think we’d better get cracking and ask a few questions while we’re down here, don’t you?”
“Yes, Guv,” said Winsome.
Banks wondered what the hell he was doing sitting on a park bench in Camden Town on a gray January afternoon. Nothing but a small triangle of grass, a few scrappy trees, swings and a roundabout and a couple of damp green benches. On the face of it, he was trying to pluck up the courage to visit Sandra, whose house he could see through the bare branches across the street. But why he wanted to see her was beyond him. Yes, Maria Phillips had told him that Sandra had talked to Thomas McMahon often, but it was unlikely she would be able to tell him anything useful about the dead artist. Banks hadn’t seen Sandra in over a year, not since she told him she wanted a divorce, in a café not far from the spot where he was sitting. So why now? Was it the baby? Morbid curiosity? And why was it so hard to pluck up the courage?
He stood up and walked toward the gates. This was stupid, he told himself; he might as well head for King’s Cross and catch the next train home. He could even phone Michelle. Maybe they could manage a bit more than a quick kiss through the train window. It would be easy to get off at Peter-borough if she happened to have the evening free. There was nothing for him here.
Just as he turned the corner toward the tube station, he saw a woman walking toward him, pushing a pram. It was Sandra, no doubt about it. She was still wearing the same artsy granny glasses and short, layered haircut as the last time he saw her, blond hair and black eyebrows. She also wore a long beige raincoat and had a black wool scarf wrapped around her neck.
When she saw him, she stopped. “Alan. What…?”
“I just wanted a word,” said Banks, surprised the words came out so easily, with his heart stuck in his throat the way it was.
“I’ve just been to the shops,” Sandra said. Then she leaned forward and adjusted the blanket in the pram. Banks was still facing her and couldn’t see inside. She looked up at him again, her expression unreadable, except he sensed some sort of protection, something primal, unconscious, in the way she tended to the child. It was almost, Banks felt, as if he were perceived as a threat, as if he were the enemy. He felt like saying, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s only me,” but he didn’t. Instead, Sandra spoke. Glancing over at the park, she said, “Walk?”
“Fine,” said Banks. He stepped aside as she started walking again and fell in beside her. They paused to check the traffic carefully before crossing the road, and Banks sneaked his first glance at baby Sinéad. He almost breathed a sigh of relief to discover that she looked pretty much the same as any other month-old child did: like Winston Churchill. Sandra caught him looking, and he noticed her redden before she pushed the pram forward across the street.
“What is it?” she asked.
“What?”
“You wanted to talk to me.”
“Oh, yes. It’s nothing, really. Just a case I’m working on. Remember an artist called Thomas McMahon?”
“Tom? Yes, of course. Why?”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, killed in a fire. He was squatting on a barge down on the canal.”
“I take it he was murdered, or you wouldn’t be here?”
“Looks that way,” said Banks.
“Poor Tom. He was harmless. He wouldn’t hurt a soul.”
“Well, someone hurt him.”
“A fire, you said?”
“Yes. Arson. He was unconscious at the time. He wouldn’t have… you know.”
Sandra nodded. Her small, pale nose was a little red at the tip, he noticed, as if she had a cold. “I haven’t seen him in five years or more,” she said. “I don’t know how I can help you.”
“I don’t know, either,” said Banks, sticking his hands in his overcoat pockets. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”
They came to a bench and Sandra sat, wheeling the pram close and locking the brake with her foot. Banks sat beside her. He craved a cigarette. It wasn’t a sharp, fast, overwhelming urge as he usually felt, but a simple, deep, gnawing need. He tried to ignore it.
“You smell of beer,” Sandra said.
“I’m not pissed.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Banks paused. He’d had a couple of pints with Burgess, true enough. But that was all. And he certainly wasn’t going to mention Dirty Dick to Sandra. Red rag to a bull. “Maria Phillips was asking after you,” he said.
Sandra shot him an amused glance. “Between trying to get her hands down the front of your trousers.”
“How did you guess?”
“She never was a subtle one, was Maria.”
“She’s rather sweet, really.”
Sandra rolled her eyes. “To each his own.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Banks rushed on. “I think she’s just very insecure underneath it all.”
“Oh, please.”
“She said you spent a lot of time with Tom.”
“And you think she was hinting at an affair?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s obvious in your tone. For your information, not that it matters anymore, but I didn’t have any affairs while we were together. Not one.”
Sinéad stirred and made a gurgling sound. Sandra leaned forward and did something with the blanket again, then she put her hand to the side of the baby’s face, stroked it and smiled, murmuring nonsense words. It was a gesture Banks remembered her making with both Brian and Tracy when they were very young, and it cut him to the quick. He had forgotten all about it, and there it was, a simple maternal gesture with the power to hurt him so. What the hell was going on? he wondered, breath tight in his chest. This baby was nothing to do with him. If anything, it was an insult to the relationship he thought he had with Sandra. It wasn’t even a particularly beautiful baby. So why did he feel so excluded, so alone? Why did he care?
“So what can you tell me about McMahon?” Banks asked.
“Tom had a lively mind, wandering hands and low self-esteem,” Sandra said.
“Why the low self-esteem?”
“I don’t know. Some people are just like that, aren’t they?” She rocked the pram gently as she spoke. “Even when he was moderately successful, getting the odd exhibition and managing to sell a painting or two – and I don’t mean just the tourist stuff – he still couldn’t seem to believe in himself. You know, he once told me he felt more himself imitating other artists than he did doing his own work.”
“Oh,” said Banks. “Who did he imitate?”
“Just about anyone.” Sandra laughed. “He once dashed off a Picasso sketch for me. It took him about five seconds. I don’t know if you could have got it by a team of experts but it would have fooled me. Why are you so interested?”
“What about Turner?”
“What about him?”
“Do you think McMahon could have forged Turner sketches and watercolors?”
Sandra swept her hand over her hair. “Do I think he had the talent for it? Yes. Did I ever see him imitate or even hear him mention Turner? No.”
“Just a thought,” said Banks. “Some have turned up.”
“Is this connected with his death?”
“It could be,” said Banks.
Sandra shivered and adjusted her scarf.
“Is there anything else?” Banks asked.
“Not that I can think of.”
“You didn’t know his circle of friends?”
“Didn’t know he had one. I only saw him at the gallery. Sometimes we’d have a coffee there together. That’s all.” Sinéad gurgled again and Sandra leaned over.