‘Certainly,’ said Annie.
‘Let’s call it a night, then,’ Gervaise said. ‘We’ve all got more than enough to keep us busy from tomorrow on.’
There was a letter waiting for Banks when he got home after the meeting, along with the circulars, bills and the latest copy of Gramophone magazine. It was handwritten, postmarked Scarborough, and there was an almost illegible address in the top left-hand corner that he could just about make out was in Filey. He didn’t get many real letters these days. He put the junk on the table by the door and took Gramophone and the letter with him into the kitchen. Ray was stopping over with friends in the Lake District tonight, Banks remembered, and he was glad to have the cottage to himself for an evening. Not that he minded Ray staying there while he found a suitable home of his own, and the cooking was a definite plus, but it was good to have the conservatory to himself again, the chance to relax and listen to whatever music he wanted to hear. Ray wasn’t much of a classical fan. He loved sixties’ rock and jazz, mostly, which was fine, but Banks still missed his Schubert, Shostakovich and Beethoven. When he had tried to play a Borodin string quartet or some Chopin nocturnes, Ray hadn’t grumbled or made any comment, he had simply talked all the way through it as if it were mere background music.
Luckily, there was some of Ray’s excellent lasagne left over from the other night, and Banks stuck it in the microwave, then he poured himself a glass of Primitivo and walked through to the entertainment room. He hadn’t bothered tidying up since Ray had been around, and there were books, CD jewel cases and DVD boxes scattered around on just about every available surface. He had recently bought a disc of Alice Coote singing French mélodies, so he put that on, making sure it was routed through the speakers in the conservatory. He couldn’t understand sung French very well, except for a few lines of Françoise Hardy and Jacques Brel, but he enjoyed the music of the language. And the sweetness of the singer’s voice, of course.
After the team meeting, he was more convinced than ever that there was something fishy about the whole St Mary’s business. Even AC Gervaise seemed to agree, and he had expected more resistance from her. True, profiles aren’t always accurate, and Jenny had quite reasonably complained that she didn’t have enough to go on, but the comparison between what they knew of spree killers or mass murderers and what they had been able to discover about Martin Edgeworth’s character, life and actions just didn’t match up. Then there were the forensic and pathology details. It might be a long haul ahead, but there had to be a way of getting to the bottom of it.
In the meantime, Banks was curious about the letter, which lay on top of Gramophone on the table beside him. He turned on the reading lamp, which reflected in the windows, effectively blotting out the dark mass of the hills outside.
Banks held the letter in one hand and tapped its sharp edge on the palm of his other, stretching the anticipation. He didn’t recognise the handwriting. Right now, it could be anything — good news, bad news, a death, a birth, a favour asked, an offer, a piece of news that could change his life — but as soon as he opened it, its promise would evaporate and it would simply be what it was. There would be no further room for speculation. It could be from one of his few surviving school friends, for example. Or maybe it was from someone he had come across on a case he had worked. Or a distant uncle leaving him a fortune. The longer he held it unopened, the longer the tension would last. Eventually, though, he gave up teasing himself and opened it as carefully as he could, in case he needed to decipher the address in the top left corner for a reply.
In the light of the lamp, he read the surprisingly clear script:
Dear Alan,
I hope you don’t mind me writing to you out of the blue like this. It took me a while to track down your address, but I finally managed. Maybe I should have been a detective, ha-ha!
First let me explain. I’m Julie Drake, Emily’s best friend from uni — or university, as we used to call it back in the day. You might remember me as we used to hang around together quite a lot in the pubs and at gigs. I remember you were with us when we saw Bowie live just days before Ziggy Stardust came out. The place was three-quarters empty and he invited everyone to come up to the front. I remember he sat on the edge of the stage at one point and sang ‘Amsterdam’ with only an acoustic guitar. We were so close I could have touched him. My boyfriend at the time was Andy Mathers, and I think the two of you got along OK. You had similar tastes in music, at any rate, and I remember you both enjoyed a pint or two when you could afford it. Andy and I split up in third year.
But that’s enough about me. The reason I’m writing to you is that Emily and I remained close friends until the very end. I thought I saw you at her funeral, but when I came out after the service you were gone, and my eyes were bleary with crying. Still, I’m sure it was you I saw. I won’t say you haven’t changed, but it’s odd how you can sometimes immediately recognise someone you haven’t seen for going on forty years. At least it happens to me often enough. I even saw Andy a couple of years ago and recognised him immediately, despite his lack of hair and the extra stone or two around the middle.
I spent a lot of time with Emily in her last few weeks, even held her hand at the end, and I have to tell you first of all that she was unbelievably brave. The cancer had got to her liver by then and we knew there was no hope. Of course, most of the time I wasn’t the only one there, her family was very supportive, but we did get a lot of time alone together, just the two of us sitting, listening to music sometimes. She still loved Bowie best of all and she cried buckets when he died, but she’d come to like classical music as well, and it was Schubert’s string quintet she wanted at the end. Mostly we just spent our time talking, talking, talking (you must remember I could never shut up!). Sometimes because of the morphine she was given to rambling, and a lot of her thoughts seemed to go back to years ago when we all knew each other. She spoke about you a lot, both in her lucid and rambling moments. I think in some way she always had a special love for you despite the years apart. I remember thinking when I was around you all that time ago that as a couple you emanated a special sort of love, but that’s just romantic old me being sentimental with hindsight.
I suppose by now you must be wondering when I’m going to get to the point. If there is a point. Well, there is. I just thought you’d like to know that she didn’t forget you. She felt guilty about breaking up like that, and there are some things she wanted me to tell you, or at least she said it would be OK to tell you after she’d gone, but they’re not things I can write in a letter. I retired from teaching a while ago, and my husband and I are running a B & B not too far from you, in Filey. If you get the chance to come out here sometime soon, I’d be happy to have a chat. Come anytime. It’s off season. Just give me a ring first. My husband Marcel is a superb chef and he will cook us a fantastic meal.
In the meantime, I hope you think of Emily sometimes and remember her with as much fondness and love as I do. She was one of the special ones.
Best Wishes XX
She added her email, address and phone number in a postscript. Filey wasn’t that far, and Banks was sure he could manage a quick visit. He remembered Julie Drake quite well. As best girlfriends often were, she and Emily were different as chalk and cheese. Julie was — or had been back then — a vivacious, flirtatious brunette who often seemed quite manic in proximity to Emily’s cool blond presence. Julie had an attractive full figure: large breasts, a pert nose and big eyes. She favoured low-cut tops to reveal a tempting glimpse of cleavage. She also had a reputation for chasing the boys that Banks had often felt was undeserved. He had once seen her crying alone at a party when she thought no one was watching, while the boy she had come with was chatting up a prettier and more sophisticated girl, and more often than not, she went home alone. Banks felt that she probably tried too hard and set her sights on the wrong men. He could recognise the signs. After all, he had set his sights on the wrong woman often enough.