“I just wondered how big a role it played in his life, that’s all.”
“Like I said, he went to church on Sunday and had a philosophical chat with the vicar every now and then.”
“Okay. Fair enough. Did he ever mention someone called Gareth Lambert, an old friend?”
“Yes, I remember him mentioning the name.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
She pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. It looked raw when she’d finished. “No,” she said. “But I heard his name.”
“Do you remember the context?”
“Roy was just talking about an old friend of his who was back in the country. They hadn’t seen each other in a long time.”
“When was this?”
“A couple of months ago. Around the time of the abortion. He said he was going to meet him for a drink at some club or other they belonged to on The Strand, talk about old times and see if there were any business opportunities. He was always on the lookout for a new angle. I’m afraid I suspected something else. I asked him who he was going out with and that’s what he told me. I didn’t believe him, though.”
“Did Roy go for that drink?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the name of the club?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Well, it it’s any consolation, he was probably telling the truth. Did he say anything about it afterward?”
“No, not really. He was vague, as usual, and a little tipsy. He just said that he’d had an interesting time. He seemed excited about more business possibilities.”
“Did he say what?”
“No,” she said. “He was very vague.”
Something dodgy, then, Banks thought. Not arms, in all likelihood, but something crooked if Lambert was involved. He had nothing more to ask Corinne but thought he would stay for a while, anyway, just to keep her company, talk about Roy. It was after nine o’clock; it had been a long day and he was feeling pleasantly tired. He could ring his parents and the Peterborough police, then ring Annie and ask her to meet him in the morning, if that was okay with her.
As if she were reading his mind, Corinne said, “Look, I’ve got a nice bottle of white wine in the fridge. I’ve got red, if you want it, too. I don’t want to drink by myself. I don’t want to be alone just now. Would you care to keep me company for a while longer? I mean, if there isn’t anywhere you have to go. Where are you staying?”
Banks realized that he had completely forgotten about finding somewhere to stay. He had driven to London without making any arrangements and the incident on the motorway had pushed all such practical thoughts from his mind. There was always Roy’s – he still had a key – but there was a chance the police hadn’t finished there yet.
“Don’t know,” he said. “I thought I’d just check into a hotel.”
She looked away and reddened a little. “You can stay here if you like. I mean, there’s a spare room, all made up and everything.”
The idea made Banks nervous. He knew the offer was entirely innocent. The poor girl was alone and devastated by the murder of her lover, and Banks would no more think of letting anything sexual happen between them than he would with his own sister, if he had one. Then again, she was a very attractive young woman and he was just a man, after all. What if she cried out in the night? What if Banks went to comfort her and she was naked under the sheet? What would they do then?
What really made up his mind, though, was that right at the moment he was so weary he could hardly lift himself out of the armchair, let alone hit the wet streets looking for a cheap hotel, so he said, “Thanks, that’s very good of you. That’ll be great. And I prefer red, if that’s okay?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Annie woke early on Wednesday morning, and when she opened her curtains she was happy to see that the sun was shining again and the sky was robin’s-egg blue. She managed twenty minutes of meditation and a short yoga session – ten salutes to the sun, cobra, locust and peacock – then she dressed in her new white cotton slacks, red short-sleeve top and light denim jacket and went down to the restaurant for breakfast with Banks, her wavy brown hair still damp from the shower.
The meditation and yoga hadn’t made her feel as calm as she had hoped, and she couldn’t help feeling anxious and tense about meeting Banks again, especially after the way he had phoned and so casually put her off late the previous evening.
Their last meeting had gone well enough, but nothing had been resolved and Annie still felt as if she were bursting with questions and insecurities.
The stories in the morning paper upset her, too, brought back too many bad memories. Because the reporter was trying to link Banks’s fire with his brother’s murder, they had also raked up all the stuff about Phil Keane and his hapless policewoman girlfriend. Where they had got it all from in the first place, she didn’t know, but there’s always a leak somewhere.
Banks didn’t look in too bad a shape, Annie thought, when she saw him already sitting at a cloth-covered table drinking coffee. In fact, he looked a lot more like his old self than he had in ages. All he really needed now was a decent haircut and a few more good nights’ sleep to get rid of the bags under his eyes. And maybe some fresh clothes. The pallor had all but gone, and there was a certain edgines back in his body language instead of that infuriating languor. There was also a brightness in his dark blue eyes that she hadn’t seen in a long time. Perhaps, she thought, his brother’s death had made him realize how lucky he was. Or more likely it had just given him something he cared about, a sense of purpose. For there was no denying that he was on the case, officially or not.
She sat down opposite him and noticed that he smelled just a little of original Old Spice. It was a smell she liked, something she remembered from their intimate time together. It had taken her a while to throw out the anti-perspirant stick he had left in her bathroom cabinet, but she had done so eventually, along with the razor, shaving cream and toothbrush.
“So what were you up to last night that you couldn’t meet up with me then?” Annie asked.
“Social duties,” said Banks.
“Pull the other one.”
“I went see Corinne,” he said.
“How is she?”
“She’s suffering plenty,” said Banks. “I don’t know about you,” he went on, “but whenever I’m having breakfast in a hotel, it has to be the bacon and eggs. Don’t know why. I’d never have that at home.”
“It’s because you don’t have to cook it yourself and wash the dishes after,” said Annie.
“And because I never have time to sit around and eat it.”
“How are things going?”
“Not so bad, considering,” said Banks. “My dad’s just worn down by the whole thing, but my mother’s acting strange.”
“Strange how?”
“As if it’s just another family event, like the anniversary party. She’s already talking about sandwiches for the funeral tea.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” said Annie. “The postmortem’s over. Given cause of death, I shouldn’t imagine they’ll be holding on to the body for too long. I’m really sorry about your brother, Alan. I know Dave Brooke will do his best. He’s a good copper.”
A waitress came over and Banks ordered the full English. Annie ordered a cheese-and-mushroom omelette and felt a twinge of guilt – her first morning she’d had only a continental, and the next two days muesli – but if you didn’t treat yourself once in a while, what was the point?
“Anyway,” Banks asked, “how are things progressing up north?”
Annie ran her hand over her hair. “I’ve only been in touch over the phone but they seem to be moving along nicely. Mostly it’s forensics on the tire tracks and fingerprints we found at your cottage and on the door of Jennifer’s car. We’ve also got people asking around, you know – did anyone see anything, that sort of thing. But we don’t expect much to come from that. It was late and in a remote place. Anyway, Winsome’s on the case, and I know I can trust her.”