‘Know how many pubs there are in Toronto?’
‘Don’t bother to tell me. I’d only get discouraged. It’s the kind of job I should have sent my sergeant on.’ Banks explained about Hatchley’s drinking habits and Gregson laughed.
‘Can I have a good look around?’ Banks asked.
‘Go ahead. I’ll be down in the car. Lock up behind you.’
After the staff sergeant left, Banks puzzled over him for a moment. He was beginning to warm to Gregson and get some understanding of Canadians, especially those of distant British origin. They behaved with a strange mixture of patronage and respect towards the English. Perhaps they’d had British history rammed down their throats at school and needed to reject it in order to discover themselves. Or perhaps the English had simply become passé as far as immigrants went, and had been superseded by newer waves of Koreans, East Indians and Vietnamese.
The next item of interest Banks found was an old photograph album dating back to Allen’s university days. There were pictures of his parents, his sister, and of the Greenocks standing outside a typical Armley back-to-back. But the most interesting was a picture dated ten years ago, in which Allen stood outside the White Rose with a woman named as Anne in the careful white print under the photo on the black page. The snap was a little blurred, an amateur effort with a Brownie by the look of it, but it was better than the one he’d got from Missing Persons. Anne looked very attractive in a low-cut T-shirt and a full, flowing Paisley skirt. She had long light brown hair, a high forehead and smiling eyes. Her face was heart-shaped and her lips curved up slightly at the corners. That was ten years ago, Banks thought, carefully taking the photo from its silver corners and pocketing it. Would she look like that now?
He went on to make a careful search of the rest of the apartment, and he did take out every book and flip through the leaves, but he came up with nothing else. The postcard signed ‘Julie’ and the old photograph were all he had to go on. By the time he’d finished, his shirt was stuck to his back.
Outside, Gregson seemed quite at ease smoking in his hot car.
‘Find anything?’ he asked.
‘Only an old photograph. Probably useless. What time is it?’
‘Ten after four.’
‘I suppose I’d better make my way home.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Riverdale.’
‘That’s not far. How about a beer first?’
‘All right.’ It was impossible to resist the thought of an ice-cold beer.
Gregson drove back downtown and pulled into a car park behind a grimy cinder-block building with a satellite dish on the roof.
Despite the warm gold sunlight outside, the bar was dark and it took a while for Banks’ eyes to adjust. He did notice though, that it was cold, gloriously cold. There wasn’t any sawdust on the floor, but he got the feeling there ought to be. It was a high-ceilinged room as big as a barn, peppered with black plastic tables and chairs. At one end was the bar itself, a feeble glimmer of light in the distance, and at the other was a stage littered with amps and speakers. At the moment a rather flat-chested young girl was dancing half-naked in a spotlight to the Rolling Stones’ ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’. The volume was much too high. Against a third wall was a huge TV screen on which a game of baseball was in progress.
A waitress sashayed over, shirt-ends tied in a knot under her ample breasts, and took their orders with a weary smile. Shortly, she returned with the drinks on a tray. As Banks looked around, other figures detached themselves from the gloom and he saw that the place was reasonably full. Smoke swirled and danced in the spot beam. Whatever this bar was, it wasn’t one of the English-style pubs where Bernard Allen went for his pint. The four glasses of draught beer in front of them were tiny and tapered to thick heavy stems.
‘Cheers.’ Gregson clinked glasses and practically downed his in one.
‘If you have to order two each at a time,’ Banks asked, leaning over and shouting against the music, ‘why don’t they switch to using bigger glasses?’
Gregson shrugged and licked foam off his moustache. ‘Tradition, I guess. It’s always been like this as long as I can remember.’ He offered Banks a cigarette. It was stronger than the ones he usually smoked.
The music ended and the girl left the stage to a smattering of polite applause.
Gregson nodded towards the TV screen. ‘Get baseball back home?’
Banks nodded. ‘We do now. My son likes it, but I’m a cricket man myself.’
‘Can’t figure that game at all.’
‘Can’t say I know much about baseball, either.’ Banks caught the waitress’s attention and put in another order, changing his to a bottle of Carlsberg this time. She smiled sweetly at him and made him repeat himself.
‘Likes your accent,’ Gregson said afterwards. ‘She heard you the first time. You’ll be all right there, if you’re interested.’
‘Married man.’
‘Ah. Still, while the cat’s away… And you are in a foreign country, a long way from home.’
Banks laughed. ‘The problem is, I have to take myself with me wherever I go.’
Gregson nodded slowly. ‘I know what you mean.’ He tapped the side of his square head. ‘There’s a few pictures stuck in here I wish I could throw out, believe me.’ He looked back at the screen. ‘Baseball. Greatest game in the world.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Listen, if you’ve got a bit of time, how about taking in a game next Saturday? I’ve got tickets. Jays at home to the Yankees.’
‘I’d like that,’ Banks said. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong, but I got the impression you were distinctly pissed off with me a few hours ago. Now you’re inviting me to a baseball game. Any reason?’
‘Sure. You were out of line and I did my duty. Now I’m off duty and someone’s got to show you there’s more to Canada than snow, Mounties, beavers and maple trees.’
‘Fair enough. Don’t forget the Eskimos.’
‘Inuit, we call them now.’
Banks finished his beer and Gregson ordered more. The spot came on again and an attractive young woman with long wavy black hair and brown skin came on to the stage.
Gregson noticed Banks staring. ‘Beautiful, eh? She’s a full-blooded Indian. Name’s Wanda Morningstar.’
She certainly was beautiful, in such an innocent natural way that Banks found himself wondering what the girl was doing taking her clothes off for a bunch of dirty old men in the middle of a summer’s afternoon. And, come to think of it, what the hell was he doing among them? Well, blame Gregson for that.
More drinks came, and more strippers walked on and off the stage, but none could hold a candle to Wanda Morningstar. It was after ten when they finally left, and by then Banks felt unusually merry. Because the beer was ice-cold it had very little taste and therefore, he had assumed, little strength. Wrong. It was stronger than what he was used to, and he felt light-headed as he followed Gregson to the car.
Gregson paused as he bent to put his key in the door. ‘No,’ he said to himself. ‘Time to take a cab. You’ve been leading me astray, Alan. It’d be damned embarrassing if I got done for drunken driving in my own city, wouldn’t it?’
They walked out on to the street. It was still busy, and many of the shops were open — all-night groceries and the ubiquitous Mac’s Milk. Or was this one Mo’s, Mc’s or Mick’s? You’d never get anything but an off-licence open past five thirty in Eastvale, Banks reflected.
Gregson waved and a cab pulled up. They piled in the back. The driver, an uncommunicative West Indian, nodded when he heard the directions. He dropped Banks off first outside Gerry’s house, then drove on with Gregson waving from the back.