Banks thought about Joanna for a moment, how she had become more human to him when they had a drink together in The Unicorn and she told him about her mother the surgeon and her partner who got shot. Was it all just a ploy to gain his sympathy, to lull him into being careless and weak? He didn’t know. There was something likeable about her. Annie Cabbot, he remembered, had worked Professional Standards for a while a few years ago, and it hadn’t turned her into a monster.
Banks tried to put Joanna Passero and the case out of his mind for the time being. June Tabor was singing ‘The Grey Funnel Line’, the dark warmth of her voice filling the room. He sipped his wine and abandoned himself to the music. It was easy enough to imagine that he was out at sea, here in the semi-dark surrounded by glass, the wild night outside, the wind howling and rain lashing.
He had just reached for the bottle to refill his glass when the doorbell rang. It made him jump. He glanced at his watch. Close to ten. Who on earth could be calling at this time? Worried that it was probably not good news, Banks put his bottle down and walked through the kitchen, hall and study to the front door. When he opened it, he was surprised but relieved to see Annie Cabbot standing there without an umbrella.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ said Banks. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Yesterday. Can I come in? It’s pissing down out here.’
Banks stood aside as she stepped past him, and closed the door on the chilly rain. Annie hung up her coat and shook her hair like a wet dog. ‘That’s better. Any chance of a cuppa?’
‘I’ve got wine.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? But a simple cuppa would work wonders right now.’
Banks walked through to the kitchen, Annie following. He turned his head. ‘Regular, green, chamomile, Earl Grey, decaf?’
‘Chamomile, please,’ said Annie. ‘My God, where did you come up with all those choices?’
‘California,’ said Banks. ‘They like their fancy tea in California. I learned to appreciate green tea there, especially. They have lots of different kinds, you know. Sencha, gyokuro, dragonwell.’
‘I’d forgotten you’d been there. I’ve forgotten most things around that time. Ordinary chamomile will do fine for me.’
‘How was St Ives?’
‘Wonderful. Beautiful. I got back into sketching and painting. Did a lot of walking on the cliffs.’
‘And Ray?’
‘He’s fine. Sends his regards. He’s got another floozy. She can’t be a day older than me.’
‘Lucky Ray.’ Banks had spent a lot of time with Annie’s father during her illness and recovery, and they had got along remarkably well. Ray had even stopped over at the cottage a few times after they had opened that second bottle of wine, or hit the Laphroaig.
Banks put the kettle on. He decided to have some tea himself. He was trying to cut back on the wine intake, after all, and chamomile was particularly relaxing late at night. It might help him sleep. Annie leaned her hip against the counter. He was about to tell her she could go through to the conservatory and he’d bring the tea when it was ready, but he realised it would be tactless. He could even see it in her face under the toughness, a vulnerability, an uncertainty about whether she really should be facing the conservatory right now.
Several months ago, while Banks had been enjoying himself in sunny California, Annie had been shot in his conservatory. When he had first found out, he had wondered whether he would be able to go back in there again himself and enjoy it the way he had done before. But he hadn’t been there when the shooting happened. The clean-up team had done a great job before he returned home, and Winsome had even had the sensitivity and good taste to refurnish the whole place for him. New carpet, new paint job, new chairs and table, new everything. And all sufficiently different in colour and style from the originals. It was like having a new room, and he had felt no ghosts, no residual sense of pain, fear or suffering. He had lost a table, chairs and a carpet but not, thank God, a dear friend.
He was apprehensive after what had happened to Annie there, though, worried that it might bring on a panic attack or something. It was her first visit since the shooting.
They chatted in the kitchen until the kettle boiled, then Banks put the teapot and cups on a tray. ‘Want to go through?’ he asked, gesturing towards the conservatory.
Annie followed him tentatively, as if unsure what effect the room would have on her.
‘It looks different,’ she said, sitting in one of the wicker chairs.
Banks set down the tea tray on the low table and took the chair beside her. He looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Annie was in her early forties now, and Banks thought she had never looked so good. During her convalescence, she had let the blonde highlights grow out and her hair had returned to its previous shoulder-length chestnut cascade. Banks decided he preferred it that way. ‘If you want, we can sit in the entertainment room,’ he said.
Annie shook her head. Toughing it out, then. ‘No, it’s fine. I was expecting... you know... but it’s fine. It’s really nice, and it’s very cosy with that warm light and the wind and rain outside.’ She hugged herself. ‘Let’s just stay here, shall we? What’s that music?’
‘June Tabor,’ said Banks. ‘This one’s called “The Oggie Man”. Want something else on?’
‘No. I’m fine. Really.’ That made a change; she was always complaining about his tastes in music. ‘What’s an oggie man?’
‘A pasty seller,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a song lamenting the disappearance of street pasty sellers in Cornwall in favour of hot-dog stands. An oggie is a Cornish pasty. You ought to know that, being a good Cornish lass.’
‘Never heard of it. Sounds like a very sad song for such a silly little thing.’
‘Folk songs. You know. What can I say? I don’t suppose it was silly or little to them at the time. It’s about loss, the passing of a tradition.’
‘You know,’ Annie said suddenly, ‘I do remember that night. I remember when everything was fading to black, and I was feeling so cold and tired. I thought this was the last place I would ever see in my life, and for a moment, that was what I wanted.’ She glanced at Banks and smiled. ‘Disappearing like the silly oggie man. Isn’t that funny?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘But I’m seeing the room again. That’s the point. I know everything’s different and all, but now it feel like... like being reborn. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t die. It wasn’t the last thing I saw. It’s the same room, but it’s different. Not just the way it’s been refurnished or decorated. Oh, I can’t explain myself. I’m not good with words. I’m just saying it’s a special place, that’s all. For me. And the memories start now. I’m back, Alan. I want you to know that.’
Banks gave her hand a quick squeeze. ‘I know you are, and I’m glad. But that’s not why you came, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. I heard about DI Bill Quinn getting killed at St Peter’s. I want you to bring me up to date so I can jump right in on Monday morning. I’ve got to be more than a hundred per cent on this one, or I’ll be out.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Banks.
‘It’s true. I’ll bet you Madame Gervaise doesn’t think I’ll be fit enough, mentally or physically. I’ll bet you she thinks I’ve lost my mojo. She’ll be trying to drive me to resign.’
‘I think that’s going a bit too far, Annie.’
‘Is it? Then what about that other woman in there with you? Your new partner. Miss Professional Standards. She’s very attractive, isn’t she? What’s her name again? I’ve had a word with Winsome. She told me most of what’s been going on, but I’ve forgotten the damn woman’s name.’