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2

“What on earth happened to you?” asked Sandra when Banks walked into the living room at about ten o’clock that evening.

“I had a slight disagreement with a couple of would-be muggers,” Banks said. “Don’t worry, I’m okay.” And he left it at that. Sandra raised her dark eyebrows but didn’t pursue it. He knew she wouldn’t. She wasn’t the mothering type, and she rarely gave him much sympathy when he whimpered through flu or moaned through a bad cold.

Banks walked over to the cocktail cabinet and poured a stiff shot of Laphroaig single malt whisky. Sandra said she’d have a Drambuie. A good sign. After that, he put on his new CD of Khachaturian’s piano concerto and flopped onto the sofa.

As he listened to the music, he looked at Sandra’s framed photograph over the fireplace: a misty sunset in Hawes, taken from the daleside above the town, all subdued gray and orange with a couple of thin streaks of vermilion. The unusual church tower, square with a turret attached to one corner, dominated the gray slate roofs, and smoke curled up from some of the chimneys. Banks sipped the peaty malt whisky and smacked his lips.

Sandra sat beside him. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

Banks told her about his meetings with Dirty Dick Burgess. “There’s always some sort of hidden agenda with him,” he said. “I’m not sure what he’s up to this time, but there’s not a hell of a lot I can do about it except wait and see. That’s about all we can do now, wait.”

“‘They also serve… ’”

“I was thinking about the Rothwells on the drive home, too. How could a man lead an entire other life, away from his family, under another name?”

“Is that what happened?”

“Yes.” Banks explained about Robert Calvert and his flat in Leeds, his fondness for gambling, women and dancing. “And Pamela Jeffreys said she was sure he wasn’t a married man. She said she’d have been able to tell.”

“Did she? Who’s Pamela Jeffreys?”

“His girlfriend. It doesn’t matter.”

Sandra sipped her drink and thought it over. “It’s probably not as difficult as you think for two people who live together on the surface to lead completely separate lives, one unknown to the other. Lord knows, so many couples have drifted so far apart anyway that they don’t communicate anymore.”

Banks felt his chest tighten. “Are you talking about us?” he asked, remembering what Ken Blackstone had said about his marriage.

“Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know.”

Sandra shrugged. “I don’t know, either. It was just a comment. But if the cap fits… Think about it, Alan. The amount we see each other, talk to each other, we could both be living other lives. Mostly, we just meet in passing. Let’s face it, you could be up to anything most of the time. How would I know?”

“Most of the time I’m working.”

“Just like this Rothwell was?”

“That’s different. He was away a lot.”

“What about the last couple of nights? You didn’t phone, did you?”

Banks sat forward. “Oh, come on! I tried. You weren’t home.”

“You could have left a message on the machine.”

“You know how I hate those things. Anyway, it’s not as if you didn’t know where I was. You could easily have checked up on me. And it’s not that often I’m away from home for a night or more.”

“Secret lives don’t always have to be lived at night.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Is it? Probably. All I’m saying is we don’t talk enough to know.”

Banks slumped back and sipped his drink. “I suppose so,” he said. “Is it my fault? You always seemed to handle my absences so well before. You understand the Job better than any other copper’s wife I’ve met.”

“I don’t know,” Sandra said. “Maybe it just took longer for the strain to work its way through. Or maybe it’s just worse because I’m busy a lot now, too.”

He put his arm around her. “I don’t know what’s been happening to us lately, either,” he said, “but maybe we’ll go away when this is all over.”

He felt Sandra stiffen beside him. “Promises,” she said. “You’ve been saying that for years.”

“Have I?”

“You know you have. We haven’t had a bloody holiday since we moved to Eastvale.”

“Well, dust off your camera. I’ve got a bit of leave due and I might just surprise you this time.”

“How long do you think the case will last?”

“Hard to say.”

“There you are, then.”

He stroked her shoulder. “Tell me you’ll think about it.”

“I’ll think about it. Tracy comes back on Sunday.”

“I know.”

“Won’t you be pleased to see her? Will you even be around to meet her at the airport?”

“Of course I will.”

Sandra relaxed a little and moved closer. A very good sign. The Drambuie was clearly working. “You’d better,” she said. “She phoned earlier tonight. She sends her love.”

“How’s she getting on?”

Sandra laughed. “She said it’s not quite like A Year in Provence down there, but she likes it anyway. She hasn’t bumped into John Thaw yet.”

“Who?”

“John Thaw. You know, the actor who was in A Year in Provence on television? I liked him better as Morse.”

“Who?”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “You know quite well who I’m talking about. I know you liked Morse. He used to be in The Sweeney, too, years ago, and you used to watch that down in London. Remember, in your old macho days? Didn’t you even go drinking with him once?”

“What do you mean, ‘old’?” Banks flexed his biceps.

Sandra laughed and moved closer. “I don’t want to fight,” she said. “Honest, I don’t. Not since we’ve seen so little of one another.”

“Me neither,” said Banks.

“I just think we’ve got a few problems to deal with, that’s all. We need to communicate better.”

“And we will. How about a truce.” He tightened his arm around her shoulder.

“Mmm. All right.”

“I’ll have to call the station and see if there’s been any developments,” he said.

But he didn’t move. He felt too comfortable. His limbs felt pleasantly heavy and weary, and the warmth of the malt whisky flowed through his veins. The slow second movement started in its haunting, erotic way. Soon, the eerie flex-atone entered and sent shivers up and down his spine. A cheap effect, perhaps, but sometimes effective if you happened to be in the right mood.

Banks drained his glass and put it on the table by the sofa. Sandra let her head rest between his shoulder and chest. Definitely a good sign. “Remember that silly film we saw on TV a while back?” he said. “The one where the couple has sex listening to Ravel’s Bolero?”

“Hmm. It’s called 10. Dudley Moore and Bo Derek. And I don’t think they were really listening. More like using it as background music.”

“Well, I’ve never really liked Bolero. It’s far too ordered and mechanical. It’s got a kind of inevitability about it that’s too predictable for my taste. I’ve always thought this Khachaturian piece would be a lot better to make love to. Much better. Wanders all over the place. You never really know where it’s going next. Slow and dreamy at the start, with plenty of great climaxes later on.”

“Sounds good to me. Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”

Sandra moved her head up until she was facing him, her lips about two inches away. He swept back a strand of hair from her cheek and let his fingers rest on her cool skin. “I thought you had to call the station?” she said.

“Later,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Later. Are the curtains closed?”


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