“I wasn’t. I mean it.”
Maggie gave a little dismissive gesture with her shoulders.
“Where were you at about midnight last night?”
“I’d just got home from London. I had a meeting with my publishers on Friday afternoon, so I decided to stay down until Saturday, do some shopping. That’s about as much of London as I can take these days.”
“Where did you stay?”
“Hazlitt’s. Frith Street. My publisher always puts me up there. It’s very convenient.”
“And they would verify this?”
“Of course.”
Well, Annie thought, getting ready to leave, it had been a long shot, but subject to corroboration of her alibi, it didn’t look as if Maggie Forrest could have killed Kevin Templeton. When it came to Lucy Payne, though, Maggie was still high on the list. And she didn’t have an alibi for that.
B A N K S A R R I V E D first at the bistro, and it wasn’t so busy that Marcel, the genuine French maitre d’ couldn’t give him an effusive welcome and a quiet secluded table, complete with white linen tablecloth 3 0 2
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
and a long-stemmed rose in a glass vase. He hoped it wasn’t over-the-top, that Sophia wouldn’t think he was trying to impress her or something. He had no expectations of anything, but it felt good to be having dinner with a beautiful and intelligent woman. He couldn’t remember how long it had been.
Sophia arrived on time, and Banks was able to watch her as she handed her coat to Marcel and walked toward the table, fixing his eyes with hers and smiling. She was wearing designer jeans and some sort of wraparound top that tied at the small of her back. Women have to be pretty good at using their hands behind their backs, Banks had noticed over the years; they spent so much time fastening things like ponytails, bras, wraparound clothes and difficult necklace clasps.
Sophia moved elegantly toward him, with unhurried grace, and seemed to f low naturally into a comfortable position once she sat. Her hair was tied loosely at the nape of her long neck again, and a few dark stray tresses curled over her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes were every bit as dark as he remembered, shining and obsidian in the candlelight.
She wore no lipstick, but her full lips had natural color, well set off by her f lawless olive skin.
“I’m glad you could make it,” said Banks.
“Me, too. I knew our walk was out of the question when I heard the news. Look at you. I’ll bet you didn’t get much sleep.”
“None,” said Banks. He realized as he spoke that not only hadn’t he slept or eaten since he had seen Sophia last night, but he hadn’t even been home, and he was wearing the same clothes he had worn to Harriet’s dinner party. He had to remember to keep a change of clothing at the station. It was embarrassing, but Sophia was clearly too much of a lady to say anything about it. They studied the menu and discussed a few items—Sophia, it turned out, was a keen gourmet cook and a food nut—and Banks ordered a bottle of decent claret.
“So it’s Sophia, is it?” Banks asked when they had ordered—steak and frites for him and sea bass for Sophia, with Stilton, pear and wal-nut salad to start.
“Sophia Katerina Morton.”
“Not Sophie?”
“No.”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
3 0 3
“Kate?”
“Never.”
“Sophia it is, then.”
“Just don’t call me ‘Sugar.’ ”
“What?”
She smiled. “It’s a song. Thea Gilmore. It’s a bit cheeky, actually.”
“I know her,” Banks said. “She did an old Beatles song on one of those MOJO freebies. I liked it enough to buy a CD of other covers she’d recorded.”
“I will. Do you work in the music business?”
“No. No, I’m a producer with the BBC. Arts radio, so I do occasionally get involved in music specials. I did a series about John Peel not too long ago, and I’ve done a few programs with Bob Harris.”
“
“One and the same. He introduced me to Thea at his birthday party.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You would have been. Robert Plant was there, too. I’ve never met your son, though.”
“Ah, I see. You’re wooing me just to get to my son. They all try it.
It won’t work, you know.”
