Friend of the Devil

“Why?”

“You lot never tell the likes of us what you’re thinking, so how would I know? Maybe she didn’t need a reason. Maybe she was one of them there serial killers. But she killed him all right. He’d go anywhere with a pretty young woman, would Jack. Putty in her hands.

The silly bastard was probably in love with her by the time she killed him.” He stood up. “Anyway, I don’t mean to bother you, love,” he said. “I just recognized you and I thought I’d let you know that if you are investigating what happened to Jack Grimley, for whatever reason, you can take my word for it—someone did for him.”

Annie finished her beer. “Thanks, Mr. Kilbride,” she said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“And, young lass?”

“Yes,” said Annie, far more f lattered by that endearment than by all of Eric’s attentions.

“You seem like the determined type. When you do find out, drop by and let us know, will you? I’m here most nights.”

“Yes,” said Annie, shaking his hand. “Yes, I promise I’ll do that.”

When she got back to her room, she made a note to let both Kilbride and Keith McLaren know the outcome of the investigation.

S O P H I A WA S already waiting when Banks got to the new wine bar on Market Street, where they had arranged to meet. He apologized for being five minutes late and sat down opposite her. It was quieter and far less smoky than the pubs, a much more intimate setting, with shiny round black-topped tables, each bearing a candle f loating among f lower petals, and chrome stools, mirrors, colorful Spanish prints and contemporary-style fittings. The place had only been open about a month, and Banks hadn’t been there before; it had been Sophia’s idea.

When she had been there before, or whom with, he had no idea. The music was cool jazz vocal, and Banks recognized Madeleine Peyroux 3 2 2

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singing Dylan’s “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.”

It was a sentiment he could well share, because tomorrow Sophia was going back to London and Banks had no idea when, or if, he would see her again.

“Long day?” she said, when he had settled down.

“I’ve had better,” Banks said, rubbing his temples and thinking of the Templeton postmortem, and the talk he’d had with Kev’s dis-traught parents. “You?”

“A long run in the morning and a bit of work in the afternoon.”

“ ‘Work’ work?”

“Yes. I’ve got a five-part series on the history of the Booker Prize coming up soon, so I have to read all the winners. Well, most of them, anyway. I mean, who remembers Percy Howard Newby or James Gor-don Farrell?” She put her fist to her mouth. “Yawn. You want to eat?”

“Do they do burgers and chips?”

Sophia grinned. “A man of great culinary discernment, I can tell.

No, they don’t, but we might get some baked Brie and garlic and a baguette if I ask nicely. The own er’s an old pal of my dad’s.”

“It’ll have to do, then,” said Banks. “Any chance of a drink around here, too?”

“My, my, how impatient you are. You must have had a bad day.”

Sophia caught the waitress’s attention and ordered Banks a large Rioja.

When it came, she held her glass out for a toast: “To great ideas in the middle of the night.”

Banks smiled and they clinked glasses.

“I’ve brought you a present,” Sophia said, passing a familiar- shaped package across the table to Banks.

“Oh?”

“You can open it now.”

Banks undid the wrapping and found a CD: Burning Dorothy by Thea Gilmore. “Thanks,” he said. “I was going to buy it myself.”

“Well, now you don’t have to.”

Already he could feel himself relaxing, the stresses of the day rolling off, the gruesome images and the raw human misery receding into the background. The wine bar was a good choice, he had to admit. It was full of couples talking softly and discreetly, and the music contin-F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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ued in the same vein. Sophia talked about her work and Banks forgot about his. They touched brief ly on politics, found they both hated Bush, Blair and the Iraq war, and moved on to Greece, which Banks loved and Sophia knew well. Both felt that Delphi was the most magical place in the world.

When the baked Brie and garlic had come and gone, toward the end of their second glass of wine, there was no one left in the place but the two of them and the staff. Their conversation meandered on through music, films, wine and family. Sophia loved the old sixties stuff and its contemporary imitators, liked films by Kurosawa, Bergman and Truf-faut, she drank amarone whenever she could afford it, and had a very large extended but close-knit family. She loved her job because it gave her a lot of free time if she arranged things properly, and she liked to spend it in Greece with her mother’s side of the family.