the new guitarist was better than the one he replaced. The songwriting remained an issue, but Banks was certain Brian would come through, carry the burden.
By the time the knock at the door came, Banks was already there, and when he opened it, he was surprised to see Annie Cabbot standing there.
“Sorry it’s so late,” she said. “Can I come in?”
Banks stood back. “Of course. Anything wrong?”
“Wrong? No, why should there be anything wrong? Can’t I drop in on an old friend when I feel like it?” As she walked in she stumbled against him slightly, and he took her arm. She looked at him and smiled lopsidedly. He let go.
“Of course you can,” said Banks, puzzled by her manner and dis-comfited from being so jarringly dragged away from his eve ning alone with the book, wine and music. Bill Evans had given way to John Coltrane some time ago, and the tenor sax improvised away in the background, f linging out those famous sheets of sound. He knew it would 1 2 4 P E T E R
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take him a few moments to adjust to having company. “Drink?” he said.
“Lovely,” said Annie, f linging off her jacket. It landed on the computer monitor. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
Banks went into the kitchen and filled up a glass of wine for Annie and one more for himself, emptying the bottle. Annie leaned against the doorjamb as he handed her the drink. “Is that all that’s left?” she said.
“I’ve got another bottle.”
“Good.”
She was definitely unsteady on her feet, Banks thought, as he followed her back through to the living room, and she f lopped down on the armchair.
“So what brings you here?” he asked.
Annie drank some wine. “That’s nice,” she said. “What? Oh, nothing. Like I said, just a friendly visit. I was having dinner with Winsome in Eastvale and I just thought . . . you know . . . it’s not far away.”
“Eastvale’s quite a drive from here.”
“You’re not insinuating I’ve had too much to drink, are you?”
“No. I—”
“Good, then.” Annie held up her glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Banks. “What did Winsome have to say?”
“Oh, just stuff. Boring stuff. That arsehole Templeton.”
“I heard that the interview with Hayley’s parents didn’t go well.”
“Well, it wouldn’t, would it? What could you have been thinking of, putting those two together? What can you be thinking of even having him in the station?”
“Annie, I don’t really want to discuss—”
Annie waved her hand in the air. “No. I know. Of course not. I don’t, either. That’s not why I came. Let’s just forget about bloody Templeton and Winsome, shall we?”
“Fine with me.”
“How about you, Alan? How are
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“I never really thought about her that way.”
“Liar. What’s the music?”
“John Coltrane?”
“It sounds weird.”
Banks made to get up. “I’ll put something else on if you like.”
“No, no. Sit down. I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it sounded weird. I don’t mind weird sometimes. In fact I quite like it.” She gave him an odd smile and emptied her glass. “Oops, it looks as if we might need more wine, after all.”
“That was quick,” said Banks. He went into the kitchen to open another bottle, wondering what the hell he should do about Annie.
He shouldn’t really give her any more wine; she had clearly had enough already. But she wouldn’t react well to being told that. There was always the spare room, if that was what it came to. That was what he decided upon.
Back in the living room, Annie had settled in the armchair with her legs tucked under her. It wasn’t often she wore a skirt but she was wearing one today, and the material had creased up, exposing half her thighs. Banks handed her the glass. She smiled at him.
“Do you miss me?” she asked.
“We all miss you,” Banks said. “When are you coming back?”
