the side of the water, throwing f lat pebbles that sank rather than skipped, was Detective Superintendent Dirty Dick Burgess. When he caught sight of Banks, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, then he said, “Banksy.
So glad you could come. Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”
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2 7 9
* * *
I T WA S typical that Banks would give her the job of talking to Gervaise, Annie thought, as she pulled up outside the superintendent’s house later that morning. Gervaise had been a tad tetchy on the phone—her husband had taken the children to the cricket match, and it was her gardening day, she said—but had agreed to give Annie five minutes of her time.
As she drove along the quiet country road, Annie thought about Banks and his odd behavior earlier that morning. There had been something different about him, and she decided that the rift with Sophia must have been even more serious than he had made out. He had mentioned before how much Sophia valued the various natural objects and works of art she had collected over the years, so it must have really hurt her to witness such wanton destruction. Still, Annie thought, if the silly cow was more fond of her seashells than she was of Banks, then she deserved everything she got.
When Annie pulled up in front of the house and knocked on the door, she heard a voice call, “I’m round the back. Just come down the side.” A narrow pathway ran down the side of the house beside the garage and led to the back garden.
The sight of the superintendent in a broad-rimmed hat, baggy man’s shirt, white shorts and sandals, with a pair of secateurs in her hand, almost gave Annie a fit of the giggles, but she managed to restrain herself.
“Sit down, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise, a healthy glow on her face.
“Barley water?”
“Thank you.” Annie accepted the glass, sat down and took a sip. She hadn’t tasted barley water in years, not since her mother used to make it. It was wonderful. There were four chairs and a round table on the lawn, but no protective umbrella, and she wished she had worn a hat.
“Have you thought about blond highlights?” Gervaise asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Maybe you should. They’d look good in the sunlight.”
What was all this? Annie wondered. First Carol Wyman had suggested she go blond, now Gervaise was talking about highlights.
2 8 0
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
Gervaise sat down. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me about important developments in the East Side Estate stabbing?”
“Winsome’s on the case, ma’am,” said Annie. “I’m sure we’re expecting a breakthrough any day now.”
“Any moment would be better. Even the mayor’s getting edgy. And what about
Annie shifted in her chair. “Well, that’s what I came to see you about, ma’am. It’s a bit awkward.”
Gervaise sipped her barley water and smiled. “Try me.”
“You know we were talking, the other day, about Derek Wyman?”
“You mean Banks’s Iago theory?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Well, what if there’s something in it? I mean,
“Like what?” asked Gervaise.
“Well, I was talking to Mr. Wyman’s wife, Carol, and she—”
“I thought I told you to leave them alone.”
“Well, ma’am, you didn’t exactly spell it out.“
“Oh, for crying out loud, DI Cabbot. Maybe I didn’t spell it out in words of one syllable, but you know exactly what I was telling you. It’s over. Leave it alone.”
Annie took a deep breath and blurted out, “I’d like to bring Derek Wyman in for questioning.”
Gervaise’s silence was unnerving. The wasp droned by again.
Somewhere Annie could hear a garden hose hissing and a radio playing “Moon River.” Finally, Superintendent Gervaise said, “You? Or DCI Banks?”
“Both of us.” Now that Annie had said it, she was gathering courage fast. “I know you’ve been warned to lay off,” she went on, “but there’s evidence now. And it’s nothing to do with the secret intelligence services.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. DCI Banks found the private investigator who took the photos of Silbert with the other man.”
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