“I like to keep the space relatively uncluttered,” Westwood said from behind him, putting a silver tray bearing a cafetiere and two white cups down on the glass coffee table before them. He then sat at a right angle to Banks. “We’ll give it a minute, shall we?” His voice had a slight lisp, and his mannerisms were a little fussy and effeminate.
“I was sorry to hear about Laurence,” he said, “but you must realize it was a long time ago. Ten years.”
“You were close then, though?”
“Oh, yes. Very. Three years. It might not sound like long, but . . .”
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“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you part?”
Westwood leaned forward and poured the coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Just black, please,” Banks said. “It could be relevant, what I’m asking.”
Westwood passed him the cup. “I’m afraid I can’t take it without a little sweetener, myself,” he said, adding some powder from a pink sachet. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to avoid your question. I just find that if you leave the coffee brewing too long it takes on a bitter f lavor that even the sweetener won’t overcome.”
“It’s fine,” said Banks, taking a sip. “Excellent, in fact.”
“Thank you. One of my little luxuries.”
“You and Laurence?”
“Yes. I suppose it was his work, really. I mean, he was always heading off somewhere and he couldn’t tell me where. Even when he got back I’d no idea where he’d been. I knew that sometimes his missions involved danger, so I would lie awake and worry, but I rarely got a phone call. In the end . . .”
“So you knew what he did?”
“To a degree. I mean, I knew he worked for MI6. Beyond that, though . . .”
“Was he unfaithful?”
Westwood considered carefully before answering. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “He could have been, of course. He was away often enough. A one-night stand, a weekend affair in Berlin, Prague or Saint Petersburg. It would have been easy enough. But I think I would have known. I do believe that Laurence truly loved me, at least as well as he could love anyone.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There was a large part of his life that he kept secret from me. Oh, I understand it was his job, national security and all that, but never-theless it still meant that I only got a small part of him. The rest was shades of darkness, shadows, smoke and mirrors. Ultimately, you can’t live with that day in, day out. Sometimes it felt as if he was all surface when he was with me, and I had no idea what was underneath, what he was really thinking about.”
“So you wouldn’t be able to give me any idea of his personality?”
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“I’m afraid I never knew. He was a chameleon. When we were together he was charming, attentive, kind, considerate, sophisticated, extremely intelligent and cultured, politically leaning to the right, an atheist, a man of exquisite taste in art and wine, an antique lover . . .
Oh, I could go on with the list. Laurence was many things, but you still felt you were hardly scratching the surface. And you couldn’t pin him down. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so,” said Banks. “That’s what this case feels like, these people.”
“What people?”
“The ones Laurence worked for.”
Westwood sniffed. “Oh, them. Yes, well, you would feel that way about them.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Years ago, when we split up. He went off on one of his trips and I never saw him again.”
“Did you meet any of his colleagues?”
“No. They didn’t exactly have office parties. I tell a lie, though. I was vetted, of course, and interviewed. They came here once. Two of them.”
“What did they ask you?”
“I can’t really remember. Nothing very probing. Of course, a few years earlier a homosexual relationship like ours would have been out of the question because of the possibilities for blackmail it opened up, but that was no longer an issue. They asked me about my job, what sort of people I worked for, how I felt about my country, about the USA, about democracy, communism, that kind of thing. I assumed they got most of the information about me they needed from elsewhere. They treated me with the utmost respect and politeness, but there was an edge, you know. There was a veiled threat. ‘We’ll be watching you, mate. Any funny business and we’ll have the electrodes on your balls before you can say shaken, not stirred.’ ” He laughed.
“Well, something like that. But I got the message.”
Hardcastle had probably got the same treatment, Banks imagined, especially when they found out about his conviction. “What is your job?” Banks asked.
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