expecting a rumpled, hungover, smart-mouthed tough with a bottle of scotch in his filing cabinet, though he had met plenty of private investigators before and none of them had matched A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
2 0 7
that particular stereotype. Savage had a receptionist, but she wasn’t sitting behind her desk polishing her nails; she was actually stuffing papers in folders in a filing cabinet. She had to bend over to do it, too, and her low-slung tight jeans didn’t leave much to the imagination.
On hearing Banks arrive, she stood up, smoothed her jeans and blushed. She knew exactly what he’d been looking at. “Yes?” she challenged him. “I didn’t hear you ring. Can I help you?”
“I didn’t ring,” said Banks. “Mr. Savage in?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then I’m sorry—”
Banks pulled out his warrant card and showed it to her.
She gave him a sharp glance and said, “Why didn’t you say?”
“I just did,” said Banks. “Does it make any difference?”
She read the card again. “Are you . . . Alan Banks . . . You’re not? . . . Are you Brian Banks’s father?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh my God!” She put her hands to her cheeks. Banks thought she was going to jump up and down. “You are. You’re Brian Banks’s father!”
“I’m sorry,” said Banks. “I don’t—”
“I just
When did he start playing? How often did he practice?”
“In his mid-teens, and way too often, when he should have been doing other things,” said Banks. “Like homework.”
She managed a quick smile. It really lit up her face, which was very pretty, a pale oval with good cheekbones, clear, direct emerald eyes and a smattering of freckles framed by straight blond hair down to her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “What must you think of me, acting like a silly schoolgirl?” She stuck out her hand. “Tom Savage.
Pleased to meet you. Actually it’s Tomasina, but somehow I don’t think that would go down very well in this business, do you?”
Banks tried not to show his surprise. “And the Savage?”
“My real name.”
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“Lucky you. How did you know who I was?”
“I read an article about the band, an interview, and your son mentioned that his father was a detective chief inspector in North Yorkshire. There can’t be that many called Banks. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to gush. It was just the shock.”
“That’s okay,” said Banks. “I’m very proud of him.”
“So you should be. Let’s go through to the main office. It’s more comfortable in there.” She gestured around the reception area. “It’s a one-woman show at the moment, I’m afraid. I really do have to do all the filing myself. I don’t have any client appointments today, hence the casual wear. It’s office clean-up day.”
“I know what you mean,” said Banks, following her into the office and sitting opposite her. The walls looked f limsy and thin, and there was no view. There wasn’t even a window. Her desk was uncluttered, and a slim Mac Air sat in front of her.
“My only extravagance,” she said, patting the sleek laptop. “I noticed you looking at it.”
“I wish I could afford one,” said Banks.
“So,” Tomasina said, resting her palms on the desk. “What can I help you with?”
“Maybe nothing. I found your card in a hotel room that may have been used by a murder suspect.” Banks was embellishing the truth, but he thought it might be the best way of getting her to talk.
“And what?” She pointed at her chest and blinked. “You think I . . . I mean, you think he hired
“No doubt he picked you on the basis of your name in the telephone directory. It sounds tough, like the sort of person who’d be capable of anything.”
“But if he’d known I was Tomasina?”
“Exactly,” said Banks. “Anyway, I’m not accusing you of murder.”
“Well, thank the Lord for that.”
“I just want to know if you accepted an assignment from a man called Derek Wyman, and if you did, what exactly it consisted of.”
