“Stop it, Daddy!” Julian screamed. “It tickles. Stop it!”
Rick put him down and mussed his hair. “What are you two building?” he asked.
“A space station,” answered Luna seriously.
Mara looked at the jumble of Lego and smiled to herself. It didn’t look like much of anything to her, but it was remarkable what children could do with their imaginations.
Rick laughed and turned to Zoe. “All right, kiddo?” he asked, slipping his arm around her thin shoulder. “What do the stars have to say today?”
Zoe smiled. She obviously adored Rick, Mara thought; otherwise she would never put up with being teased and treated like a youngster at the age of thirty-two.
Could there be any chance of them getting together? she wondered. It would be good for the children.
“Elsie Goodbody’s wasted as a housewife,” said Zoe. “By the looks of her chart she should be in politics.”
“She’s in domestic politics,” Rick said, “and that’s even worse. Anyone for the pub?”
They usually all walked down to the Black Sheep on Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes. The landlord was good about the children as long as they kept quiet, and Zoe took along colouring books to occupy them. Mara fetched Seth from his workshop, Julian got up on his father’s shoulders, and Luna held Zoe’s hand as they walked out to the track.
45
“Just a minute, I’ll catch you up,” Mara said, dashing back into the house. She wanted to leave a note for Paul to tell him where they were: a formality, really, an affectionate gesture. But as she wrote and her mind turned back to him, she suddenly realized what had been nagging her all morning.
Last night, Paul’s hand had been bleeding and he had put an Elastoplast on it.
This morning, when he came down, the plaster had slipped off, probably when he was washing, and the base of his thumb was as smooth as ever. There was no sign of a cut at all.
Mara’s heart beat fast as she hurried to catch up with the others.
Ill
“Detective Superintendent Burgess, sir,” PC Craig said, then left.
The man who stood before them in Gristhorpe’s office looked little different from the Burgess that Banks remembered. He wore a scuffed black leather sports jacket over an open-necked white shirt, and close-fitting navy-blue cords. The handsome face with its square determined jaw hadn’t changed much, even if his slightly crooked teeth were a little more tobacco-stained. The pouches under his cynical grey eyes still suited him. His dark hair, short and combed back, was touched with grey at the temples, and by the look of it he still used Brylcreem.
He was about six feet tall, well-built but filling out a bit, and looked as if he still played squash twice a week. The most striking thing about his appearance was his deep tan.
“Barbados,” he said, catching their surprise. “I’d recommend it highly, especially at this time of year. Just got back when this business came up.”
Gristhorpe introduced himself, then Burgess looked over at Banks and narrowed his eyes. “Banks, isn’t it? I heard you’d been transferred. Looking a bit pasty-faced, aren’t you? Not feeding you well up here?”
46
Banks forced a smile. It was typical of Burgess to make the transfer sound like a punishment and a demotion. “We don’t get much sun,” he said.
Burgess looked towards the window. “So I see. If it’s any consolation, it was pissing down in London when I left.” He clapped his hands together sharply.
“Where’s the boozer, then? I’m starving. Didn’t dare risk British Rail food. I could do with a pint, as well.”
Gristhorpe excused himself, claiming a meeting with the Assistant Chief Commissioner, and Banks led Burgess over to the Queen’s Arms.
“Not a bad-looking place,” Burgess said, glancing around and taking in the spacious lounge with its dimpled copper-topped tables with black wrought-iron legs, and deep armchairs by the blazing fire. Then his eyes rested on the barmaid. “Yes. Not bad at all. Let’s sit at the bar.”
Some of the locals paused in their conversations to stare at them. They knew Banks already, and Burgess’s accent still bore traces of his East End background. As right-wing as he was, he didn’t come from the privileged school of Tories, Banks remembered. His father had been a barrow-boy, and Burgess had fought his way up from the bottom. Banks also knew that he felt little solidarity with those of his class who hadn’t managed to do likewise. To the locals, he was obviously the London big-wig they’d been expecting after the previous night’s events.
Banks and Burgess perched on the high stools. “What’ll you have?” Burgess asked, taking a shiny black leather wallet from his inside pocket. “I’m buying.”
“Thanks very much. I’ll have a pint of Theakston’s bitter.”
“Food?”
“The hot-pot is usually good.”
“I think I’ll stick to plaice and chips,” Burgess said. He ordered the food and drinks from the barmaid. “And a pint of Double Diamond for me, please, love.” He lit a Tom Thumb cigar and poked it at Banks’s glass. “Can’t stand that real ale stuff,” he said, rubbing his stomach and grimacing. “Always gives me the runs.
Ah, thank you, love. What’s your name?”
47
