But Seth had slumped back against a beanbag and seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation. His eyes were closed, and Mara guessed that he was either asleep or absorbed in the soaring Jerry Garcia guitar solo.
“Where’s your father now?” Mara asked Paul.
“I don’t fucking know. Don’t fucking care, either.” Paul ripped open another can of lager.
“But didn’t he ever get in touch?”
“Why should he? I told you, he was too zonked out to notice me even when I was there.”
“It’s still no reason to say everyone was like that,” Mara said. “All Seth was saying was that the spirit of love was strong back then. All that talk about the Age of Aquarius meant something.”
“Yeah, and what’s happened to it now? Two thousand years of this crap I can do without, thanks very much. Let’s just forget the fucking past and get on with life.” With that, Paul got up and left the room.
Jerry Garcia played on. Seth stirred, opened one bloodshot eye, then closed it again.
Mara poured herself and Zoe some more white wine, then her mind wandered back to Paul. As if she weren’t confused enough already, the hostility he’d shown tonight and the new information about his feelings for his parents muddied the waters even more. She was scared of approaching him about the blood on his hand, and she was beginning to feel frightened to go on living in the same house as someone she suspected of murder. But she hated herself for feeling that way about him, for not being able to trust him completely and believe in him.
What she needed was somebody to talk to, somebody she could trust from outside the house. She felt like a woman with a breast lump who was afraid to go to the doctor and find out if it really was cancer.
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And what made it worse was that she’d noticed the knife was missing: the flick-knife Seth said he had bought in France years ago. Everybody else must have noticed, too, but no one had mentioned it. The knife had been lying on the mantelpiece for anyone to use ever since she’d been at Maggie’s Farm, and now it was gone.
IV
Banks ate the fish and chips he had bought on the way home, then went into the living-room. Screw gourmet cooking, he thought. If that irritating neighbour, Selena Harcourt, didn’t turn up with some sticky dessert to feed him up “while the little woman’s away,” he’d have the evening to relax instead of mixing up sauces that never turned out anyway.
He had calmed down soon after leaving Burgess at the station. The bastard had been right. What had happened at Osmond’s, he realized, had not been particularly serious, but his shock at finding Jenny there had made him exaggerate things. His reaction had been extreme, and for a few moments, he’d lost his detachment. That was all. It had happened before and it would happen again. Not the end of the world.
He poured a drink, put his feet up and turned on the television. There was a special about the Peak District on Yorkshire TV. Half-watching, he flipped through Tracy’s latest copy of History Today and read an interesting article on Sir Titus Salt, who had built a Utopian community called Saltaire, near Bradford, for the workers in his textile mills. It would be a good place to visit with Sandra and the kids, he thought. Sandra could take photographs; Tracy would be fascinated; and surely even Brian would find something of interest. The problem was that Sir Titus had been a firm teetotaller. There were no pubs in Saltaire. Obviously one man’s Utopia is another man’s Hell.
The article made him think of Maggie’s Farm. He liked the place and respected Seth and Mara. They had shown
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antagonism towards him, but that was only to be expected. In his job, he was used to much worse. He didn’t take it personally. Being a policeman was like being a vicar in some ways; people could never be really comfortable with you, even when you dropped into the local for a pint.
The TV programme finished, and he decided there was no point putting off the inevitable. Picking up the phone, he dialled Jenny’s number. He was in luck; she answered on the third ring.
“Jenny? It’s Alan.”
There was a pause at the other end. “I’m not sure I want to talk to you,” she said finally.
“Could you be persuaded to?”
“Try.”
“I just wanted to apologize for this afternoon. I hadn’t expected to see you there.”
Only the slight crackle of the line filled the silence. “It surprised me, too,”
Jenny said. “You keep some pretty bad company.”
I could say the same for you, too, Banks thought. “Yes,” he said, “I know.”
“I do think you should keep him on a leash in future. You could maybe try a muzzle on him as well.” She was obviously warming to him again, he could tell.
“Love to. But he’s the boss. How did Osmond take it?” The name almost stuck in his throat.
“He was pissed off, all right. But it didn’t last. Dennis is resilient. He’s used to police harassment.”
There was silence again, more awkward this time.
“Well,” Banks said, “I just wanted to say I was sorry.”
“Yes. You’ve said that already. It wasn’t your fault. I’m not used to seeing you in a supporting role. You’re not at your best like that, you know.”
“What did you expect me to do? Jump up and hit him?”
