There, mixed in with Zemlinsky’s Birthday of the Infanta, Mozart’s Magic-Flute, Dowland’s Lachrymae and Purcell’s airs, were Lightning Hopkins, Billie Holiday, Muddy Waters, Robert Wilkins and a number of blues-anthology tapes.
Picking up the Billie Holiday, Mara managed a thin smile. “A policeman who likes blues can’t be all bad,” she said.
Banks laughed. “I like most music,” he said, “except for country-and-western and middle-of-the-road crooning- you know, Frank Sinatra, Engelbert Humperdinck and that lot.”
“Even rock?”
“Even rock. Some, anyway. I must admit I’m still stuck in the sixties as far as that’s concerned. I lost interest after the Beatles split up. I even know where the name of your house comes from.”
Banks was pleased to be chatting so easily with Mara. It was the first time his interest in music had helped create the kind of rapport he wanted with a witness. So often people regarded it as an eccentricity, but now it was actually helping with an important investigation. A common interest in jazz and blues had also helped him to relax with Burgess a little. Still, he thought, Mara probably wouldn’t stay so convivial when she followed the drift of the questions he had to ask her.
They found a quiet corner in the pub by the tiled fireplace. In a glass case on the wall beside them was a collection of butterflies pinned to a board. Banks bought Mara a half of mild and got a pint of Black Sheep bitter for himself.
Maybe the hair of the dog would do the trick and get rid of his 162
headache. He ordered a ploughman’s lunch; Mara asked for lasagne.
“Ploughman’s lunches were invented for tourists in the seventies,” Mara said.
“Not authentic?”
“Not a bit.”
“Oh well. I can think of worse inventions.”
“I suppose you want to get down to business, don’t you?” Mara said. “Did Jenny Fuller tell you about our meeting?”
“No, but I figured it out. I think she’s worried about you.”
“She needn’t be. I’m all right.”
“Are you? I thought you’d be worried sick about Paul Boyd.”
“What if I am?”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
Mara paused and sipped some beer. She swept a stray wisp of hair from her cheek before answering, “Maybe I did at first, a bit,” she said. “At least, I was worried. I mean, we don’t know a lot about him. I suppose I looked at him differently. But not now, no. And I don’t care what evidence you’ve got against him.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“A feeling, that’s all. Nothing concrete, nothing you’d understand.”
Banks leaned forward. “Believe it or not, Mara, policemen have feelings like that, too. We call them hunches, or we put them down to our nose, our instinct for truth. You may be right about Boyd. I’m not saying you are, but there’s a chance. Things aren’t quite as cut and dried as they appear. In some ways Paul is too obvious.”
“Isn’t that what appeals to you? How easy it is to blame him?”
“Not to me, no.”
“But… I mean … I thought you were sure, that you had evidence?”
“The knife?”
“Yes.”
“You recognized it, didn’t you, when Jack Crocker brought it in here yesterday lunchtime?”
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Mara said nothing. Before Banks could speak again, the food arrived and they both tucked in.
“Look,” said Banks, after polishing off the best part of a chunk of Wensleydale and a pickled onion, “let’s assume that Boyd’s innocent, just for the sake of argument.” Mara looked at him, but her expression was hard to fathom. Suspicion?
Hope? Either reaction would be perfectly natural. “If he is,” Banks went on, “then it raises more questions than it answers. It’s easier for everyone if Boyd turns out to be guilty-everyone but him, that is-but the easiest way isn’t necessarily the true one. Do you know what I mean?”
Mara nodded and her lips curved just a little at the edges. “Sounds like the Eightfold Path,” she said.
“The what?”
“The Eightfold Path. It’s the Buddhist way to enlightenment.”
Banks speared another pickled onion. “Well, I don’t know much about enlightenment,” he said, “but we could do with a bit more light on the case.” He went on to tell her about the blood and prints on the knife. “That much we know,” he said. “That’s the evidence, the facts, if you like. Boyd was there, and we can prove that he handled the murder weapon. Superintendent Burgess thinks it’s enough to convict him, but I’m not so sure myself. Given the political aspect, though, he might just be right. Finding Boyd guilty will make us look good and it’ll discredit everyone who seems a bit different.”
