had done a good job, and since then her professional field of interests had broadened to include a certain amount of criminal and deviant psychology. She had even attended a series of fascinating lectures on the psychological profiling of serial killers, given by a visiting American from the FBI Behavioral Sciences section.
She had also had a brief fling with the visitor, but she didn’t care to remember that too clearly. Like most of her affairs, it was best forgotten. Still, that was eighteen months ago, when she had been still hurting over her split with Dennis Osmond. Since then she had not been involved with anyone. Instead, she had done a lot of thinking about her lousy relationships, and the reasons for them. She hadn’t come up with any answers yet. Most often she ended up wondering why the hell her pro
fessional insights seemed to shed no light at all on her personal life.
The tires screeched as she turned right at the market square and drove down by Castle Hill between the terraced river gardens and the formal gardens. People sat on the terraces and ate packed lunches on one side of the road, while on the other, mothers dragged bored children around the displays of fading flowers.
At last, she crossed the small bridge over the River Swain, turned right and pulled up outside the cafe.
Le Bistro was one of Eastvale’s newest cafes. Tourism, the dale’s main industry, had increased, and the many Americans drawn to do the “James Herriot” tour wanted a little more than fish and chips and warm beer, quaint as they found such things. In addition, a more sophisticated, cosmopolitan crowd had moved up from London while property in the north was still a good deal cheaper than down south. Many of them commuted from Eastvale to York, Darlington, and even as far as Tyneside, Leeds and Bradford, and they naturally demanded a little more diversity in matters of dining.
Best of all, as far as Jenny was concerned, was that Le Bistro was actually situated in a converted Georgian semi only four houses south of her own. The new owners had, somehow, received planning permission to knock down the wall between the two houses and turn them into a cafe. For Jenny it was a godsend, as she often couldn’t be bothered to cook after a hard day. The food was good and the prices were relatively reasonable.
She dashed through the door. The place was fairly busy, but she saw Banks immediately. There he was in a dark grey sports jacket, white shirt and tie. As usual, his top button was open and the tie loose and askew. Under close-cropped black hair, his dark blue eyes sparkled as he looked over at her. He was working on a crossword
and holding what looked like a glass of mineral water. Jenny couldn’t suppress a giggle as she sat down in a flurry of apologies. Le Bistro didn’t serve pints.
“It’s all right,” said Banks rather glumly, putting his newspaper away in his briefcase. “I’m supposed to be cutting down on the ale anyway.”
“Since when?”
Banks patted his stomach. “Since I turned forty and noticed this beginning to swell.”
“Nonsense. You’re as lean as ever. You’re just suffering from male menopause. Next you’ll be having an affair with a twenty-one-yearold rookie policewoman.”
Banks laughed. “Chance would be a fine thing. But don’t joke about it. You never know. Anyway, how are you?”
Jenny shrugged and tossed back the thick mane of red hair that cascaded over her shoulders. “Okay, I suppose. I’m not sure I iike teaching summer school though.”
“Working in summer?” mocked Banks. “Tut-tut, what a terrible thing. What is the world coming to?”
Jenny thumped him on the arm. “It’s supposed to be one of the perks of the job, remember? Teachers get summers off. Not this year, though.”
“Never mind. You’re looking well for it.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” Jenny inclined her head graciously. “And you haven’t changed. Honestly, Alan. You still don’t look a day over thirty-nine. How’s Sandra?”
“Busy.”
“Oh-oh. Feeling all neglected, are we?”
Banks grinned. “Something like that. But we’re not here to talk about me.”
“And how’s Susan Gay?” Jenny had spent some time helping Susan adjust to her CID posting, on a semiprofessional basis, and the two had become fairly close.
They were different personalities, but Jenny saw something in Susan—a sense of determination, a single-mind edness—that both appealed to her and disturbed her. If she could persuade Susan to relax a little, she felt, then a more balanced and attractive personality might be permitted to emerge.
Banks told her Susan was doing well, though she still seemed a little tense and prickly, and the two chatted about family and mutual friends. “Have you studied the menu yet?” Jenny asked him after a short silence.
“Mm. No sausage and chips, I noticed. How’s the croque monsieur?”
“Good.”
“Then I’ll have that. And by the way, I like the music.”
Jenny cocked an ear. Singing quietly in the background was the unmistakable voice of Edith Piaf. Typical of him to notice that, she thought. Left to herself she would have ignored it as wallpaper music.
“Wine?” she asked.
“Not for me. It makes me sleepy and I’ve a lot of paperwork to do this afternoon.”
“So, it’s about little Gemma Scupharn, is it?” Jenny said, unfolding a coral napkin and spreading it over her lap. “That’s why you’ve called me in?”
Banks nodded. “Superintendent Gristhorpe thought you might be able to help.”
“At least I’m not the token feminist this time.”
“No. Seriously, Jenny, can you help?”
