Gristhorpe fixed Richmond with the closest his benign features could get to a look of contempt. “Phil, if they were loaded, the?rst thing they would do is ask for their money back. That’s how the rich get that way, and that’s how they stay that way.”
“I suppose so,” Richmond mumbled. “What do we do now?”
“We get the forensic team in, that’s what we do,” Gristhorpe said, and reached for the radio.
Ill
The house was in darkness when Banks got home from
the station around ten o’clock that Saturday evening.
Tracy, he remembered, was at a dance in Relton with her
friends. Banks had grilled her thoroughly about who was
going and who was driving. He had been undecided,
loath to let her go, but Sandra had tipped the balance.
She was probably right, Banks admitted. Barring a
punch-up between the Eastvale lads and the Relton lads,
a fairly regular feature of these local dances, it ought to
be a harmless enough affair. And Tracy was a big girl
now.
So where was Sandra? Banks turned the lights on, then went into the kitchen thinking he might find a note. Nothing. Feeling anxious and irritated, he sat down,
turned on the television and started switching channels: an American cop show, a documentary on Africa, a pirate film, a quiz show. He turned it off. The silence in the house closed in on him. This was absurd. Normally he would change into jeans and a sports shirt, pour a drink, put some music on, perhaps even smoke a cigarette if both Sandra and Tracy were out. Now all he could do was sit down and tap his fingers on the chair arm. It was no good. He couldn’t stay home.
Grabbing his jacket against the evening chill, he walked along Market Street past the closed shops and the Golden Grill and the Queen’s Arms. The light through the red and amber coloured windows beckoned, and he could see people at tables through the small clear panes, but instead of dropping in, he continued along North Market Street, quiet under its old-fashioned gas-lamps, window displays of gourmet teas, expensive hiking gear, imported shoes and special blends of tobacco.
The front doors of the community centre stood open. From the hall, Banks could hear a soprano struggling through Schubert’s “Die Junge Nonne” to a hesitant piano accompaniment. It was Saturday, amateur recital night. He took the broad staircase to his left and walked up to the first floor. He could hear voices from some of the rooms, mostly used for the meetings of local hobby clubs or for committees of various kinds. The double glass doors of the gallery were closed, but a faint light shone from behind the partition at the far end of the room.
Banks walked softly down the carpeted gallery, its walls bare of pictures at the moment, and stopped outside the cramped office at the end. He had already heard Sandra’s voice, but she was unaware of his presence.
“But you can’t do that,” she was pleading. “You’ve already agreed?”
“What? You don’t give a … Now look?” She moved the receiver away from her ear and swore before slamming it down in its cradle. Then she took two deep breaths, tucked loose strands of blonde hair behind her ears, and picked up the phone again.
“Sandra,” Banks said as gently as he could.
She turned round and put her hand to her chest. Banks could see the angry tears burning in her eyes. “Alan, it’s you. What are you doing here? You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
“Look, it’s not a good time. I’ve got so damn much to do.”
“Let’s go for a drink.”
She started dialling. “I’d love to, but I?”
Banks broke the connection.
Sandra stood up and faced him, eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He took her arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”
She shook him off. “What are you playing at?”
Banks sighed and sat on the edge of the desk. “Look at you,” he said. “You’re frustrated as hell.” He smiled. “You look pretty close to murder, too. I think it’s time you took a break, that’s all. God knows, you’ve helped take my mind off my problems often enough when you’ve watched me beating my head against a brick wall. I’m just trying to return the favour.”
Sandra bit her lower lip. Some of the anger left her eyes, but the tears still burned there. “It’s just that bloody Morton Canning,” she said. “He’s only pulled out of the show, that’s all.”
“Well, bugger him,” Banks said.
“But you don’t understand.”
Banks took her coat from the rack by the office door. “Come on. You can tell me over a drink.”
Sandra glared at him for a moment, then smoothed her
skirt and walked over. Before she could put her coat on. Banks put his arms around her and held her close. At first she stood limp, then slowly, she raised her arms and linked them behind him. She buried her head in his shoulder, then broke free, gave him a playful thump on the arm and that cheeky smile he loved so much. “All right, then,” she said. “But you’re buying.”
Ten minutes later, they managed to squeeze into a small corner table in the Queen’s Anns. The place was busy and loud with the jokes and laughter of the Saturday night crowd, so they had to put their heads close together to talk. Soon, though, the noise became a background buzz and they no longer had to strain to hear one another.
