“Harkness? Of course I have. He’s pretty well known locally as a patron of the arts.”
“Yes, he mentioned something like that. Has he given your lot any money?”
“We weren’t as needy as some. Remember that bumper grant we got?”
“The oversight?”
“They still haven’t asked for it back. Anyway, he’s given money to the Amateur Operatic Society and a couple of other groups.” She frowned.
“What is it?”
“Well, some of the arts groups are a bit, you know, leftish. They tend to get blinkered. It’s the old package deal: if you’re against this, you have to be against that too. You know, you have to be pro-abortion, anti apartheid and green to boot.”
“Well?”
“Some of them wouldn’t take Harkness’s money because of the way he makes it.”
“South Africa?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s anti-apartheid. He just told me. That’s partly why he left. Besides, things have changed over there. Apartheid’s fallen to pieces.”
Sandra shrugged. “Maybe. And I wouldn’t know about his personal beliefs. All I know is that Linda Fish—you know, that woman who runs the Writers’ Circle—wouldn’t take any money towards engaging visiting speakers and readers.”
“Linda Fish, the Champagne socialist?”
“Well, yes.”
“What does she know about him?”
“Oh, she’s got contacts among South African writers, or so she claims. All this anti-apartheid stuff is a load of bunk, she thinks. She’s got a point. I mean, after all, whatever he professes to believe he’s still earning his fortune by exploiting the system, isn’t he?”
“I’d better have a talk with her.”
“Well,” Sandra said, “you don’t make his kind of money by being square and above-board, do you? Let’s drop it anyway. I’m sure Linda will be delighted to see you. I think she’s secretly fancied you ever since she
found out you’d read Thomas Hardy.”
Banks gave a mock shudder. “Look,” he said, “I’ve just had an idea.”
Sandra raised her eyebrows.
“Not that kind of idea. Well… . Anyway, when all this is over—the show, the case—let’s go on holiday, just you and me. Somewhere exotic.”
“Can we afford it?”
“No. But we’ll manage somehow. Tracy can stay with your mum and dad. I’m sure they won’t mind.”
“No. They’re always glad to see her. I bet she’ll mind this time, though. To be separated from the first boyfriend for even a day is a pretty traumatic experience, you know.”
“We’ll deal with that problem when we get to it. What about the holiday?”
“You’re on. I’ll start thinking of suitably exotic places.”
“And … er … about that other idea …”
“What other idea?”
“You know. Erotic places.”
“Oh, that one.”
“Yes. Well?”
Sandra looked at her watch. “It’s ten past eleven. Tracy said she’ll be home at twelve.”
“When has she ever been on time?”
“Still,” Sandra said, finishing her drink and grabbing Banks’s arm. “I think we’d better hurry.”
IV
The tea was cold. Wearily, Brenda Scupham picked up
her cup and carried it to the microwave. When she had
reheated it, she went back into the living-room, flopped
down on the sofa and lit a cigarette.
She had been watching television. That was how she had let the tea get cold. Not even watching it really, just sitting there and letting the images and sounds tumble over her and deaden the thoughts that she couldn’t keep at bay. It had been a documentary about some obscure African tribe. That much she remembered. Now the news was on and someone had blown up a jumbo jet over a jungle somewhere. Images of the strewn wreckage taken from a helicopter washed over her.
Brenda sipped her tea. Too hot now. It wasn’t tea she needed, anyway, it was a drink. The pill she had taken had some effect, but it would work better with a gin and tonic. Getting up, she went and poured herself a stiff one, then sat down again.
It was that man from the newspaper who had got her thinking such terrible thoughts. Mostly the police did a good job of keeping the press away from her, but this one she had agreed to talk to. For one thing, he was from the
