thinks. The bastard might never have been nicked but I’ll bet a pound to a penny he’s on the books somewhere.”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Oh, aye. No doubt about it. And it looks as if we’re all working on the same case now. You’d better get up to date on the Gemma files, and we’d better let Phil know so he can access his databases or whatever he does. I want this bloke, Alan. I want him bad. I mean I want him in front of me. I want to see him sweat. Do you know what I mean?”
Banks nodded and finished his drink. From the bar, they heard Cyril call time. “It’s late,” he said quietly. “Time we were off home.”
“Aye. Everything all right?”
“Fine,” said Banks. “Just think yourself lucky you don’t have daughters.”
Banks walked in the rain, coat buttoned tight, and listened to his Walkman. It was after eleven-thirty when he got home, and the house was in darkness. Sandra was already in bed, he assumed; Tracy, too. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep just yet, after the conversation with Gristhorpe had got his mind working, and as he had drunk only two pints in the pub, he felt he could allow himself a small Scotch. What was it the medics said, three drinks a day is moderate? Some kind soul had brought him a bottle of Glen Garioch from a holiday in Scotland, so he poured himself a finger and sat down. Though he wasn’t supposed to smoke in the house, he lit a cigarette anyway and put on a CD of Barenboim playing Chopin’s Nocturnes. Even at low volume, the clarity of the sound was astonishing. He had hardly begun to let
his mind roam freely over the image of Chivers he had created so far when he heard the front door open and close softly, then the creak of a stair.
He opened the living-room door and saw Tracy tiptoeing upstairs.
“Come down here a moment,” he whispered, careful not to wake Sandra.
Tracy hesitated, halfway up, then shrugged and followed him into the living-room.
Banks held out his wristwatch towards her. “Know what time it is?”
“Of course I do.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Out with Keith.”
“Where to?”
“Oh, Dad! We went to the pictures, then after that we were hungry so we went for a burger.”
“A burger? At this time of night?”
“You know, that new McDonald’s that’s opened in the shopping centre. It’s open till midnight.”
“How did you get home?”
“Keith walked me.”
“It’s too late to be out on a weeknight. You’ve got school in the morning.”
“It’s only midnight. I’ll get plenty of sleep.”
There she stood, about seven stones of teenage rebellion, weight balanced on one hip, once long and beautiful blonde hair chopped short, wearing black leggings and a long, fawn cable-knit jumper, pale translucent skin glowing from the chill.
“You’re too young to be out so late,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be so old-fashioned. Everyone stays out until midnight these days.”
“I don’t care what everyone else does. It’s you I’m talking about.”
“It would be different if it was Brian, wouldn’t it? He could always stay out as late as he wanted, couldn’t he?”
“He had to live with the same rules as you.”
“Rules! I bet you’ve no idea what he’s up to now, have you? Or what he got up to when he was still at home. It’s all right for him. Honestly, it’s not fair. Just because I’m a girl.”
“Tracy, love, it’s not a safe world.”
Her cheeks blazed red and her eyes flashed dangerously, just like Sandra’s did when she was angry. “I’m fed up of it,” she said. “Living here, being interrogated every time I come in. Sometimes it’s just absolutely fucking awful having a policeman for a father!”
And with that, she stormed out of the room and up the stairs without giving Banks a chance to respond. He stood there a moment, stunned by her language—not that she knew such words, even five-year-olds knew them, but that she would use them that way in front of him— then he felt himself relax a little and he began to shake his head slowly. By the time he had sat down again and picked up his drink, he had started to smile. “Kids …” he mused aloud. “What can you do?” But even as he said it, he knew that Sandra had been right: the problem was that Tracy wasn’t a kid any more.
IV
Brenda had locked the door earlier, and slid the bolt
and put the chain on, too. When the key wouldn’t work,
she could hear Les fumble around for a while, rattling it
and mumbling. Brenda could see his silhouette through
the frosted-glass panes in the door as she sat on the
stairs and listened. He tried the key again, then she
heard him swear in frustration and start knocking. She
didn’t answer.
“Brenda,” he said, “I know you’re in there. Come on, love, and open up. There’s something wrong with my key.”
