mouth was set that she was holding back her laughter. He remembered how she had complained about goose- bumps, that he was taking so long setting up the lighting, then he remembered the wine and the wild lovemaking afterwards. She had liked being photographed naked; it had excited her.
His hands started to shake again. God, she looked so beautiful, so perfect, so young, so bloody innocent. Still shaking, he thrust the photos back in the cabinet and turned away, tears burning in his eyes.
II
While Stott and Hatchley were interviewing Owen Pierce, Banks drove out to St. Mary’s to see Lady Sylvie Harrison. He would have liked Susan with him, for her reactions and observations, but he knew he was risking Chief Constable Riddle’s wrath by having anything more to do with the Harrisons, and he didn’t want to get Susan into trouble.
She was right; she had worked hard and passed her sergeant’s exam, all but the rubber stamp, and he wouldn’t forgive himself easily if he ruined her chances of a quick promotion. He would be sad to lose her, though. Detective constables were rarely promoted straight to the rank of detective sergeant, and almost never in the same station; they usually went back in uniform for at least a year, then they had to reapply to the CID.
Before setting off, Banks had phoned the Harrison household and could hardly believe his luck. Sir Geoffrey was out with Michael Clayton, and Lady Harrison was at home alone. No, she said, with that faint trace of French accent, she would have no objections to talking to Banks without her husband present.
As he drove along North Market Street past the tourist shops and the community center where Sandra worked, Banks played the tape of Ute Lemper singing Michael Nyman’s musical adaptations of Paul Celan’s poems. It was odd music, and it had taken him some time to get used to it, but now he adored them all, found them pervaded by a sort of sinister melancholy.
It was a chilly day outside, gray and windy, skittering the leaves along the pavements. But at least the rain had stopped. Just as “Corona” was coming to an end, Banks pulled up at the end of the Harrisons’ drive.
Lady Harrison must have heard him coming because she opened the large white door for him as soon as he got out of the car. She wore jeans and a blue cashmere pullover. She hugged herself against the cold as she stood in the doorway.
She had done her best to cover up the marks of misery and pain on her face, but they were still apparent through the make-up, like distant figures looming in the fog.
This time, instead of heading for the white room, she hung up his overcoat and led him to the kitchen, which was done in what Banks thought of as a sort of rustic French style: lots of wood paneling and cupboards, copper- bottomed pots and pans hanging on hooks on the wall, flower-patterned mugs on wooden pegs, a few potted plants, a vase of chrysanthemums on the table and a red-and-white checked tablecloth. The room smelled of herbs and spices, cinnamon and rosemary being the two most prominent. A kettle was just coming to the boil on the red Aga.
“Please sit down,” she said.
Banks sat on a wooden chair at the kitchen table. Its legs scraped along the terracotta floor.
“Tea? I was just going to make some.”
“Fine,” said Banks.
“Ceylon, Darjeeling, Earl Gray or Lapsang Souchong?”
“Lapsang, if that’s all right.”
She smiled. “Exactly what I was going to have.”
Her movements were listless and Banks noticed that the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. It would probably be a long time before one did.
“Are you sure you’re all right here alone, Lady Harrison?” he asked.
“Yes. Actually, it was my idea. I sent Geoffrey out. He was getting on my nerves. I needed a little quiet time to…to get used to things. What would be the point of us both moping around the house all day? He’s used to action, to doing things. And please,” she added with a fleeting smile, “call me Sylvie.”
“Fine,” he said. “Sylvie it is.”
She measured out the leaves into a warmed pot-a rather squat, ugly piece with blue squiggles and a thick, straight spout-then sat down opposite Banks and let it brew.
“I’m sorry to intrude on your grief,” Banks said. “But there are still a lot of questions need answering.”
“Of course,” said Sylvie. “But Geoffrey told me this morning that you already have a suspect. Is it true?”
Interesting, Banks thought. He hadn’t realized there was a lodge meeting last night. Of course, as soon as Stott had tracked down Owen Pierce and sent his anorak off to the lab for analysis, Banks had let the chief constable know what was happening, and Riddle obviously hadn’t wasted much time in reporting to Sir Geoffrey. Ah, privilege.
“Someone’s helping us with our inquiries, yes,” he said, immediately regretting the trite phrase. “I mean, last night we talked to someone who was seen in the area on Monday evening. Detective Inspector Stott is interviewing him again now.”
“It’s not that man from the church, the one who was fired?”
“We don’t think so, but we’re still keeping an open mind about him.”
“Do you think this other person did it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him yet. We’re playing it very cautiously, very carefully. If he is the one, we want to be certain we don’t make any mistakes that will come back to haunt us when the case goes to court.”
“Sometimes,” mused Sylvie, “it seems that the system favors the criminal rather than the victim. Don’t you think?”
Tell me about it, thought Banks wearily. If they did think they’d got their man, next they would have to convince the Crown Prosecution Service they had a case-not always an easy job-then, after they had jumped through all the hoops, as often as not they could look forward to watching the accused’s lawyer tear the evidence to shreds. “Sometimes,” he agreed. “Did Deborah ever mention anyone called Owen Pierce?”
Sylvie frowned. “No. I’ve never heard the name before.”
Banks described Pierce, but it meant nothing to her.
She poured the tea, tilting her head slightly and biting the end of her tongue as she did so. The Lapsang smelled and tasted good, its smoky flavor a perfect foil for a gray, cold November day. Outside, the wind whistled through the trees and rattled the windows, creating dust devils and gathering the fallen leaves into whirlwinds. Sylvie Harrison put both hands around her mug, as if keeping them warm. “What do you want to know from me?” she asked.
“I’m trying to find out as much as I can about what Deborah was like. There are still a few gaps.”
“Such as?”
“Boyfriends, for example.”
“Ah, boyfriends. But Deborah was far too busy at school for boys. There was plenty of time for that later. After she finished her education.”
“Even so. There was the summer.”
Sylvie held his gaze. “She didn’t have a boyfriend.”
Banks paused, then said slowly, feeling as if he were digging his career grave with every word, “That’s not what I heard. Someone told me she had a boyfriend in August.”
Sylvie paled. She pressed her lips so tight together they almost turned white.
“Did she have a boyfriend?” Banks asked again.
Sylvie sighed, then nodded. “Yes. In the summer. But she finished with him.”
“Was his name John Spinks?”
She raised her eyebrows. “How did you know that?”
“You knew about him?”
She nodded. “Yes. He was a most unpleasant character.”
“Why do you think a bright, pretty girl like Deborah would go out with someone like that?”
A distant look came into her eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose he was good-looking, perhaps exciting in a way.
