dreamed of the kitchen before he knew it existed – a dream full of warmth and feelings of extreme well-being – so that when he saw it, he knew he had to have it. Luckily the old lady who was selling didn’t want it to fall into the hands of an absentee landlord, so she let him have it for the ridiculously low price of ?50,000 – a gift when you considered that there were semis and terrace cottages smaller even than this one going for ?70,000 and above in some of the more popular Dales villages.
All Banks sensed about the kitchen was that there was definitely some sort of presence, that it was benevolent, and – only God knew why – that it was feminine. He didn’t really believe in gods and ghosts, had never thought much about them, being a more practical sort of man, but this was another change that had taken place since Sandra left. In the end, he accepted, even embraced, whatever the presence was, and came to believe it was some sort of spirit of the house, the way places are said to have spirits. He had read a little about the subject and named his spirit Haltia, after the Finnish, generally believed to be the spirit of the first person to lay claim to a site either by lighting a fire on it, by building a house on it, or even, in some cases, the first person to die there.
Rosalind was the first person other than Banks to feel it. Others had been there – Tracy, Brian, Sandra, Annie, Superintendent Gristhorpe, Jim Hatchley – but none of them had felt the preternatural appeal of the kitchen. Banks felt almost inclined to tell Rosalind about the dream, but he held back for some reason. He hadn’t told anyone about it yet for fear of seeming foolish or mad, and there was no point starting now.
“It’s a comfortable room to be in,” he said, pouring the drink. “You should see it when the sun’s shining through the windows. Glorious.” That was his favorite time in the kitchen, when the morning sunlight came skipping over Low Fell and sliding down the green daleside, spilling into the kitchen like honey. that wouldn’t happen again for a few more months.
“I’d like that,” said Rosalind. Then she looked away and blushed. She had dark semicircles under her eyes, Banks noticed, which made her look mysterious, tragic, even, which was hardly surprising given what she had been through this past while. Despite the poor first impression Rosalind had made on him, Banks found himself thinking that she was a woman he would like to have known, perhaps in another time, another life. Also, in another part of his mind, he suspected that she might have had something to do with her daughter’s murder.
“Ice? Lemon?”
“Just the tonic water, please.”
Banks handed her the gin and tonic and poured himself a couple of fingers of rapidly dwindling Laphroaig. They went back into the living room. The only light came from the fire and the reading lamp by his armchair. He wondered if he should turn on the overhead light and decided not to. By the look of her as she sat down wearily opposite him, Rosalind riddle looked glad of the semidarkness. He turned down the music and lit a cigarette.
“How was the get-together?”
“What you’d expect. You were fortunate you had work to keep you away.”
“I’m not good at those sorts of things. Did you get a chance at talk to Ruth and Craig?”
“A little. You know what these things are like.”
“What was your impression?”
“He seemed a nice-enough boy.”
“He probably is,” Banks said. “And Ruth?”
“I didn’t really get much chance to talk to her. I’m just glad that it’s over, that’s all.”
“Why did you want to see me? Was there something you wanted to tell me?”
“Tell you? No. What makes you think that?”
“What is it, then?”
She swirled her drink in her glass before answering. I’m worried about Jerry. He’s taking this all very badly.”
“It’s hardly surprising. I mean, after all, your only daughter is dead, murdered. He’s bound to take it badly. He’s not made of stone. And now this thing in the newspaper.”
“No, it’s more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
Rosalind sighed and stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. It was a gesture that reminded Banks of Annie Cabbot.
“All his life,” Rosalind began, “the only thing that’s counted for Jerry was his work. The Job. You know what it’s like, what the demands are. The sacrifices he’s made… we’ve made…” She gave a quick shake of her head. “I’m not saying he doesn’t love us, his family, but we’ve taken the backseat all along.
Banks smoked and listened. He had never thought about Riddle’s origins before but remembered he had vaguely heard something about his coming from a farmworker’s family in Suffolk. He got the impression that Rosalind just wanted to talk, and he was quite happy to let her ramble on as long as she liked, though why she had chosen him to unburden herself on was a mystery. Still, it felt good to have an attractive woman in the house – and one who understood the spirit of the place, at that – even if she was Jimmy Riddle’s wife, and for another, there was always the possibility that he might learn something relevant to Emily’s murder.
“As I said, he’s worked hard and we’ve made a lot of sacrifices. Jerry isn’t… I mean, he’s not the most demonstrative of men. Our marriage… he finds it difficult to show emotion.” She smiled. “I know most men are the same, but he’s more so. He loved Emily dearly but he’s never been able to express it. He’s come across as overprotective, a sort of tyrant who sets the rules and leaves them to me to enforce. Which made me a tyrant in my daughter’s eyes, too. He was never there when she might have needed him; they never managed to form a strong bond of any kind.”
“Yet he loved her?”
“Yes. Dearly. He doted on her and her achievements as much as he’s capable of doting on anyone other than himself.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
She smiled. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a good listener.”
“Go on.”
“There’s not much more to tell, really. Because of what’s happened, because of the guilt over never having been able to show his feelings, of always trying to control her rather than showing affection, he’s coming apart at the seams. He just sits there. Half the time he doesn’t even answer when I talk to him. It’s as if he’s come adrift, got lost in some inner hell and he can’t find his way out. After the funeral, it was even worse. I can’t talk to him anymore, he’s shutting me out. Fortunately Benjamin’s gone down to Barnstaple with my parents, or I don’t know what I’d do. I know I’m not explaining this very well. I’m not very good with words, but I’m worried about him.”
“Is there anything else on his mind?”
“I don’t know. Nothing he’s told me about, anyway. Isn’t it enough?”
“Maybe you should try to get him to seek help? Grief counseling. I’m sure your doctor could recommend the right sort of treatment.”
“I’ve mentioned it, but it’s no good, he won’t go.”
“Then I don’t know what to suggest.”
“Would
“Me?” Banks almost laughed out loud. “I can’t see that doing him any good. You know he can’t stand the sight of me.”
“You might find that he’s softened his attitude toward you a bit lately.”
“Since I got Emily to come home?” Banks shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s just sticking to the bargain.” Banks remembered what Emily had told him about Riddle’s envy. Deep-rooted feelings like that didn’t just disappear after you’d done someone a favor or two. In most cases they intensified because people who didn’t like you to start with resented being beholden to you. Besides, Banks had caught Riddle in a lie, too, and that must rankle. He remembered the guilty expression at the funeral.
“But he wanted you in charge of the investigation.”
“That was a purely professional decision.”
