'And you couldn't?'
'No. Not that.'
'What could you live with? It sounds like a very hard test.'
Banks thought back over some of the paintings Sandra had introduced him to. 'Modigliani's Reclining Nude, maybe Chagall's / and the Village. Monet's Water-lilies.'
'Good lord, you'd need an entire room for that one.'
'Yes, but it would be worth it.'
With the coffees, Jenny also poured out generous measures of cognac, giving Banks no time to refuse, then she put some music on the cassette deck and sat down beside him.
'This is good music,' he said. 'What is it?'
'Bruch's violin concerto.'
'Mmm, I've never heard it before. Are you a classical music buff?'
'Oh, no. I mean, I enjoy classical, but I like a bit of everything, really. I like jazz-Miles Davis and Monk. I still love some of the old sixties stuff-Beatles, Dylan, Stones-but my old copies are a bit scratched up by now.'
'For a psychology teacher you seem to know a lot about the arts.'
'English was my second subject, and my father was a bit of an amateur artist. Even now I seem to spend more time with the arts faculty than the sciences. Most psychologists are so boring.'
'Do you like opera?'
'That's one thing I don't know very well. My sister took me to an Opera North performance of La Traviata once, years ago, but I'm afraid I don't remember much about it.'
'Try some. I'll lend you a couple of tapes. Tosca, that's a good one.'
'What's it about?'
'An evil chief of police who tries to coerce a singer into sleeping with him by threatening to have her lover killed.'
'That sounds cheerful,' Jenny said; then she shivered. 'Someone just walked over my grave.'
'The music's good. Some fine arias.'
'All right. Here's to opera,' said Jenny, smiling and clinking glasses. 'Do you think we did a good evening's work?'
'Yes, I think so. We didn't expect miracles. That's not why we brought you in.'
'Charming! I know why you brought me in.'
'I mean why we brought a psychologist in.'
'Yes. I know that, too.'
'Why?'
'You were all afraid that this was going to spiral into a rash of rapes and sex murders, and you wanted to check on the evidence.'
'Partly true. And given that, we also wanted to make damn sure we had a better chance of stopping him before he went too far.'
'Are you any closer?'
'That remains to be seen.'
As they sat in silence, Banks could feel his heart beating faster and his throat constricting. He knew he shouldn't be there, knew there could only be one interpretation of his accepting the offer of coffee, and he was nervous about what to do. The music flowed around them and the tension grew so strong it made the muscles in his jaw ache. Jenny stirred and her scent wafted toward him. It was too subtle to be called a perfume; it was the kind of fresh and happy smell that took him back to carefree childhood trips to the country.
'Look,' Banks finally blurted out, putting down his coffee and facing Jenny, 'I'm sorry if I've given you the impression that… the wrong impression… but I'm married.' Then, having confessed in what he felt to be as graceless a manner as possible, he started to apologize and rephrase, but Jenny cut in, 'I know that, you fool. You think a psychologist can't spot a married man a mile off?'
'You know? Then…?'
Jenny shrugged. 'I'm not trying to seduce you, if that's what you mean. Yes, I like you, I'm attracted to you. I get the impression that you feel the same way. Dammit, then, maybe I am trying to seduce you. I don't know.' She reached out and touched his face. 'No strings, Alan. Why must you always be so serious?' Immediately, he felt himself freeze, and it shocked her so much that she jumped away and turned her face to the wall.
'All right,' she said, 'I've made in idiot of myself. Now go. Go on, go!'
'Listen, Jenny,' Banks said. 'You're not wrong about anything. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come.'
'Why did you, then?' Jenny asked, softening a little but still not facing him.
Banks shrugged and lit a cigarette. 'If I went to bed with you once,' he said, 'I wouldn't want it to stop there.'
'You don't know till you try it,' she said, turning and managing a thin smile.
'Yes, I do.'
'I might be lousy in bed.'
'That's not the point.'
'I knew you wouldn't do it, anyway.'
'You did?'
'I'm a psychologist, remember? I've spent enough time with you to know you're not frivolous and that you're probably a very monogamous person.'
'Am I so transparent?'
'Not at all. I'm an expert. Maybe you were testing yourself, taking a risk.'
'Well, they do say there's no better test of virtue than temptation.'
'And how do you feel now?'
'Intolerably virtuous.'
Jenny laughed and kissed him swiftly on the lips. It was a friendly sort of kiss, and instead of increasing Banks's desire it seemed to diffuse it and put things back on a simpler, more relaxed level.
'Don't go just yet,' Jenny said. 'If you do I'll think it's because of all this and it'll keep me awake all night.'
'All right. But only if I get another black coffee-and no more cognac.'
'Coming up, sir.'
'By the way,' Banks asked as Jenny headed for the kitchen, 'what about you? Divorced, single?'
'Single.' Jenny leaned against the doorpost. 'Marriage never happened to me.'
'Not even almost?'
'Oh, yes, almost. But you can't be almost married, can you? That would be like being a little bit pregnant.' And she turned to go and make the coffee, leaving a smile behind her which faded slowly like the Cheshire cat's.
Banks snapped out of his reverie feeling half-remorseful for having gone so far and half-regretful that he hadn't seized the moment and abandoned himself to Eros. He put on his headphones, rewound Dido and Aeneas to the lament, 'When I am laid in earth,' and left the building. Abandoned by her lover, Queen Dido sang 'Remember me, remember me…' It sent shivers up and down Banks's spine.
III
The evening out with Harriet and David went well. They drove along the Dale on the road by the River Swain, which was coursing high and fast after the recent rains. Beyond the sloping commons, dark valley sides rose steeply on both sides like sleeping whales. At Fortford, David took an unfenced minor road over the hills and down into the village of Axeby. The Greyhound, an old low-ceilinged pub with walls three feet thick, held a folk night there every Friday that was so well respected it even drew people from as far afield as Leeds, Bradford and Manchester. They were early enough to find a table for four near the back, which provided a relatively unobstructed view of the small stage. David brought the first round and they drank to a good evening. Though
