Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (13 page)

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? But a simple cuppa would work wonders right now.’

Banks walked through to the kitchen, Annie following. He turned his head. ‘Regular, green, chamomile, Earl Grey, decaf?’

‘Chamomile, please,’ said Annie. ‘My God, where did you come up with all those choices?’

‘California,’ said Banks. ‘They like their fancy tea in California. I learned to appreciate green tea there, especially. They have lots of different kinds, you know. Sencha, gyokuro, dragonwell.’

‘I’d forgotten you’d been there. I’ve forgotten most things around that time. Ordinary chamomile will do fine for me.’

‘How was St Ives?’

‘Wonderful. Beautiful. I got back into sketching and painting. Did a lot of walking on the cliffs.’

‘And Ray?’

‘He’s fine. Sends his regards. He’s got another floozy. She can’t be a day older than me.’

‘Lucky Ray.’ Banks had spent a lot of time with Annie’s father during her illness and recovery, and they had got along remarkably well. Ray had even stopped over at the cottage a few times after they had opened that second bottle of wine, or hit the Laphroaig.

Banks put the kettle on. He decided to have some tea himself. He was trying to cut back on the wine intake, after all, and chamomile was particularly relaxing late at night. It might help him sleep. Annie leaned her hip against the counter. He was about to tell her she could go through to the conservatory and he’d bring the tea when it was ready, but he realised it would be tactless. He could even see it in her face under the toughness, a vulnerability, an uncertainty about whether she really should be facing the conservatory right now.

Several months ago, while Banks had been enjoying himself in sunny California, Annie had been shot in his conservatory. When he had first found out, he had wondered whether he would be able to go back in there again himself and enjoy it the way he had done before. But he hadn’t been there when the shooting happened. The clean-up team had done a great job before he returned home, and Winsome had even had the sensitivity and good taste to refurnish the whole place for him. New carpet, new paint job, new chairs and table, new everything. And all sufficiently different in colour and style from the originals. It was like having a new room, and he had felt no ghosts, no residual sense of pain, fear or suffering. He had lost a table, chairs and a carpet but not, thank God, a dear friend.

He was apprehensive after what had happened to Annie there, though, worried that it might bring on a panic attack or something. It was her first visit since the shooting.

They chatted in the kitchen until the kettle boiled, then Banks put the teapot and cups on a tray. ‘Want to go through?’ he asked, gesturing towards the conservatory.

Annie followed him tentatively, as if unsure what effect the room would have on her.

‘It looks different,’ she said, sitting in one of the wicker chairs.

Banks set down the tea tray on the low table and took the chair beside her. He looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Annie was in her early forties now, and Banks thought she had never looked so good. During her convalescence, she had let the blonde highlights grow out and her hair had returned to its previous shoulder-length chestnut cascade. Banks decided he preferred it that way. ‘If you want, we can sit in the entertainment room,’ he said.

Annie shook her head. Toughing it out, then. ‘No, it’s fine. I was expecting . . . you know . . . but it’s fine. It’s really nice, and it’s very cosy with that warm light and the wind and rain outside.’ She hugged herself. ‘Let’s just stay here, shall we? What’s that music?’

‘June Tabor,’ said Banks. ‘This one’s called “The Oggie Man”. Want something else on?’

‘No. I’m fine. Really.’ That made a change; she was always complaining about his tastes in music. ‘What’s an oggie man?’

‘A pasty seller,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a song lamenting the disappearance of street pasty sellers in Cornwall in favour of hot-dog stands. An oggie is a Cornish pasty. You ought to know that, being a good Cornish lass.’

‘Never heard of it. Sounds like a very sad song for such a silly little thing.’

‘Folk songs. You know. What can I say? I don’t suppose it was silly or little to them at the time. It’s about loss, the passing of a tradition.’

‘You know,’ Annie said suddenly, ‘I
do
remember that night. I remember when everything was fading to black, and I was feeling so cold and tired. I thought this was the last place I would ever see in my life, and for a moment, that was what I wanted.’ She glanced at Banks and smiled. ‘Disappearing like the silly oggie man. Isn’t that funny?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘But I’m seeing the room again. That’s the point. I know everything’s different and all, but now it feel like . . . like being reborn. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t die. It wasn’t the last thing I saw. It’s the same room, but it’s different. Not just the way it’s been refurnished or decorated. Oh, I can’t explain myself. I’m not good with words. I’m just saying it’s a special place, that’s all. For me. And the memories start now. I’m back, Alan. I want you to know that.’

Banks gave her hand a quick squeeze. ‘I know you are, and I’m glad. But that’s not why you came, is it?’

‘No, it’s not. I heard about DI Bill Quinn getting killed at St Peter’s. I want you to bring me up to date so I can jump right in on Monday morning. I’ve got to be more than a hundred per cent on this one, or I’ll be out.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Banks.

‘It’s true. I’ll bet you Madame Gervaise doesn’t think I’ll be fit enough, mentally or physically. I’ll bet you she thinks I’ve lost my mojo. She’ll be trying to drive me to resign.’

‘I think that’s going a bit too far, Annie.’

‘Is it? Then what about that other woman in there with you? Your new partner. Miss Professional Standards. She’s very attractive, isn’t she? What’s her name again? I’ve had a word with Winsome. She told me most of what’s been going on, but I’ve forgotten the damn woman’s name.’

‘Inspector Passero. Joanna Passero. She’s just tagging along to nail Quinn. Or his memory.’

‘Are you being thick, or naive?’

‘Aren’t you being a little bit paranoid?’

‘Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.’

‘Fair enough. You worked Professional Standards for a while. You know what it’s like. You didn’t let the job swallow you up, or change your basic attitude.’

‘It fucks you up, whether you fight it or not.’

‘I’m sure it does. But you’re all right now, aren’t you? What do you know about Inspector Passero?’

‘Not much, but I do have my sources at County HQ. She lived in Woodstock, worked for Thames Valley, got an Italian husband called Carlo. And she’s an icy blonde. I don’t trust icy blondes. You never know what they’re thinking.’

‘As opposed to feisty brunettes? All what you see is what you get? Jealous, Annie?’

Annie snorted. ‘Something’s going on. Mark my words. I’d watch my back if I were you. I hear the sound of knives being sharpened.’

‘Don’t worry about me. What are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You think Gervaise wants you out. What are you going to do about it?’

‘I don’t know. My options are a bit limited at the moment.’

‘Going off half-cocked and trying to prove you’re better than everyone else won’t work.’

‘Look who’s talking.’

‘I’m being serious, Annie.’

‘So am I. I like my job. I’m good at it. And I want to keep it. Is that so strange?’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks. ‘I want you to keep it, too.’

‘So you’ll help me?’

‘How?’

‘Any way you can. Trust me. Give me decent tasks. Don’t sideline me.’

Banks paused. ‘Of course. I’ll help you all I can. You should know that.’

Annie leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. ‘Use me, Alan. Don’t keep me in the dark. I know I might seem like a bit of a liability at first, that I might seem a bit wobbly, and it’ll take me a while to get back to normal, but it doesn’t mean I have to be left out in the cold. Keep me informed. Listen to what I have to say. If I have a good idea, make sure people know it’s mine. I’m resilient, and I’m a quick learner. You already know that.’

‘Across the Wide Ocean’ ended, and with it the CD. Rain beat against the windows, and the wind howled through the trees. Annie sat back, shuddered and sipped some tea. ‘I enjoyed that,’ she said.

‘I’m glad.’

‘“The Oggie Man”. I’ll remember that. Poor oggie man. I wonder what happened to him. Did they kill him? Was he murdered? The rain softly falling and the oggie man’s no more.’ She shifted position and crossed her legs. ‘Tell me about Bill Quinn.’

‘Not much to say, really,’ said Banks. ‘According to everyone I’ve talked to, he was a devoted family man. Devastated by his wife’s death. No trace of a reputation for womanising or anything like that.’

‘But there are some pictures of him with a girl. I’ve seen them. I dropped by the squad room after a visit to Human Resources this morning, while you were out. The copies arrived while I was there. She looks like a very
young
girl.’

‘She wasn’t
that
young.’

‘She was young enough. But that’s not what I was thinking. Men are pigs. Fact. We all know that. They’ll shag anything in a skirt. Quinn did it, and he got caught.’

‘Or set up.’

‘All right. Or set up. But why?’

‘We don’t know yet. Obviously blackmail of some kind.’

‘He didn’t have a lot of money, did he?’

‘Not that we know of. We haven’t got his banking information yet, but there’s nothing extravagant about his lifestyle. Nice house, but his wife worked as an estate agent, and they bought it a long time ago. Mortgage paid off. Kids at university before the fee increases.’

‘So he wasn’t being blackmailed for his money.’

‘Unlikely.’

‘Then why?’

‘To turn a blind eye to something, or to pass on information helpful to criminals,’ said Banks. ‘That’s what Inspector Passero believes. She said there were rumours. But when Quinn’s wife died, their hold over him was broken, all bets were off, and that caused a shift in the balance of power. Quinn became a loose cannon. All that has happened since resulted from that. At least, that’s my theory.’

‘I should imagine right now you’re casting your net pretty wide?’ said Annie.

‘We have to. There are a lot of questions to answer. Quinn worked on a lot of cases. I must say, though, that unless we’re missing something, or the girl herself killed him for some reason we don’t know about yet, it seems professional, organised.’

‘Cut to the chase. He wouldn’t have kept those photos with him if there wasn’t something important about them. Far too risky, even hidden as they were.’

‘His house was broken into,’ Banks said.

Annie shot him a glance. ‘When?’

‘Probably around the time he was killed, maybe even long enough after for it to be the same person. We’re not sure. They took his laptop and some papers. And we’ve got some tyre tracks from a farm lane near St Peter’s that might help identify the killer’s car.’

‘Why don’t you bring me up to speed with the rest of it?’

Banks shared the last few drops of tea and told her what little he knew.

‘One of the first things that came into my mind when I saw those photos,’ said Annie, ‘and what seems to be even more relevant now, after finding out that Quinn was supposedly a devoted family man, was what would make him do what he did with the girl?’

‘Like you said, men are pigs.’

‘They let the little head do the thinking, right? Given the right circumstances, they’ll shag anyone. But they’ve still got oodles of the old self-preservation instinct. They don’t only lie to their families; they lie to themselves, too.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that a man like Bill Quinn – devoted family man, as you say – was very unlikely to shit on his own doorstep, if you’ll pardon my French. It’s harder to lie to yourself about that if you smell it every day, to pursue the metaphor. Meaning you need to check out any conventions he went to, any holidays he took without his wife and kids – a trip to Vegas with the lads, for example, or a golfing holiday in St Andrews. The further away from home, the better. Something so far away that it made it easy for him to pretend that he was on another planet, and everything that happened there had nothing to do with his earthly life, nothing to do with everyday reality, nothing to do with the family he was devoted to.’

‘Fishing. With Quinn it was more likely to be a fishing trip.’

‘Right, then. Whatever. Any period when he was away from home, either alone or with other like-minded blokes, staying in a hotel. You can’t tell much about the place from the photos, but you might get one of the digital experts in Photographic Services to see if he can blow up a few beer mats and bring a sign or two into focus.’

‘We’re working on it.’

‘Good. Because that might tell you whether we’re dealing with a trip abroad. In my limited experience of such things, the further away from his own nest a man gets, the freer and friskier he feels, and the more likely he is to stray. It’s like the wedding ring becomes invisible. Some men take it off altogether for the duration. And the shackles, the inhibitions, they conveniently fall off with it.’