It was exactly as Nicky Haskell had described them on the one occasion he had seen Wyman and Hardcastle together. “Did they ever come with anyone else, or did anyone else join them?” Annie asked.
“Not when I was on duty.”
“Did you ever see anything change hands?”
Liam drew himself up to his full height behind the bar, which was still a few inches less than Winsome’s. “Never. That’s something else we don’t countenance in this establishment. Drugs.” He spat out the word.
“I’m impressed,” said Winsome, and Liam blushed.
“Ever see them looking at photos?” Annie asked, hoping she wasn’t going to get the same response she had from Haskell.
“No,” Liam said. “But they were usually here when we were pretty busy. I mean, it’s not as if I was keeping an eye on them or anything.” He began to get flustered and looked at Winsome again. “But if you want me to, I can keep my eyes and ears open. You know, if they come in again. I mean, I know Hardcastle can’t, like, he’s dead, right, but the other one, whoever he is, and I’ll certainly—”
“It’s all right, Liam,” Annie said, though Liam seemed to have forgotten her presence. “We doubt very much that he’ll be back. Thanks a lot for your help.”
“What you might do,” Winsome said before they left, leaning forward on the bar, so she was closer to Liam and a little shorter than he was, “is keep an eye open for underage drinkers. And drugs. We’ve had a few reports... you know... It would be a great help. Wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble, mind you.”
“Oh, God, no. I mean, yes, of course. Underage drinkers. Yes. Drugs. I’ll do that.”
They were laughing as they went out the door. “ ‘Countenance in this establishment,’ for crying out loud,” said Winsome. “Where’s he get that from?”
“Good one, Winsome,” Annie said. “You got him all flustered. You know, I think he fancies you. You might be in with a chance there.”
Winsome nudged her in the ribs. “Get away with you.”
Banks met Sophia in their local wine bar on the King’s Road just after eight o’clock that evening. It was crowded by then, but they managed to get a couple of stools at the bar. The place always reminded Banks of their first night together. The Eastvale wine bar was a bit smaller and less upmarket, of course, its wine list perhaps not quite so comprehensive, and certainly lighter on the wallet, but it had a similar ambience: curved black bar, bottles on glass racks against a lit mirror behind the work area, soft lighting, candles floating among flower petals on the black circular tables, chrome chairs, padded seats.
That first night Banks hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Sophia’s animated face as they talked, and without his even being aware of it he had somehow forgotten everything else in his life and broken though his natural reserve, found his hand reaching out for hers across the table, not another thought in his mind at that moment but her dark eyes, her voice, her lips, the light and shade of the flickering candle playing on the smooth skin of her face. It was a feeling that he knew would stay with him forever, no matter what happened. He felt his breath catch in his chest even as he thought about it now, sitting next to her, rather than opposite, in a place where they could barely hear each other speak, and whatever the music that was playing, it certainly wasn’t Madelaine Peyroux singing “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.”
“He was terrible,” Sophia was saying, finishing a story about an interview she had produced that afternoon. “I mean, most crime writers are nice enough, but this bloke came on like he was Tolstoy or someone, proceeded to ignore the questions he was asked, pontificated about navel-gazing literary fiction and complained about not being nominated for the Man-Booker. If you even hinted that he wrote crime novels, he’d snarl and practically go apoplectic. And he swore all the bloody time! And he smelled. Poor Chris, the interviewer, stuck there in that little studio with him.”
Banks laughed. “What did you do?”
“Well, let’s just say the technician’s a friend of mine, and thank God it wasn’t live,” said Sophia with a wicked smile. “And you can’t smell someone over the radio.” She knocked back a healthy draft of Rioja and patted her chest. Her face was a little flushed, the way it got sometimes when she was excited. She prodded Banks gently in the chest. “So tell me about your day, Mr. Superspy.”
Banks put his finger to his lips. “Ssshhh,” he said, glancing toward the bartender. “ ‘Keep mum, she’s not so dumb.’ ”
“You think the Rioja’s bugged?” Sophia whispered.
“Could be. After today, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What happened today?”
“Oh, nothing happened. Not really.”
“Am I going to see much of you while you’re down here, or are you going to be slinking among the shadows and darkness?”
“I hope not.”
“But are you going to be running out at all hours of the night on mysterious missions?”
“I can’t guarantee nine to five, but I’ll do my best to be home by bedtime.”
“Hmm. So tell me what happened today.”
“I went to this house in Saint John’s Wood, a house we had evidence that Laurence Silbert and an unknown man entered together about a week before Silbert died...” And Banks proceeded to tell Sophia about Edith and Lester Townsend. “Honestly,” he said, “I felt as if I’d walked right into the world of one of those strange fantasy novels. Or fallen down a rabbit hole or something.”
“And they said they were there all the time, that no one else lived there or had rented from them, and they didn’t know either of the men in the photo?”
“That’s about it.”
“How very North by Northwest. Are you sure your technical support people didn’t make a mistake?”
“I’m sure. It’s the same place. You can see that as soon as you stand outside.”
“Well, they must be lying, then,” said Sophia. “It stands to reason. It’s the only logical conclusion. Don’t you think?”
“So it would seem. But why?”
“Maybe they’ve been paid off?”
“Possibly.”
“Perhaps they run a gay brothel?”
“A little old lady like Edith Townsend? In Saint John’s Wood?”
“Why not?”
“Or maybe they’re simply a part of it all,” Banks said.
“A part of what?”
“The plot. The conspiracy. Whatever’s going on.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “Come on, let’s go for that meal and talk about something else. I’m sick of bloody spooks already. It’s doing my head in. And I’m starving.”
Sophia laughed and reached down for her handbag. “Talking about doing your head in,” she said, “if we hurry, Wilco are playing at the Brixton Academy tonight, and I can get us in.”
“Well, then,” said Banks, standing and holding out his hand for her. “What are we waiting for? Have we got time for a burger on the way?”
10
Sophia left for work early on Thursday morning while Banks was still in the shower trying to wake up. The Wilco concert had been great, and they had had a drink afterward with some of Sophia’s friends, which had made for a late night. At least Banks had remembered to charge his new mobile, and as soon as he’d dressed and had some coffee, he planned on phoning Annie to let her know his number.
He wasn’t sure whether to revisit the Townsends again that day. Probably not. He didn’t really see much point. On the one hand, the taciturn Mr. Townsend would be at work, and his wife might be more forthcoming if her husband wasn’t around. On the other hand, she would probably be terrified, refuse to open the door and ring the police as soon as she saw Banks on her doorstep.