Ray bent over the cocktail cabinet to mix Banks’s drink and handed it to him. Banks could smell something delicious cooking in the kitchen — a stew of some sort flavoured with herbs and spices. The new Neil Young CD was playing. Well, not so new. Banks remembered reading in MOJO, that Hitchhiker was recorded in 1975 and not released until years later. Neil was in the middle of a haunting acoustic version of ‘Powderfinger’ that Banks thought almost as good as the electric version on Live Rust.
And it probably wasn’t a CD. He remembered that Ray was a vinyl freak, and if Hitchhiker was available on vinyl, that would be the version he bought. Banks had let his own extensive collection slip away over the years. He had moved the boxes of LPs up to Eastvale from London when he first came up to work there in the mid-eighties. It was after that when he bought a CD player and made the switch. He sold a few of his records to the used vinyl shops that had started springing up, but then he lost the rest of his collection in a fire, when a villain set fire to Newhope Cottage with Banks in it, drugged on the sofa.
Banks accepted his gin and tonic and took a gulp. It was strong.
The door opened and Zelda made her entry, wearing figure-hugging jeans and a white knitted cashmere jumper. She was tall and slender, long-legged and small-breasted. Willowy, perhaps, but not a blonde. Her wavy black hair tumbled over her shoulders and framed an oval face. She had exquisite cheekbones, and there was something distinctly Eurasian about her eyes and flawless complexion. The only jarring feature was a slightly crooked nose, which had clearly been broken once. But as so often with such imperfections, it merely managed to enhance her beauty. Most of all, it was her eyes that drew Banks in. Dark and beguiling, they spoke of a sadness beyond words. All in all, Banks thought, she was probably one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
Ray and Zelda certainly made an odd couple, and not only because of the age difference. They were actually a refreshing rebuke to those who took issue with older men and younger women. While Zelda was only thirty, she had an aura of having lived about her, and the wisdom and experience of a much older person — she was what one of Banks’s previous girlfriends would have called an ‘old soul’ — and while Ray was over seventy, his soul was young, and everything about him sang of sprightliness, creativity, youthful energy and enthusiasm.
Zelda sat casually, leaning back in the armchair, long legs crossed, and lit a cigarette. ‘Alan. Annie. It is so good to see you.’ Her slightly accented English merely added to her exotic persona. Zelda came from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Banks vaguely remembered Ray mentioning a small town in Moldova, the name of which was hard to pronounce, along with a past shrouded in mystery and tragedy that had only been vaguely hinted at thus far. ‘How are my two favourite detectives?’
‘Looking forward to dinner,’ said Banks.
‘Hah. It will be dreadful. Raymond insisted on adding too much chilli pepper. It will burn your tongue right off.’ Zelda was the only person Banks knew who called Ray ‘Raymond’.
‘He definitely does have a liking for spicy food,’ Banks said.
‘Always did,’ Annie muttered.
‘Don’t be so soft,’ Ray said, joining them. ‘It’ll be delicious. Just wait and taste.’ He raised his glass. ‘To crime.’
Banks and Annie exchanged a glance, then shrugged and joined in the toast.
Banks had noticed on the only other occasion they had all met that Zelda and Annie had tended to circle one another, as if they couldn’t quite make up their minds how to relate. They were friendly on the surface. There was certainly no open animosity, perhaps none at all, just a hint of jealousy on Annie’s part, as a woman might feel when she meets someone younger and more beautiful than herself. Annie was also naturally protective of her father.
Though Zelda and Ray had lived together in Cornwall for over a year, they had only been up in Yorkshire for a short time, and neither Banks nor Annie had got to know her well. Ray was the kind who liked to spring surprises, and though he had mentioned Zelda from time to time, he hadn’t explained the full extent of their relationship.
Like Ray, Zelda was an artist. She painted occasionally, but mostly she worked at pottery, jewellery and sculpture, which she intended to sell at local craft fairs and folk festivals. She also had some sort of mysterious job that required her to spend a few days in London every now and then. When they had first met, she had given Banks a small carved wooden object she had made that felt alive and seemed to twist and curve gently in his hand when he held it. She said it was meant to calm people down, like worry beads and rubbing pebbles, and he looked as if he needed calming down. He did, too. And it worked. He used it at work quite often.
Zelda finished her cigarette and went into the kitchen to ‘rescue’ dinner, as she put it. Ray changed the record. Banks strained to listen for a moment to the music, unsure of what it was, then he said, ‘Donovan? “Legend of a Girl Child Linda”. You skipped the first track on the album.’
‘Yeah, “Sunshine Superman” was always a bit too hippy-dippy for me. A bit too flowers in your hair.’
Banks laughed. ‘And this isn’t?’
‘Nah. This is nice. The mono version, of course.’
Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Of course.’
But it was ‘nice’, Banks had to agree, the soft, slightly sibilant voice, a haunting melody, and sparse orchestral backing — here a few strings, there a touch of woodwinds — seemed to emphasise the song’s ethereal quality. He hadn’t listened to it for years. Donovan had always been the poor man’s Dylan until this album, Banks remembered, where he set out to forge his own medieval troubadour brand of folk and jazz.
Five minutes later, Zelda called them into the dining room, which shared the back of the cottage with the kitchen itself. There were candles already lit all over the place, creating an intimate and relaxing atmosphere in the small space, casting shadows on the walls. Ray served plates of what he called a sort of Moroccan-cum-Mexican beef bourguignon, complete with button mushrooms and pearl onions, served with roasted root vegetables and basmati rice. Whatever it was, it was delicious, Banks thought as he took his first taste, and not too hot at all. Ray had opened a bottle of burgundy earlier, and it went well with the food. Annie took only a small glass.
There were paintings and sketches in various stages of completion all over the place, even in the kitchen, propped against the wall, or hanging on it, including a series of beautiful charcoal nude studies of Zelda. She caught Banks trying not to look at one of them and gave him an enigmatic smile.
Conversation wandered from compliments on the food and how nice the cottage was to more personal matters, and the subject of first meetings came up.
Zelda peered over her glass at Annie and asked, ‘How did you and Alan meet? Over a dead body? Something romantic like that?’
Annie seemed thrown for a moment. She glanced at Banks, who simply gestured for her to go on and tell the story.
‘Well, sort of,’ she said, with her eyes still on Banks. ‘As a matter of fact, it was a skeleton. A very old skeleton. It had been buried since the war.’
Zelda clapped her hands. ‘I knew it would be romantic,’ she said.
Annie frowned at the interruption. ‘We were on a bridge,’ she went on. ‘I was already at the scene and Alan was trying to get to it. I stopped him. I didn’t know who he was, and he... well, let’s just put it this way, he wasn’t exactly dressed like a detective chief inspector.’