His own favourite was ‘A dead body revenges not injuries’, which was pretty much self-evident and also, in a way, the raison d’être for a job like his. It was an interesting poem to read and discuss, but never intended as a manual for living one’s life, the way many had taken it in the sixties. Jim Morrison, for example. Then there was Rimbaud with his ‘total derangement of all the senses’, bless him. Add Dalí’s melting clock, a Grateful Dead concert and a few doses of LSD and that pretty much defined the era Banks had grown up in.
Things were different now, though. Pundits kept saying that the millennials had different values, and approached life very differently from the previous generation. What had Sarah Chen made of the words she had tattooed on her shoulder? Perhaps nothing, like the Tesco’s checkout girl. Or perhaps it was her credo for living. Banks doubted she had taken them literally. Blackstone had said she liked to give people the idea that she was more liberated than she really was, though he also got the impression she was an extroverted personality. So what had she in common with Adrienne Munro, and how had they met, if indeed they had? Adrienne had no tattoos. And according to most people Banks had talked to, she had been rather shy and retiring, perhaps even a bit puritanical, if not entirely virginesque. Still, they say opposites attract. If it wasn’t drugs, what was it? Sex? Both were wearing rather fetching and revealing dresses, as if they were off on a night out. But where? And had they been together that night before they died?
Banks finished his meal and put his plate and cutlery in the dishwasher. It wasn’t full yet, so he just set it for another rinse cycle.
While in Leeds, he had managed to get to Waterstones and buy an anthology of Russian poetry, and then to HMV, which seemed to have less and less on offer each time he visited, especially in the music section. How he missed the old Classical Record Shop, gone for years now, though he had to admit that one could have far greater choice online. Still, it was a matter of holding the disc, or LP, of having something substantial, like a real book rather than the electronic version. He wasn’t a Luddite, but he did believe there was still a lot of value in the old media. There were plenty of deals in the DVD section, now that more people had turned to Netflix and other online sources of movies, and he ended up buying three of his all-time favourites on Blu-ray for twenty quid: The Guns of Navarone, The Bridge on the River Kwai and Doctor Zhivago, none of which he had seen for a long time.
Instead of sitting in the conservatory listening to music that evening, he took his wine into the entertainment room, put on Doctor Zhivago and sat facing the large screen TV with the lights out. He remembered first seeing the film years ago with his girlfriend of the time, Emily. They sat on the back row, as usual, and he had his arm around her, which was slowly going numb. He remembered the music, the lushly romantic ‘Lara’s Theme’, smoke from all the cigarettes, including his own, shimmering as it rose and swirled through the projector’s light, the girly shampoo smell of Emily’s hair as he turned to kiss her, the strawberry taste of her lipstick.
The film had hardly begun when his mobile buzzed, and when he answered it, he heard the familiar voice of Zelda, with her slight Eastern European accent.
‘Alan? I am sorry if I have disturbed you. It is not too late, is it?’
‘No. Not at all. As a matter of fact, I just this minute started watching Doctor Zhivago.’
Banks thought he heard Zelda laugh. ‘I hope you don’t take it too seriously as a lesson in history.’
‘I’ll try not to. What can I do for you?’
‘I am going to London tomorrow. They called earlier. I thought we should talk first.’
‘Good idea.’
‘May I come to your office tomorrow morning?’
‘Can you make it lunchtime? I have some meetings in the morning I can’t get out of. Things have escalated a bit.’
‘The girl in the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, but I must get a train from Northallerton in the afternoon.’
‘I’ll give you a lift to the station.’
‘Good. I will come to your office first. Goodnight, Alan. Enjoy Zhivago.’
‘I will. Goodnight. And thanks.’
Banks turned back to Doctor Zhivago and soon found himself drawn into the sweeping love story set against a background of social upheaval, war and revolution. He was sure that Boris Pasternak’s novel was nowhere near as romantic as David Lean’s film, with its lingering, exquisitely lit close-ups of Julie Christie’s eyes, and he vowed to read it soon. But for now the movie version would do.
When the film ended, a few hours and a bottle of wine later, he cried just the way he had the first time he saw it, when he had to hide his tears from Emily Hargreaves. But tonight he had nobody to hide his tears from.
10
The morning meetings had gone as expected, with grumblings all around from the brass about the expense, but in the end both Area Commander Gervaise and ACC Ron McLaughlin, along with Ken Blackstone’s supervisor in West Yorkshire, had bowed to the evidence that there was a link between the Adrienne Munro and Sarah Chen cases.
Banks was named SIO, and Blackstone his deputy. Budgets were allocated, manpower assigned and the complexities of a major inquiry team began to take shape. They decided to keep the Eastvale boardroom as their incident room. There didn’t seem much point in positioning a mobile unit halfway down the A1. The travel distances were not so great, anyway. Terminals and phones were installed, office manager, document reader, researcher and the other key roles filled, and HOLMES was set in motion. Gerry worked with one of Ken Blackstone’s men getting the programme up and running.
About noon, when Banks was finally free to relax for a moment, enjoying a coffee in his office and listening to Murray Perahia’s recording of Bach’s French Suites, a clearly spellbound young PC brought Zelda up to his office. Banks could hardly blame the boy. Zelda was wearing jeans and a black polo-neck jumper under a long navy woollen coat with a fur collar. She was wheeling a suitcase with one hand and carrying a Russian-style fur hat that could have come straight out of a Tolstoy novel, or Doctor Zhivago, in the other.
‘Ah. Bach,’ said Zelda. ‘Such a civilised policeman.’
Banks stood up and reached out to shake her hand. She turned it to be kissed, so he kissed it. He noticed how long and tapered her fingers were. A pianist’s hands. ‘What on earth are you doing with that philistine Ray,’ he said.
Zelda laughed and squeezed his hand. ‘I can put up with a bit of Led Zeppelin once in a while,’ she said, then made a face. ‘It’s that Captain Beefheart that drives me mad. And that Nico woman. She sounds as if she is singing from beyond the grave.’
Banks laughed. The way she pronounced Beefheart indicated the exact amount of scorn she felt. ‘The Captain always was one of Ray’s favourites,’ he said. ‘I think he even saw The Magic Band perform live once, back in the day. Never got over it. And as for Nico... well, what can I say? Sit down, please. Did Ray talk to you? Have you had second thoughts?’
Zelda smiled. ‘No second thoughts, despite Raymond’s efforts. I’m going to London this afternoon. More surveillance photographs for me. I wanted to see you first so that you can brief me, tell me what you want me to do.’
‘Is it always at such short notice?’
‘Mostly, yes.’
‘Is there anything you want to tell me now that you didn’t want to say the other night?’