Again, Banks said nothing.
‘Of course. You can’t say anything. I get it. It’s all right. I’m not angry. I’m not going after her or anything.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘It was just bad timing, that’s all. I could have fallen for Leila in a big way, but I just couldn’t afford to get involved with anyone emotionally at that time. It hurt to cut her off like that.’
Not as much as it hurt her, Banks felt like saying, but kept quiet. At least he now knew that Mia had used her real name with Leila. Perhaps that would be some compensation. ‘So what happened with Adrienne and Sarah? Were you emotionally involved with either of them, too? Were you looking at Leila as a replacement?’
‘God, no!’ said Mia. ‘No matter what you think of me, I’m not promiscuous and I’m not a heartless bitch. Leila just sort of came out of the blue when I least expected it. Knocked me for six. And I don’t know what happened to Adrienne and Sarah. I didn’t see them again after the introductions. They were on their own.’
‘Didn’t you talk to them from time to time?’
‘Once or twice. Just to see how they were doing.’
‘And?’
‘They said they were doing fine.’
‘But three people are dead, Mia. So what do you think went wrong? What’s your guess?’
‘As good as yours. Or maybe not, given that you’re the detective.’
‘Don’t you feel guilty about what happened?’
‘I feel terrible about what happened to Adrienne and Sarah. They were lovely girls, and they didn’t deserve to die. But they did. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why.’
‘You had no idea why Adrienne Munro would take her own life?’
Mia shook her head. ‘None at all. As I said, I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, and I never saw Adrienne as a potential overdose, whether by intent or by accident.’
‘Do you think it was an accident?’
‘I don’t know. I assume you have more information on the subject than I do.’
Banks studied her for a few moments. The mask was firmly in place again, and he realised he wasn’t going to get anything more out of her. He glanced at Annie, who nodded and put away her notebook and phone.
‘Don’t feel too bad, Superintendent,’ Mia said as she showed them to the door. ‘It’s not as if I’m getting away with murder. I really didn’t kill anyone.’
Hawkins had been behaving strangely ever since he caught Zelda in the archive. She would notice him watching her through his office window and frowning at her as he talked on his phone. He also turned up with alarming frequency at her desk asking about some petty matter or another. It wasn’t like him, and it worried her that she might have set off an alarm bell by her actions. Did he know that she had taken a copy of the photograph? Was it obvious from her behaviour?
Five o’clock, rush hour in London in the rain. Not that every hour wasn’t rush hour in London, but things did gather a bit of momentum around five. Looking down from the office window Zelda noticed an undulating sea of umbrellas, rain bouncing from their taut convex covers. Lights from Old Compton Street and the ‘Harry Potter’ sign lit up the darkness and reflected in puddles by the roadside. A string of buses lumbered along Charing Cross Road, splashing pedestrians who jumped back as if they’d been scalded and waved impotent fists at the culprits. Shaftesbury Avenue was jammed up with traffic at the Circus and hordes of people stood at every traffic light waiting to cross. The occasional impatient soul made a dash for it, only to be startled by the blast of a car horn, which somehow managed to sound angry, though Zelda knew the sound was intrinsically neutral.
There were people everywhere. People under umbrellas. People going bareheaded or wearing rain hats or hoods. People heading home from work. People heading to the West End for a night out. People trudging towards Oxford Street to do their Christmas shopping. The lights were already strung up over the streets. And despite the rain, Zelda also noticed the occasional knot of tourists, Japanese or Korean, perhaps, standing patiently by a building while a guide lectured them on its importance. Naturally, the Palace Theatre was a big draw. Perhaps they were fortunate enough to have tickets.
It was almost time to go back to her hotel. She would have a long shower and then go out to find a restaurant in a neglected backstreet, perhaps Italian tonight. After dinner, she would go back to her room and read, phone Ray, then sleep. Tomorrow afternoon she was heading back home until they called her again.
Hawkins left a little earlier than usual — most nights he was still there when Zelda left — and almost without thinking, she grabbed her raincoat and hat and hurried off after him. When she got down to the street, she realised she had probably set herself an impossible task, even though she had followed people often enough before. But she spotted his distinctive striped umbrella, and found that if she kept her focus on that, ignoring all the rest, she could follow its progress through the crowds. She stayed well behind him, always the best way if you were the only one doing the following, keeping her eyes fixed on the umbrella as he crossed Charing Cross Road and walked down Old Compton Street into Soho.
Hawkins turned into Dean Street, which was fortunately busy with early revellers and the sort of people who seem to spend their days and nights hanging out in Italian coffee shops. She noticed Hawkins lower his umbrella just before he turned into the doorway of a fashionable café. She crossed the road and went into a pub from where she thought she could keep an eye on the café entrance without being seen.
Of course, Hawkins might merge into the slipstream of passers-by without her noticing when he came out, but that was a risk she had to take. She bought herself a vodka and tonic and wedged herself into the corner that gave her the best view. She unbuttoned her coat but kept it on, along with her hat, and nobody paid any attention to her. The rain continued, blurring the view from the window, and only a few hardy souls ventured to stand outside and smoke. She thought she would be able to see Hawkins when he came out, though, even through the rain-spattered window.
‘I think I believe her,’ Banks said to Annie over a pint and lamb vindaloo at one of the many Indian restaurants in Headingley. It was a bright noisy place, full of students dining cheaply on aloo gobi, chapattis and lager. ‘What about you?’
‘I don’t think she killed anyone,’ agreed Annie, ‘if that’s what you’re saying, but I don’t think she’s telling us the full story.’
‘No,’ said Banks. ‘It was the same with Randall, too. Though in Mia’s case, I think there was a lot of sugar-coating about what she does, and she’s very defensive. Maybe Hadfield and Randall did like a good argument about Brexit with young girls, but I’ll bet a pound to a penny they liked a good fuck even more.’
Annie nodded. ‘We could probably do her for pimping.’
‘You were a bit sharp with her,’ Banks said. ‘Did she strike a nerve?’
‘Just strategy,’ said Annie, dipping a piece of her naan in the sauce. ‘I was trying to get a rise out her, that’s all. I don’t suppose you noticed her flirting with you.’
‘Of course I did,’ said Banks. ‘That can be as useful as getting a rise out of someone on occasion. Besides, it’s an occupational hazard.’
Annie smiled. ‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?’
Banks laughed. He chewed on a piece of fatty lamb which he thought was far more likely to be mutton. Despite the lights and the conversation, the sitar music was unobtrusive enough, and the waiter only appeared when you needed him, if then.
‘Those two are all we have left,’ said Banks. ‘If we don’t find out what happened that night from Mia Carney or Anthony Randall, we may never find out at all.’