‘And Sally Lomax, fortified with your agreement to what she was already inclined towards thinking herself, managed to persuade her husband to do nothing.’
‘Most likely. But what does it matter now?’
The blackbird had stopped singing and moved on, Annie noticed. The rain clouds had moved closer, and their shadows were hastening over the green valley sides. ‘Well, it only matters,’ she said slowly, ‘if Gavin Miller somehow found out about it all a couple of weeks ago.’
The silence stretched as Dayle took in the implications of Annie’s statement and worked out what they meant. Annie could watch the process in her expression, the shadows flitting across her features like the clouds over the hills. ‘Are you saying you think this is why he was murdered?’ she said finally.
‘I’m saying it’s a possibility. Think about it, Dayle. Four years ago you manage to help talk a man’s friend out of possibly saving that man’s career, or at least his name. I’d say there could be enough anger and recrimination in all that to supply a pretty strong motive, wouldn’t you? Perhaps even blackmail was involved. We don’t know. But say Gavin Miller did find out that you were instrumental in Lomax’s decision not to help, and that he blamed you just as much as, if not more than, Lomax himself.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. That would make him want to murder me. He was the one who got killed.’
‘Maybe he arranged to meet you on the bridge. Maybe he’d asked you for money, and maybe he did intend to kill you, but when things got out of hand, and you lost your temper first, you got the better of him, chucked him over the bridge. He was pretty skinny and weak. Malnutrition will do that. You’re strong enough to have lifted him over the edge. But it could have been self-defence. Manslaughter at the most. Probably was.’
Dayle stood up again and her chair fell over. ‘Right. That’s it. No more messing about.’ She pointed towards the door. ‘Out! Both of you. And don’t come back. If you do, I promise you I’ll have my solicitor here before you can even sit down.’
‘We’d better make sure it’s not a Friday afternoon, hadn’t we then, Winsome?’ Annie said, standing to leave. ‘Odds are he won’t appreciate being called off the golf course. TTFN.’
Banks had arranged his chat with Kyle McClusky for late Monday afternoon, after which he was having dinner with Ken Blackstone in Leeds. Before that, he had other plans, about which he had told no one. He knew that he had been warned off Lady Chalmers and her family, but Oriana Serroni wasn’t exactly a family member. Technically, of course, he would be on the carpet again if anyone found he had talked to her, so he was depending very much on her discretion, as well as her concern for her mistress. Of course, it might all blow up in his face, but nothing happened if you just sat on your arse and waited for it. Sometimes you had to stir things up, make things happen.
He found the care home outside Malton easily enough. It was a grand old mansion converted into individual suites. Expensive, no doubt, but with her connections, Oriana could afford it. The dull weather that had started on the weekend seemed to have settled in, Banks thought as he parked across the street and read the morning paper while he waited. At least the rain had stopped, and the temperature was comfortably into double figures.
He had waited a little more than an hour, and was struggling to finish the crossword, when Oriana walked out, bade farewell to a white-uniformed nurse and headed towards her cream Mini. Quickly, Banks stepped out of his Porsche and headed over the street. He got to her before she could open the door, and said simply, ‘Oriana. I wonder if we could talk?’
A range of emotions seemed to cross her face in quick succession, most of them negative. Finally, she seemed confused and uncertain how to respond, then her whole body seemed to relax, and she nodded. ‘You’re checking up on me, are you? Very well. But I’ll talk to you for her, not for you. And I’ll divulge no family secrets.’
‘Understood,’ said Banks. ‘Can I buy you lunch?’
Oriana managed a little smile. ‘There’s a nice pub about two miles away,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
She drove fast, and Banks wondered whether she was trying to lose him or just impress him. Two miles of winding road later, she turned into a pub car park, and Banks followed her.
The dining area was fairly full, and they raised a few eyebrows walking in, the young exotic beauty and the slightly greying detective. They found a table by the window and sat. Banks had to credit Oriana with good taste. It wasn’t a chain pub, the tables had no little brass plates with numbers on them or oversized laminated menus stuck between the salt and pepper and the ketchup bottle. This was a class place. In moments, a waiter was at their side with tasteful menus bound in imitation leather, printed in italics. Banks had to take out his cheap Boots glasses to read it. Oriana didn’t. Her big brown eyes were just fine by themselves. Banks examined her surreptitiously as they both made their decisions. He wondered if she had ever worked as a model, or on stage; she certainly had the carriage and the figure for it, and she dressed well, even casually: soft kid leather jacket, simple white top, jeans. Her hair hung dark and straight, its natural lustre catching the light when she moved. As she concentrated on the menu she nipped her lower lip between her teeth.
Banks expected her to go for a salad, but she chose the confit of duck with dauphinoise potatoes. Banks decided on steak frites, the steak medium rare.
‘Drinks?’ asked the waiter, after he had taken their orders.
Normally, in a pub, Banks would have ordered beer, but this place seemed more like a posh restaurant, and he was having steak, so he asked about red wine by the glass and settled for a Rioja recommended by the waiter. Oriana asked for the same, so the waiter brought a half carafe. ‘We shouldn’t be over the limit if this is all we have,’ said Banks.
Oriana smiled. ‘You’re the policeman. I am in your hands entirely.’
‘I noticed you didn’t seem too pleased the other day when I turned up at Brierley for the second time,’ Banks said.
Oriana frowned. ‘There was a bad feeling around the place. I don’t like that. Ronnie was worried. It makes for a bad atmosphere. Perhaps I blamed you a little bit. But I...’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You call her Ronnie? I noticed that the other day.’
‘Of course. Why not?
‘I thought you worked for her, that’s all.’
‘I do. But our families are old friends. We don’t stand on formality.’
‘I know a little bit about your history,’ Banks said.
She cocked her head to one side. ‘You have been checking up on me.’
‘No, nothing as serious as that. Just a little background research. How is your grandfather, by the way?’
Her brow furrowed. ‘It can’t be long now,’ she said. ‘Have you ever wished for something to happen with every fibre of your being, yet hoped that it never would? That’s how I feel about him. Mostly he’s not my grandfather any more, but sometimes he is. Mostly he remembers no one, and he is so frightened by everything, then sometimes he’ll smile and say my name, and it makes my heart melt.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, not at all. Alzheimer’s?’
She gave a little shudder. ‘I hope that never happens to me. I hope someone would kill me first.’
‘Maybe that’s not the sort of thing you should be saying to me,’ said Banks.
They both laughed; it broke the tension and dispelled some of her sadness.
The waiter appeared with their drinks and a plate of crusty bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. Banks didn’t like either, so he left it well alone. The waiter then poured the wine from the carafe into their glasses and slipped away.