‘Winsome’s on side. I’ve spoken with her on the phone,’ said Banks. ‘It wasn’t quite the same as the little discussion we’ve had here tonight, but she’s up for whatever happens.’
‘And what does happen?’
‘That depends very much on what I get from Veronica and what Gerry gets from our Marxist Society lady tomorrow. It might not be a bad idea,’ Banks added, ‘if you or Winsome went with her to Leeds. And before anyone takes umbrage at that, it’s neither a measure of any shortcomings on Gerry’s part, nor my appeasement of Annie’s hurt feelings. It’s the way we should have played it all along. We complement one another; we don’t compete. And two of us makes it official. With notes.’
‘But you’re keeping Lady Chalmers to yourself?’ Annie commented.
‘Oh, yes. I think so. For the moment. And again, I think it’s because I’m far more likely to get something out of her if there’s just the two of us. ‘
‘You’ve got nothing but a bunch of lies so far,’ Annie said.
‘I’m aware of that. It might be very fragile, but I think there’s at least a bit of rapport between us. And I think she’s heading for a fall. She’s scared. Like Winsome said about Lisa Gray, she’s going to get tired of all the lies and evasions and open up about her fears to someone. Me, I hope. You might take the piss out of us both being of that same generation, the sixties and all, but things like that can be damn useful, having stuff in common. We’re both Van Morrison fans, too.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve got nothing against Van Morrison. Quite like “Have I Told You Lately”, as a matter of fact.’ Then she glanced at Gerry. ‘I’ll go to Leeds with you.’
Gerry swallowed and nodded uncertainly. Then she stood up. ‘I’d better go now. I think we’ve finished, haven’t we? Finished our business?’
Banks stood up, too. ‘Yes. And thanks, Gerry.’ He looked at Annie, who hadn’t moved. ‘Annie, you shouldn’t be driving.’
In the brief silence that followed, Banks worried that there might an explosion coming, but Annie said simply, ‘I know. You’re probably right. What do you suggest? A taxi? It’s a long way.’
‘I can give you a lift home, if you like,’ Gerry volunteered.
Annie stared at her for a few moments, then got to her feet. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Excellent. Harkside’s a bit out of your way, mind.’
‘That’s all right.’ She gestured to the half-full wine glass she had set on the table.
When they had left, Banks closed the door with a sigh of relief and leaned back on it until he heard the car drive away. Annie had drunk the best part of the bottle of wine, so he picked another from the rack, then he put it back and decided tonight’s shenanigans called for a large Laphroaig. Then he rummaged through his CD collection to find something that suited his mood. He stopped at Bitches Brew, thinking that might be a good choice in the light of the evening’s entertainment, but he quickly suppressed the politically incorrect thought. On second thoughts, he realised, he wasn’t the one who had used the ‘B’ word, and he rather felt like a bit of late-sixties Miles Davis funky experimentation, so he put it on anyway. Loud.
Chapter 11
Banks wasn’t happy about visiting Lady Chalmers at her house again on Tuesday morning, but needs must. He would have much preferred an interview room, or his office, to the grand mansion, where he always felt intimidated by the ostentatious display of wealth. But he hadn’t wanted to let her know he was coming this time, and he knew there was no way she would agree to come down to the station, or go anywhere else with him, for that matter, without Ralph Nathan or Anthony Litton in tow. Besides, at least this way there was a chance that AC Gervaise wouldn’t find out so quickly, not if Lady Chalmers or Oriana didn’t tell her. He had made sure before turning into the drive that there were no signs of the media in the area.
Oriana seemed marginally more pleased to see him this time than when he had called by with Annie the other day. At least she greeted him with a smile, and it seemed genuinely warm. If she thought he was her ally in trying to plumb the depths of Lady Chalmers’ anxiety and depression, then she was right, in a way, though it was not perhaps for the same reasons.
When Oriana came back from consulting with Lady Chalmers, Banks found himself led towards a different room this time. Before he went in, Oriana touched his arm gently. He tried to ignore the electric tingle that her touch sent through him. When he looked at her, he could tell that she was both imploring him to be kind and encouraging him to uncover the reasons for her employer’s troubles. Banks hoped he could, but he had a sneaking feeling that the discussion would be more fractious than that. He gave Oriana an encouraging smile and went into the room.
It had the same view of the town centre, castle and river as its neighbour, but was much smaller, and most of the walls were covered by bookcases, many of them filled with copies of Charlotte Summers books in a variety of languages. A heavy mahogany desk stood under the window, and Lady Chalmers sat there in jeans and a white cashmere jumper, her desk littered with papers weighted down by a mug with ‘The trouble with being a famous writer is that sometimes you have to write’ written on it. There was also a large computer screen, the kind that didn’t need anything but a wireless keyboard and a mouse. She offered Banks the only other chair in the room and swivelled around so that she faced him. Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet was playing from speakers concealed somewhere in the room, or perhaps from the computer itself.
‘I like to listen to Mozart while I’m working,’ said Lady Chalmers. ‘It seems to help channel the creativity.’
‘He’s certainly good for that,’ said Banks. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your work.’
‘That’s all right. I’m not having a particularly fruitful day. I can’t seem to concentrate. As a matter of fact, I’m glad for the interruption. It gives me an excuse to take a break for a while. I’d also like to apologise about our last meeting, or its aftermath. And for that rather silly telephone call.’ She blushed. ‘As you probably guessed, I was a little drunk. It doesn’t happen very often.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Banks. He was beginning to feel as if he were the one who had been summoned here. Behind Lady Chalmers’ shoulder, the computer screen-saver went through a random cycle of photographs. Exotic places — perhaps a Greek island, an ancient amphitheatre, the Champs-Élysées, an Asian street market, the Amalfi coast. There were also some family shots of the children, Angelina and Samantha, at various ages. Oriana in a bikini, which was a sight to behold, smiling, her sunglasses up on her forehead. Lady Chalmers and her husband, Banks assumed, standing on a yacht beside Anthony Litton, and a woman Banks took to be his late wife, Veronica’s sister, Francesca. He noticed a strong resemblance between the sisters. Oliver Litton came up, too, and he had some of his mother’s looks, though there was nothing feminine about him. With his handsome, chiselled features, bald head and broad shoulders, he looked more like a football player than a potential Home Secretary. The photographs were distracting, but Banks didn’t want Lady Chalmers to turn them off. He also hoped that Oriana in a bikini would come around again before he left. Naturally, there was no sign of Gavin Miller in any of the photos. None of them seemed older than ten or fifteen years as far as he could judge.
‘How can I help you this time?’ Lady Chalmers asked.
‘It’s a bit delicate,’ said Banks, ‘but first I’d like to ask you if there’s anything you’re worried about, afraid of, that sort of thing?’
Her answer came too fast and lacked conviction. ‘No. Why? Should I be?’
‘Not at all. It’s just... maybe an impression... your phone call and everything... that something may be troubling you.’