‘Then you have the wrong impression.’
But Banks could tell by the signs of strain in her expression, and the discolouration under her eyes, as well as the haunted look in them, that this was far from the case. She was looking closer to her true age today. She was also very subdued, but he could sense something powerful within, barely suppressed. What was she hiding? And why? It was obviously a great burden on her, yet she seemed determined to the point of self-sacrifice to bear it.
Could she possibly suspect someone close to her? Banks wondered. Were the three women lying about their alibi to protect one of their number? Oriana, Veronica, Angelina. Was one of them a killer? No, Banks couldn’t accept that. It didn’t make sense. It was a violent crime. Someone had beaten Gavin Miller, then literally picked him up and thrown him over the edge of the railway bridge like a sack of rubbish. Banks couldn’t see any of the three women doing that. But there was definitely something that felt wrong, something out of kilter in the household, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He decided to try a direct approach. ‘We now know that you knew Gavin Miller at university,’ he said. ‘That’s what I really wanted to talk to you about. Why you denied it.’
Lady Chalmers slumped a little in her chair. A head-and-shoulders photo of her standing with her nephew Oliver rose and faded on the screen, followed by the two of them standing in front of a cherry tree in blossom. It could have been taken in Tokyo, for all Banks knew. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. ‘It was such a long time ago. If I knew him, it could only have been in passing.’
‘You went out with him for three or four months in late 1971 and perhaps a month or so more in early 1972.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
She wasn’t a good liar, and Banks could tell easily that she was simply denying by rote now. The game was already becoming tiresome to her. ‘Why are you lying to me about something I already know to be true, Lady Chalmers? Perhaps if you told me the truth, it would help clear this mess up, and you could get on with your life, get back to normal.’
She gave him a pitying look, as if such a thing were never to be. ‘Normal? What’s the truth, anyway? Why does everyone rate it so highly? Do you think it really sets you free?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Banks. ‘But let’s stick to the facts for now. Were you sleeping with Gavin Miller at university in the early seventies?’
‘If you think you already know the answer, why ask me? I slept with lots of boys at university. Does that shock you?’ When Banks didn’t appear shocked, she went on. ‘You can’t expect me to remember their names after all this time.’
‘This was different,’ Banks said. ‘He was in love with you.’
‘Oh, Mr Banks. How naive you are. They were all in love with me. At least to hear them speak. For a week or two, at any rate.’
‘You didn’t return his feelings.’
‘Am I supposed to feel guilty about that, or something? Do you think that’s why I killed him? Because he was in love with me forty years ago, and I didn’t love him back? I expect it was just a bit of fun, like all the rest. I was young. Impulsive. Capricious.’
‘So you do admit that you went out with him?’
‘How quaint that sounds. Went out. Perhaps. I’m just saying he was nothing special, and I don’t really remember anything about him.’
‘Would he have remembered you?’
‘I’d like to think so, but I doubt it. Tell me, Mr Banks, in all honesty, would you remember or recognise all or any of the girls you slept with when you were a student, if you were ever a student, that is.’
Banks ignored the implied jibe at his education. ‘There weren’t that many,’ he said.
‘You’re implying that I’m a slut?’
‘Nothing of the kind. You’re the one who said you slept with a lot of boys at university. I’m only asking about your relationship with Gavin Miller.’
‘Relationship? Would you really call it that?’
This was like trying to catch smoke between your fingers, Banks was beginning to feel. Then, when he looked again at Lady Chalmers’ eyes, he saw they were not only haunted but a little glazed, which indicated that she may have been drinking, or perhaps was on some sort of medication. He guessed the latter, as it was still morning, and he could neither smell nor see any signs of alcohol. Valium or something, then. To take the edge off, muffle the anxiety and make talking to her like trying to grasp smoke. There was nothing to do but persevere. ‘I wouldn’t know what to call it. I’m assuming it’s true that you did go out with Gavin Miller back then. Why not? After all, he was a handsome enough boy, and he probably flattered you. Wrote poems about you, perhaps? What I’d like you to tell me is why you denied this in all our conversations.’
‘Because I don’t remember,’ said Lady Chalmers. ‘I’m not saying I didn’t sleep with him, I just don’t remember it, that’s all.’
‘Why did you stop seeing him?’
‘I obviously got bored. Or I found a better lay.’
‘You don’t need to be crude. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘How do you know? How can you presume to know anything about me?’
‘I stand corrected. Let’s say you got bored with him, then, and you had a better opportunity waiting in the wings. When he rang you a couple of weeks ago asking for donations to the alumni society, did you know who he was?’
‘No. Of course not. It was over forty years ago. I wouldn’t have known him if I’d passed him in the street, let alone by just his voice. I certainly didn’t recognise him from that picture you showed me.’
Banks took the older photograph from his briefcase, the one they thought had been taken in the early eighties. ‘What about this?’ he asked, holding it in front of her.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, her eyes shutting slowly.
Banks put the photo away. ‘He didn’t mention your shared past when he phoned?’
‘Of course he did. But it meant nothing to me. You make it sound like some grand affair, for crying out loud. It was just a fuck.’
‘So you moved on to someone else?’
‘I suppose so. It wasn’t all to do with men, you know. I was also busy studying.’
‘And there was the Marxist Society, too, I believe?’
‘For a while.’
‘I hear you were keen, quite a firebrand.’
‘Are you trying to embarrass me with my youthful politics now, Mr Banks? What does that have to do with anything? Are you going to arrest me for being a communist forty years ago? Yes, I admit it, officer, I was a member of the Marxist Society. It was a long time ago. I was young and idealistic. Weren’t you ever young and idealistic? I thought communism would solve all the world’s problems. I still believe in equality, whatever you may think of me. Maybe you’d call me a champagne socialist. Isn’t that the term today for rich people like me who spout on and on about inequality and social injustice? Guardian readers? I think everyone should have Veuve Clicquot rather than Freixenet, if that’s what they want.’
‘Or a decent single malt whisky,’ said Banks. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Though I doubt the distillers and the winemakers would agree.’
Lady Chalmers smiled. ‘Capitalist pigs.’ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘What can I say? We were young, naive, privileged intellectuals. There were people around then with the real will and power to do things, to change things, to do it violently, if necessary, through social upheaval. I was a bit too queasy for that. They could cause serious political and social unrest. We were intellectuals, theorists and ideologists. They were activists. The front line.’
‘The unions?’