“What do you make of all that, then?” Annie asked when they were halfway down.
Banks didn’t know what to make of Ruth’s bombshell. He didn’t even know if it was true; after all, she had told plenty of lies already. But why lie about something like that? “It raises more questions than it answers,” he said.
“Such as: Did anyone else know, and did it have anything to do with Emily’s murder?”
“For a start. If Rosalind Riddle knew, she kept it well hidden. I hadn’t thought her that good an actress.”
“Do you think Ruth killed Emily?”
“If she didn’t, she knows what happened, she knows who did. She’s a part of it, I’m certain of that.”
They arrived at the river and paused for a while by the waist-high stone wall that ran along its bank. The falls rushed and foamed along the shallows, huge moss-covered slabs of ancient rock jutting out here and there, the result of a geological fault millions of years ago. banks could feel the icy spray on his cheeks and in his hair. If the cold spell continued for much longer, even the falls would freeze. Above them, the dark mass of the ruined castle keep and towers lay heavy against a pewter sky; it was a black-and-white world, or like the world of a black-and-white photograph with all its subtle variations of gray. Annie slipped her arm in his. It was a good feeling, the only good feeling he’d had that morning.
They walked along the riverside path, past the terraced gardens, no more than a small park dotted with trees, to their left. There weren’t many people around, just a young couple walking their Airedale and an old age pensioner in a flat cap taking his daily constitutional. Banks had often considered buying a flat cap himself. All these years in Yorkshire and he still didn’t have one. But he didn’t like wearing hats, even in winter.
Across the river, to the right, bare trees lined the opposite bank. Beyond them, Banks could make out the shapes of the large houses facing The Green, beyond which lay the notorious East Side Estate, which pretty much kept the Eastvale police in business year-round.
In one of those big houses lived Jenny Fuller, a psychologist Banks had worked with on a number of cases. A friend, too, and a one-time potential lover. Jenny had been polite but cool toward him ever since he stood her up on a date three months ago through no fault of his own. It was more than just that, though; it was as if Jenny had put too much of herself on the line, exposed her feelings for him, and the seeming rejection had grazed a raw nerve, made her curl in on herself. She was on the rebound from a sour relationship with an American professor at the time, Banks already knew, so she was hurting to start with. He wished he could do something to bridge the distance, rekindle the friendship. It had been important to him over the years.
But there was Annie, too. Banks was no expert, but he knew enough of women to realize that Annie wouldn’t appreciate his spending time with someone other than her now that he felt free from his marriage.
“Sandra wants a divorce,” he suddenly said to Annie. He felt her arm stiffen in his, but she didn’t remove it. First good sign. This was one thing he hadn’t told her the other night, one thing he had found too difficult to put into words. It still was, but he knew he would have to try if he and Annie were to go any further. It might put her more at ease or it might scare her off; that was the risk he would have to take.
“I’m sorry,” she said, without looking at him.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I’m glad.”
Annie slowed down and turned slowly to face him. “You’re what?”
They started walking again, and he tried to explain to her what he had felt in London, after he first heard the news. He wasn’t sure whether he did a good job or not, but Annie nodded here and there and seemed to contemplate what he’d said after he’d finished. Finally, she said, “That’s all right, then.”
“It is?”
“Time to let go.”
Second good sign. “I suppose so.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore. Oh, there are memories, always will be, and some residual feelings – anger, disappointment, whatever. But no, it doesn’t hurt. In fact, I feel better than I have in years.”
“Good.”
“Look, do you fancy coming over to the cottage for Christmas dinner? Tracy will be there. Just the three of us.”
“I can’t. Really, I’m sorry, Alan, but I always go home for Christmas. Ray would never forgive me if I missed it.”
“I understand.”
Annie gave his arm a little squeeze. “I mean it, Alan. It’s not an excuse. I’d love to meet Tracy. Maybe some other time?”
Banks knew she was telling the truth. Annie wasn’t a very good liar, as he had discovered. Lying made her all grumpy and withdrawn. “We’ll have a drink together sometime, then,” he said.
“Do you think she’ll hate me?”
“Why should she?”
Annie smiled. “Sometimes you can be pretty damn thick when it comes to women, Alan Banks.”
“I’m not being thick,” Banks said. “Mothers, daughters, fathers, it can all get pretty complicated. I know that. But Tracy’s not a hater. I know my daughter. I wouldn’t expect her to rush up to you and hug you – no doubt she’ll be a little hesitant, checking you out, as they say – but she’s not a hater, and she doesn’t see me as the villain in all this. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
“Unlike Ruth Walker.”
“Indeed. Did you feel the atmosphere in that room?”
Annie nodded.
“I felt something like it before, the times I talked to her in London,” Banks said, “but it wasn’t as powerful. I think it’s because she senses she’s near the end. She’s given up. She’s unraveling.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. I think she wants us to know it all now, so we can see her point of view. So we can understand her. Forgive her.”
Annie shook her head. “I don’t think she wants forgiveness, Alan. At least, not the way I’m reading her. I don’t think she sees there’s anything to forgive.”
“Perhaps not. I should have known.”
“Should have known what?”
“That something was wrong there.”
“But you’ve only just found out Ruth was Emily’s half-sister. How could you have known that?”
“I don’t know. I should have dug deeper sooner.”
“Why do you have to take the burden on yourself like this? Why is everything your fault? Why do you think if you only acted differently you could prevent people being killed?”
Banks stopped and looked out over the swirling river; it was the color of a pint of bitter, an intruder in the black-and-white world. “Do I?”
“You know you do.”
Banks lit a cigarette. “It must be something to do with Graham Marshall.”
“Graham Marshall? Who’s he?”
“A boy at school. I won’t say a friend because I didn’t know him very well. He was a quiet kid, bright, shy.”
“What happened?”
“One day he simply disappeared.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows. He was never found. Dead or alive.”
“What did the police think?”
“The general consensus was that he’d been abducted by a child molester who’d murdered him after he’d had his way. This would probably have been around the time of the Moors Murders, though in a different part of the country, so people were especially sensitive to the disappearance of children.”
“That’s sad.” Annie rested her elbows on the wall beside Banks. “But I still don’t see what it’s got to do with you.”
“About three or four months before Graham Marshall’s disappearance I was playing with some friends down by the river. We were throwing stones in, just having a bit of harmless fun, the way kids do…”
As he spoke, Banks remembered the day vividly. It was spitting and the raindrops pitted the murky water. A man approached along the riverbank. All Banks could remember now was that he was tall – but then every adult was tall to him then – and thin, with greasy dark hair and a rough, pockmarked complexion. Banks smiled and politely paused before dropping in a large stone, one he had to hold in both hands, to let the stranger pass by without splashing him.