Bad Boy

6

BANKS SAT IN VESUVIO’S TAVERN, AT THE TABLE BESIDE the door, with his back to the window sipping his pint of Anchor Steam and examining the copy of The Maltese Falcon that he had just bought at City Lights next door. It was one of his favorite films, but he had never read the book. Hammett had written about San Francisco in the thirties, and apparently there were still places associated with him. Maybe Banks would offer to take Teresa to John’s Bar & Grill, where Sam Spade had enjoyed his chops. Banks had read about it in the guidebook and knew the restaurant was still in business, and not too far from their hotel.

For now, though, he was visiting an old beatnik haunt on Columbus, and the man at the bar in the beret, talking to the frizzy-haired barmaid, looked as if he might have been there since Jack Kerouac’s time. The bar had a high ceiling and an upper balcony, empty at that time of day. A screen behind the bar flashed random surreal images, and the walls were covered with old framed newspaper articles about San Francisco’s history. Banks had walked all the way from Fisherman’s Wharf, through North Beach, with its Italian cafés and wedding-cake houses, and the cold beer was going down nicely.

Los Angeles and his two-day drive up the Pacific Coast Highway were just memories now that he was in San Francisco, near the end of his trip. His thoughts drifted from the book he was reading to that night in the desert, as they often had, to that strange fleeting kiss of happiness. At first it had surprised him that he was a stranger to it, that it was something he barely remembered feeling before, except perhaps once or twice as a child. He had always possessed too restless a nature, and restlessness precludes lasting happiness. He had never stopped to smell the flowers or listen to the ocean. And if he wasn’t restless, he usually felt a kind of vague, mellow sadness punctuated by the occasional eruption of anger or irritation. There had been moments of bliss, of course, but they were infrequent and ephemeral, and he often wondered if such moments could ever be sustainable. Was that the nature of happiness? That it came and went like a breath of desert air? That it was something we might only define by its absence? Or was it just his nature? He would probably never know. And what did it really matter, anyway?

Everything changes. Nothing changes. His revelation was that there was no revelation. To change his life in any significant way he would have to make a leap of faith and accept such new tenets, new versions of the truth, cultivate new patterns of behavior, bow to some authority, even. He would have to believe, and he didn’t think he could do that. He didn’t even think he wanted to.

So he would go on uncomfortably inhabiting his own skin, taking happiness (like that all-so-brief desert breeze) where he could find it, beauty where it revealed itself to him, and try not to dwell too much on his failures and losses. The count was way too high-Kay, Linda, Sandra, Annie, Michelle, Sophia. And if he did get a little maudlin and sentimental once in a while, so be it. He could revel in the lovelorn wisdom of Dylan, Billie Holiday, Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen with the best of them, and drink fine wine or whiskey till he fell asleep on the sofa with finely wrought phrases about life’s sadness and irony, love lost or unrequited ringing in his ears. The rest of the time there were Beethoven, Schubert, Bill Evans, Miles and Trane. And that was about as much revelation and enlightenment as he was likely to get in this lifetime, he decided.

Banks stretched like a cat in the sunlight through the window and drank some Anchor Steam. A cigarette would have gone down nicely, too, but they were a thing of the past now, not just for him, but even for pubs like this. Kerouac and Ginsberg would be turning in their graves. Eastvale seemed light-years away, though Banks realized that he was actually starting to look forward to going home. He didn’t miss the job, but he missed Annie, Winsome, Gristhorpe, Hatchley, even Gervaise and Harry Potter. They were the closest he had to friends outside his parents and Brian and Tracy, whom he also missed. He missed his cottage by the beck and woods, his CDs and DVDs. To hell with Sophia, la belle dame sans merci. Let her grapple with her own demons. He had had enough. Everything comes around.

But before he left for home tomorrow, he had a date with a beautiful, interesting woman called Teresa. He finished his pint and headed out on to Columbus, noticing the sign on the corner: Jack Kerouac Alley. He plugged in his iPod, which played a jaunty live version of The Grateful Dead’s “Scarlet Begonias” from Winterland, 1976, perfect for a beautiful day in San Francisco, then he walked down the hill and bore right, through the lower end of Chinatown, across Union Square toward his hotel.

“CHRIST, WHAT on earth do you lot want this time?” Rose Preston said when she opened the door to let the two men in about an hour after Annie had left. She was just in the middle of watching Holby City, which she did like, and she really didn’t want to be disturbed.

The two men exchanged puzzled glances.

“Sorry,” Rose said. “It’s all right. Come in. I just hope it won’t take long, that’s all.”

“Ah, watching Holby City, I see,” said the tallest of the two. He had big shoulders and a tanned, shiny bald head, whereas his colleague was slight and round-shouldered, with wispy ginger hair and a pale, almost albino, complexion. “I don’t mind that, myself, though it’s a little gruesome for my tastes sometimes. Still, I wish I got to see it more often. But with the hours on this job…Anyway, I’m DS Sandalwood, and this here’s my colleague, DC Watkins. Just pretend he’s not here.”

Sandalwood flashed a warrant card. Rose didn’t even bother to look. She’d seen enough of them over the past two days to last her a lifetime. “What is it this time?” she asked. “Honest, there’s nothing more I can tell you. I’m new here. I don’t really know the other girls.”

“What do you mean, ‘this time’?”

“Well, you can hardly fail to be aware that this isn’t the first visit I’ve had from the police lately, can you? Or don’t you even talk to each other?”

“The lines of communication do get jammed up once in a while, I must admit,” said Sandalwood. As he spoke, Watkins was busy poking around the room, looking under cushions and in the sideboard drawers.

“What’s he doing?” Rose asked.

“Like I said. Don’t mind him. He can’t help himself. Habitual nosey parker. Stands him in good stead in this job sometimes, though, I can tell you. Like a bloodhound. Any chance of a cuppa, love?”

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t be staying long enough.”

Watkins glanced toward Sandalwood from over by the bookcase. “She’s got quite a gob on her, don’t she?” he said. He had a thin, squeaky voice, which reminded Rose of fingernails grating on a blackboard.

“Now, now,” said Sandalwood. “There’s no need to fall out. Why don’t you go and have a good shufti around the rest of the house while the young lady here and I have a little chinwag?”

Watkins grunted and left the room. Rose could hear him climbing the stairs. “What’s he doing?” she said. “He can’t just poke around wherever he wants like that. Where’s your warrant?” Rose made to go after Watkins, but she felt a grip like a circus strongman’s around her upper arm. First it hurt, then her whole arm went numb. “Ow!” she yelled, trying to yank her arm away. “Gerroff!”

But Sandalwood held on and dragged her down into a chair none too gently. “Sit down, young lady,” he said between gritted teeth. “And speak when you’re spoken to.”

It was remarkable how still he remained through all this, Rose thought, not moving a muscle that didn’t need to be moved. She straightened her glasses. “Who are you?” she said. “You’re not police. You’re-”

The blow wasn’t hard, but it was enough to stop Rose in her tracks, and she hadn’t seen it coming. “Shut up,” said Sandalwood, pointing a stubby finger at her. “Just shut the fuck up, or I’ll get DC Watkins back down here and you’ll know what real pain is. He enjoys hurting people, Watkins does. For me it’s just a part of the job.”

Rose didn’t need telling twice. Her arm was beginning to ache, and her cheek stung. She started to cry.

“And you can shut off the waterworks, too,” Sandalwood said. “They won’t get you anywhere with me.”

“What do you want?” Rose instinctively crossed her legs, aware that her skirt had ridden up and she was probably showing far too much thigh.

Sandalwood caught her gesture and laughed. “It’s all right, love,” he said. “Don’t worry. That’s not what we’re after, tempting as it looks.”

Rose flushed and curled her fists tight on her lap. She felt powerless and scared. If she’d had a gun, she would have shot Sandalwood right there and then. She could hear the other one, Watkins, moving about upstairs. He was in her room now, going through her things, and the thought made her flesh crawl.

“A couple of simple questions. Straight answers from you and we’re gone,” said Sandalwood. “Deal?”

Rose said nothing, just started down at her fists, watching her knuckles turning white.

“Deal?” Sandalwood said again.

Rose nodded. All she wanted was for them to be gone. The doctors were working desperately over a bloody patient in Holby City. Suddenly it didn’t seem as exciting as it once had.

“Where’s Erin Doyle?”

“You must know,” said Rose. “It’s been on telly and in all the papers. She’s in Eastvale. Probably in jail now.”

Sandalwood nodded encouragingly, as if the question had been a test and Rose had managed to pass. “Do you know a bloke called Jaff? Paki bastard.”

“I’ve met him a few times.”

“He’s been shagging this Erin bint, right?”

“They’ve been going out together, yes. You don’t need to be so crude.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Where is he? Where’s Jaff?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’d better not be lying.”

“Why would I lie? I hardly know him. Like I said, I’ve met him once or twice. He’s Erin’s boyfriend.”

“You ever been to his place?”

“Never.”

“Well, we’ve just dropped by, and he’s not there. The bloke down the hall says he scarpered with some woman last night. Seemed in a bit in a hurry. Any idea who that is or why he’d do a moonlight?”

“No.”

Watkins came back and stood in the doorway shaking his head, then he held up three fingers. Sandalwood gave him a nod, then turned back to Rose. “DC Watkins tells me there are three of you living here. Who’s the third?”

“Francesca. Francesca Banks. But I think her real name’s Tracy.”

“Francesca but her real name’s Tracy? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” Rose put her hands to her face and started crying again. “You’re scaring me.”

“Tell me about this Francesca.”

“She knew Jaff, too. I think she fancied him. She disappeared. She went out last night and she hasn’t come back. Please go away. Please leave me alone. I don’t know anything.”

“Is she the woman Jaff scarpered with? Don’t lie to me this time.”

“She might be. She’s got short blond hair with a few colored streaks. She was wearing jeans and a denim jacket.”

“Stud under her lower lip and a ring through her eyebrow?”

“That’s right.”

Sandalwood looked at Watkins. “That’s the one that was with Jaff. Where are they?”

“I don’t know!” said Rose in exasperation. “Don’t you understand? She’s gone. Probably with Jaff. That’s what the policewoman kept asking me. But I told her the same. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“What policewoman?”

“The one that was here just before you.”

“We don’t know nothing about any policewoman.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on. Honest. It’s none of my business. I think Erin’s in jail, and I don’t know where Francesca is. Or Jaff. I don’t understand any of this. All I wanted was a room I could afford. This is all so not my problem.”

“Seems like it’s very much your problem at the moment, young lady,” said Sandalwood, looking around the room. “Seeing as you’re the only one here, apart from us.”

“Don’t! Please, don’t,” said Rose, holding her hands over her face again and sobbing. But instead of the blow she was expecting, or the sound of a gun cocking, the next thing she heard was the front door slamming. She put her hands down and opened her eyes. Were they really gone? Could it be true? She turned off Holby City, no longer interested in doctors and bleeding patients, and checked every room. They’d left a bit of a mess upstairs, but they were definitely gone.

Well, that was the bloody limit, Rose decided. She went to her room and threw what few clothes and books she had into a suitcase, packed her toiletries and makeup into her hold-all, then paused for a moment to look around and see if she had forgotten anything. She hadn’t. She had obviously had the misfortune to end up in a house full of bloody lunatics, and her nerves couldn’t stand it anymore. She would post the rent she owed later. Right now, if she hurried, she might just be able to catch a train or a bus back to Oldham and her mum and dad. At worst, she could phone home and her dad would drive over and pick her up. He’d complain, and he’d lay on the I-told-you-so guilt trip long and thick, but he’d do it. Anything had to be better than stopping a moment longer in this madhouse, she thought. Then she slammed the door behind her and pushed her key through the letterbox.

ANNIE WAS sitting cross-legged on her living room floor, focusing on her breathing, letting the thoughts come and go like bubbles, holding on to none of them, her mind fixed on her breathing. In, out. In, out.

A knock at the door broke her concentration. Irritated, she glanced at her watch. After ten. Who would come calling at this time? The spell was broken anyway, so she got up slowly, aware of her knees cracking from lack of practice, and answered. It was Nerys Powell, the female AFO.

“What are you doing here?” Annie asked. “You shouldn’t be here. Chambers will go spare.”

Nerys held up her hands. “I know. I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry. But can I talk to you? Please? Just for a minute or two. There’s no reason Mr. Chambers has to know about it, is there?”

“How did you find out where I live?”

“I’ve got a friend in Human Resources.”

“Who?”

“Just a friend.”

“I could find out easily enough, you know.”

“Why do you say that? What do you mean?”

Annie sighed. “Nothing,” she said. “Just that you shouldn’t be here. It’s inappropriate.”

“What are you so afraid of? Being seen with me? If that’s the case, the quicker you let me in the better. Besides, we’re miles from Eastvale. I know it’s late, and I’m sorry. I did come earlier but there was nobody home. I’ve been wandering around getting lost, trying to pluck up my courage to come back. I stopped for a couple of drinks. I just want to talk to you, that’s all. Nobody has to know.”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t.” Annie chewed on her lip and thought for a moment, still disoriented from being snapped out of her meditation. Nerys certainly didn’t appear drunk. Then she made a snap decision and stood aside. “Okay, you can come in. But just for a couple of minutes.”

Nerys entered the room. “Cozy,” she said, looking around. “Just another word for cramped.”

“Bijou.”

“Another word for too small.”

Nerys laughed. “No, I like it. Seriously.”

“Sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea or something. Coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“My body is a temple.”

“Well, I’m having a glass of wine.”

“In that case…” said Nerys.

Annie went into the kitchen and took a bottle of pinot grigio from the fridge. She felt uncomfortable with Nerys’s visit and knew she shouldn’t be talking to her, or even listening, but she was feeling rebellious after today’s excitement. She was also frustrated by her visit to Tracy’s house in Leeds, and her later one to Jaff’s flat in Granary Wharf. It had been easy enough to locate. There had been nobody home there, of course, and one of the neighbors had informed her, before slamming his door in her face, that the police had already been around asking questions, that he had told them all he knew, and that he was damned if he was going to repeat it all again to her.

So she decided she might as well lend her ear to Nerys for a while. You never know, she told herself, you might even learn something. She opened the wine and took it through to the living room along with two glasses. Nerys was on her knees by the small selection of CDs on the lower shelves of the bookcase. She was wearing blue jeans that showed a bit too much arse crack and a light wind cheater over a black T-shirt, none of which did much to disguise the muscles or hide the bulge at her waist when she stood up. Probably pure muscle, too, Annie guessed. “See anything you like?” she asked.

Nerys glanced over at her. “Nope,” she said. “But then I’m not much of a one for music. Not like your boss, I hear.”

“Alan? Yes, he does have a bit of a reputation. I can’t say I’ve got a clue what he’s listening to half the time. Some of it sounds pretty good, but some of it, well, to put it frankly, it just sounds like a bull with a pain in its testicles to me.”

Nerys laughed and accepted her wine before sitting down. She was a good three inches shorter than Annie, though much stockier, and her hair was so short and spiky that it resembled a military crew cut. Her eyes were green. “Cheers,” she said, holding out her glass.

Annie clinked hers against it. “Cheers.”

“He’s got quite a reputation in other areas, too, around County HQ, your DCI,” said Nerys.

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“Bit of a cowboy. Likes to do things his own way.”

“I suppose so. But don’t we all, if we think ours is the right way?”

“True enough. It’s so hard to be certain, though, isn’t it? I’m more used to following orders. The Firearms Cadre is very discipline oriented.”

“I suppose it has to be,” said Annie. “But that wouldn’t suit Alan, you’re right. Still, I don’t suppose it was Alan Banks you came to talk about?”

“In a way, it is,” said Nerys. “Mmm, this is nice.” Annie shrugged. “Just cheap Italian plonk.”

Nerys stood up again and walked over to a framed watercolor of Eastvale Castle in the evening light. “That’s good,” she said. “Whoever painted it really caught the light at that time of a winter evening.”

“Thank you,” said Annie.

Nerys’s jaw dropped. “You mean…? You? I never dreamed.” She smiled. “Honest?”

“Honest,” said Annie, feeling herself blush. “Why would I lie? It’s all right. Why should you know, anyway? It’s just a hobby, that’s all.”

“But you’re so good. So talented. Have you ever thought-”

“Look, Nerys, I appreciate the compliment and all, but can you just get to the point. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to appear rude, but…” Nerys sat down again. “No. No. Of course. You’re right. I suppose I’m just nervous, that’s all. I tend to blather on a bit when I’m nervous.”

“Why should you be nervous?”

“Well, you’re a DI and I’m just a lowly PC.”

“You’re hardly lowly. Besides, you’re the one with the gun.”

“I’m not carrying. Honest.” She held her arms out. “Want to check?”

“The point?” said Annie.

Nerys finally let her arms drop, sat back down in the chair and seemed to relax a little. She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “That stuff at the meeting yesterday, about Mrs. Doyle asking for DCI Banks. Is it true?”

“Yes, it’s true,” said Annie. “They’re old friends. Neighbors.”

“Would he have gone?”

“I think so. Probably. But he’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“America. A long way away.”

Nerys took a sip of wine. “Pity he wasn’t here. It would have saved us all a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“Not what Chambers thinks.”

“Chambers is an arsehole.” Nerys put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that in front of you.”

Annie couldn’t help but laugh. “No, you shouldn’t,” she said. “But you hit the nail right on the head.”

“I understand you worked for him once?”

“For my sins. You know a lot.”

“When the shit hits the fan like this, I make it my business to know as much as I can.”

Annie raised an eyebrow. “Your friend in Human Resources again?”

Nerys grinned. “Another one, this time. Records.”

“My, my, but you must have a lot of friends.”

“No. That’s the problem. I don’t. I’ve never felt so alone. So isolated.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” said Annie. “You AFO teams have a reputation for being close and tight-knit. Your lives depend on one another.”

“It’s true enough on the job,” said Nerys. “It’s our training. But it doesn’t always work that way off duty.” She leaned forward in her chair and looked Annie in the eye. The directness and intensity of her gaze were disconcerting. “Look, I’m a woman in a man’s world. More than that. I’m a gay woman in a man’s shooting club. You might think they treat me like one of the lads, but they look at me more as a freak.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case.”

Nerys’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “What do you know?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” said Annie. “What got you into it in the first place, then? I mean the Firearms Cadre?”

“I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. I mean, in the force. I did all the courses-surveillance, vehicle pursuit, worked undercover, even traffic. I was all over the map.”

“And?”

“I suppose it was my dad, really. He was a para. Real macho. Got killed in Iraq two and a half years ago. Another sniper. Dad was really a perfectionist, a technician. I grew up around guns, the smell of them, the mechanics. Christ, I could dismantle and reassemble a Hechler and Koch or a Parker-Hale in the dark, going by sound and touch alone.”

“That sounds like a useful skill,” said Annie. “Well, you never know.”

“But you never thought of this before, when you first joined?”

“Not really. It wasn’t as if I wanted to follow in my dad’s footsteps. Not until he got killed. Then it all seemed to make sense. And I’m good at it. They fast-tracked me. I’m the youngest on the unit apart from Warby.” They let the silence stretch for a while, as Nerys no doubt thought about her dead father and Annie thought about Banks. Where was he? Los Angeles? Reno? Tucson? She knew he was somewhere in the American southwest. She wished she were there with him. “I don’t want to be on Firearms Cadre forever, though,” Nerys said.

“Ambitious?”

“A bit, I suppose. I’d like to work in counterterrorism eventually.”

“Sounds challenging.”

“I like a challenge. That’s also why I’m worried about…you know…all this…”

“A big blot on your copybook?”

“Yes.”

“There’s probably not an officer in the service who hasn’t made a mistake. I mean, there’s some people would say DCI Banks is a walking disaster area. Our friend Chambers, for a start.”

“What’s he really like?”

“Chambers?”

“Yes. He reminds me of that fat comedian with the bowler hat, the one in those old black-and-white films.”

“Oliver Hardy?”

“That’s the one. But seriously. Do you think he supports gay rights? Has a soft spot for cuddly lesbians?”

Anne couldn’t help but laugh. She topped up their wineglasses. The level in Nerys’s was much lower than hers, she noticed. “No, I shouldn’t think so. He’s more the kind who thinks every woman he meets can’t wait to drop her knickers for him. And he probably believes that all a lesbian needs to cure her is a good stiff twelve inches of Reginald Chambers. Though my guess is it’s closer to three or four inches.”

Nerys laughed. “But what do you really think about him?”

Annie swirled the wine in her glass, then drank some more. She didn’t like remembering her time with Chambers; the memories weren’t good ones. “Let’s just say we didn’t get along too well and leave it at that, shall we?”

“So what can I expect? He’s going to try to crucify us, me and Warby, isn’t he?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Annie. “Don’t be so bloody melodramatic. He’s not that bad. There are plenty worse than him around. I said we didn’t get along. That’s all. It was probably as much my fault as his. It wasn’t exactly my dream posting. I don’t get on with very many people, if you must know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Annie checked her watch. “Look, I hate to rush you, but if you’ve finished…” There was no way she would be able to get back to her meditation now, not after this disruption, not to mention the wine, but at least she could watch TV or something and veg out. Almost anything would be better than this.

“I’m sorry,” said Nerys, her lower lip quivering. “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening…I mean, I just wanted to know if I could count on you, if you’re on my side. I’m sorry to waste your time. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

Then Annie saw tears in her eyes and softened. She hated herself for it, but she was a sucker for tears. Worse than any man she’d ever met. “Come on,” she said, pouring more wine. It was going down quickly; the bottle was almost empty. “Pull yourself together, Nerys. Look, Chambers isn’t going to crucify you. After all, it wasn’t you who fired the Taser. He’s an arsehole, yes, and a bully and a male chauvinist pig, but as far as I know he plays straight. At worst, he’ll play up to the media and give them what they want. He’s a PR man at heart, not a copper. But he’s not going to fit you up, for crying out loud. He’ll discover the facts and play it by the book, obnoxious bastard as he is.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s the problem. The facts. What are they? And doesn’t it all depend on how someone else interprets them? What version will the media want? There could be as many different stories of what happened on Monday morning as there were people present.”

Annie knew that was true. She had once seen a film called Rashomon, one of her father’s favorites, which told the same story from several different viewpoints. Same facts. Different stories. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But there’s nothing you can do about that. And he’s got his team from Greater Manchester to keep him on the straight and narrow. He’s not a law unto himself, much as he might like to think so.”

“I just need to know what to expect, so I can be prepared. What did he do to you when you worked with him?”

“Didn’t your friend in Human Resources tell you?”

“Nobody really knows but you.”

Annie took a deep breath and followed it with a draft of wine. “It was a long time ago,” she said. “Seven, eight years or thereabouts.” And why does it keep coming back to haunt me? she wondered. She thought she had finally seen the end of Janet Taylor, Lucy Payne and the Chameleon case over a year ago, when it had come into her life again with a vengeance. Now Chambers was back. “Chambers himself didn’t do anything to me,” she went on. “Back then he was simply a lazy, lecherous, time-serving arsewipe who got others to do his dirty work for him while he got all the glory. Whatever glory there is in a job like that. Mostly he got his jollies from what he saw as his vindication in the gutter press. He always swayed with the wind of public opinion.”

“Why didn’t he retire when he’d put in his twenty-five? I heard he was practically living on the golf course.”

“The reorganization gave him a new lease on life, a renewed purpose. More power. Now he just seems to want to put as many coppers away as he can before he retires. But it’s not as if some of them don’t deserve it, and like I said, he’s not bent. He plays by the book.”

“But he has an agenda?”

“Oh, yes. With Chambers, you’re always guilty until you’re proven guilty. Especially if the newspapers say so.”

“So I’m right to be worried?”

“The two cases are very different,” said Annie. “PC Janet Taylor, the one I was working on, killed a notorious serial killer who had just hacked her partner to pieces in front of her eyes and was about to do the same to her. Unfortunately, a civilian called John Hadleigh, who had shot a burglar in his home about three hundred miles away, was convicted of murder around the same time. It would have appeared bad if a police officer had simply walked away scot-free after killing someone. End of story.”

“Even a serial killer? The Chameleon? I know about that case. I’ve studied it.”

“Then you’ll know what I’m talking about,” said Annie. “But you had to be there to understand the political climate and the media circus. Anyway, I convinced the CPS to lower the charge against Janet Taylor to manslaughter. You know the rest.”

“So it was politics? This woman, Janet Taylor, was a sacrificial lamb?”

“Hardly a lamb, but yes. Partly. It always is politics where the Chamberses of the world are concerned. You should know that. The higher you climb up the greasy pole, the more desperate you are to keep your grip.”

Nerys swallowed and sat for a moment, apparently contemplating what Annie had told her. “Can I count on your support?” she asked finally in a small voice.

Annie spluttered on a mouthful of wine and patted her chest as she coughed. “Christ, what on earth do you mean by that?” she said when she could talk again.

“I told you. I feel so alone. So isolated. I’ve got nobody to talk to.”

“You’re not alone. You’ve got your team beside you, your boss behind you. Besides, it’s not you Chambers is after, is it? It’s PC Warburton. He fired the Taser.”

“Don’t kid yourself. It’s all of us. If Warby hadn’t Tasered the bastard, I’d have shot him. Or one of the lads coming through the back would have.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Uh-huh. It was dark. The hall lightbulb blew when Warby turned it on. You don’t expect something like that. We knew there was a loaded gun in the house. We were already on high-tension alert.”

“Nobody even thought you’d have to go in that way,” said Annie. “And nobody could have known the lightbulb would choose that particular moment to blow.”

“We have to be prepared for eventualities like that. Act as if we are going in.” Annie topped up their wine. The bottle was empty now. “It was dark,” Nerys went on. “You could cut the tension with a knife. Like Warby said at the meeting, we didn’t know what might have happened since we were called in. They weren’t talking to us. The girl could have lost it, grabbed the gun. Anything. When he came out of the kitchen, Patrick Doyle, he was just a silhouette with what could’ve been a raised sword or baseball bat in his hand, even a shotgun. Warby just reacted first, that’s all. I might be the best marksman, but Warby’s got the fastest reaction time of us all.” She smiled to herself. “Would’ve made a great gunslinger in the old West. Fastest draw in the Wiske, we call him.”

“Why was the walking stick raised?”

“He was angry. Doyle. I think he’d already been having a row with his daughter. They’d been absorbed in their own little drama-and when we broke his door down and he heard that bloody almighty racket, well, people don’t take kindly to things like that, do they? He was just mad at us, that’s all, waving his stick about. Understandable. I don’t suppose he knew we were armed. He was just expecting an old mate to drop by-DCI Banks-not armed officers in full protective gear. He couldn’t see us, either. The light was on in the kitchen, so his eyes wouldn’t have adjusted that quickly. We probably looked like Martians in the darkness of the hall. It’s not something you expect, is it?”

“It certainly isn’t,” said Annie.

“So you know whose side public opinion is going to be on?”

“I can take a guess.”

Nerys shook her head slowly, then finished her wine. “It’s not fair. You can do all the training scenarios you want,” she said. “Just like Dirty Harry walking through a movie set shooting at cardboard cutouts. But when it’s real, it’s different. In training you know you can’t get shot or cut. But when it’s real…You don’t aim for an arm or a leg. Warby did the right thing. I’ll stick by him. I just want it to go down that way. I want them to see it for what it really was, mistakes and all, not set out to crucify one of us or sacrifice us to the press or public opinion. We do a necessary job and a damn good one, but it’s messy sometimes, and for better or for worse, people need us. But that doesn’t mean they want to acknowledge us or give us medals. They certainly don’t have to like us. Mostly they want to forget we exist, or to bury us.”

“I can’t control that,” Annie said. “But there are enough checks and balances. I’m still sure they’ll do a good job, remain impartial.”

“I wish I had your faith. I’d better go.”

Annie stood up, but not so fast that she seemed as eager to get rid of Nerys as she really was. The thought crossed her mind that Nerys had drunk the lion’s share of the wine. Was she going to drive? Perhaps Annie should offer her a bed for the night? But she didn’t want to do that. Best just leave the subject alone entirely and not even ask about driving. Maybe it was irresponsible of her, but the alternative was a minefield of complications. “Okay,” she said. “I hardly need see you to the door. It’s not far. But I will.”

Nerys smiled. “Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Nerys opened the door. “For what it’s worth,” she said, pausing and resting her hand lightly on Annie’s arm, “I’ve heard good things about you, and I’ve seen you around County HQ a few times. I always rated you. I thought you were all right. I liked you from the start.” She leaned forward and quickly pecked Annie on the cheek, then glanced down shyly at the doormat.

Annie thought Nerys was looking at her legs, and she shifted awkwardly on her feet. Suddenly, she felt self-conscious that she was only wearing the black leggings and baggy white T-shirt she had put on for meditation and yoga. The T-shirt only came down as far as her hips, and she felt exposed. “Look, Nerys,” she said. “I’m flattered and all. I don’t know…you know…what ideas you’ve got about me or anything, what you might have heard, but I’m not…you know…”

“Oh, no. I know you’re not gay. It’s okay. Don’t worry. I wasn’t making a pass. Honest. Anyway, you’re not really my type. I just said I think you’re all right, that’s all.”

“Appearances can be deceptive.”

“I take my chances where I find them.”

When she had gone, Annie closed the door and leaned back against it. Not my type. What had Nerys meant by that? Should she feel insulted? What was wrong with her? Was it even true? Nerys’s actions had seemed to belie her words; she had definitely been flirting at times.

Annie was also struck by the troublesome thought that if Nerys Powell, Warburton and the rest of the AFO team were going to be sacrificed on the bloody altar of public opinion, then the detectives who were supposed to have briefed them thoroughly would be lucky if they got to walk away. The walking stick. The dicky heart. Should Annie or Gervaise somehow have been able to find out about those and warn the team that went in? And whether they could have or not, would they be expected to have done so? Because that was ultimately all that mattered: what Chambers and public opinion thought they should have done, not what had actually happened, or why. These were not comforting thoughts.

Annie locked the door, opened another bottle of wine and settled down to a nature documentary about elephants on BBC2.

BANKS OFFERED to pay the bill, but Teresa would have none of it.

“My country, my treat,” she said.

In the end there was nothing he could do but capitulate. They had enjoyed a marvelous dinner at an intimate Italian restaurant she had chosen in North Beach, and the last thing he wanted to do now was spoil the mood with an argument over the bill. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a great choice. Wonderful.”

“Somehow, I think the company helps, don’t you,” she said, giving the maitre d’ a quick smile as he discreetly whisked away the tray.

Banks shared the last of the wine between them and set the bottle down on the red tablecloth. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it certainly does.”

“What’s wrong?” Teresa said. “You suddenly sound sad.”

“Do I?” Banks shrugged. “Maybe because it’s my last night here.”

“You mustn’t think that way.”

“I mustn’t?”

“No, of course not.” The waiter returned with the credit card receipt. Teresa added a tip and signed it with a flourish. Then she picked up her purse. “Let me just visit the powder room,” she said, “then I want to show you something.”

Banks nodded. While she was away, he sipped his wine and glanced at the slightly garish commercial painting of Lake Como on the wall opposite him. Annie wouldn’t like it, he thought, finding it odd that he should suddenly think of Annie when she was thousands of miles away. Maybe it was time to go home. But he was certainly enjoying his evening with Teresa. She was recently divorced, she had told him over dinner, with grown-up kids and grandchildren, and she worked as a child psychologist back in Boston. This trip was a present to herself on her decree absolute coming through, and an excuse to visit her family. She was also, she told him, thinking of moving permanently to California and had been making a few exploratory calls regarding jobs and accommodation.

The little restaurant bar was to the right of Banks, and he could see out of the corner of his eye the rows of bottles gleaming. Should he suggest a Cognac? Perhaps it would be best to wait until they got to the hotel bar. After all, Teresa had already paid the bill here. And there was something she wanted to show him.

Teresa took his arm as they walked out on the quiet side street and made their way toward Columbus, busy and brightly lit, past the Condor on the intersection with Broadway. Instead of taking Grant, with its arches, pagodas, restaurants and cheap souvenir chops, they walked down Stockton, a street of small grocery stores with piles of exotic vegetables and dried goods out front. Even at ten o’clock it was still crowded with shoppers haggling over their purchases and testing the quality, spilling from the sidewalk onto the road. Banks remembered his old sergeant in London, Ozzy Albright, telling him that San Francisco had the biggest Chinatown outside of China itself. They had been in the London Chinatown at the time, much smaller, during his last case down there in 1985. It was a case that had come back to haunt him just before he came away, as such things often did, which was why he thought of it now. You might have to wait a lifetime for justice, but sometimes you got it in the end. Like karma.

Teresa was chatting away at his side, and Banks realized he hadn’t been listening, had been drifting into times past. “Where did you say we were going?” he asked.

She gave him a sharp glance. “I didn’t,” she said. “It’s a surprise. I told you.”

“Right.”

Soon they left the crowds behind. There were fewer shops and the street became darker. “This is the Stockton Tunnel we’re walking on,” Teresa said. “And what we want is…” She looked around her, as if verifying something with her memory. “Over here.” She pointed to a small alley over to their right atop the tunnel off Bush Street, running parallel to Stockton. It was called Burritt Street, Banks noticed as they approached. “Sorry,” Teresa said. “It’s been a long time.”

“What is it?” Banks asked. “Are you leading me down a dark alley?”

Teresa laughed. “Not very far down,” she said. “It’s here. Look.”

And she pointed to a plaque on the wall. Banks could just about read it from the ambient streetlight. ON APPROXIMATELY THIS SPOT MILES ARCHER, PARTNER OF SAM SPADE, WAS DONE IN BY BRIGID O’SHAUGHNESSY.

Banks stopped and stared. So this was the place where it happened. He turned to face Teresa and grinned.

“Well, you did say you were a detective,” she said. “I just thought you might find it interesting.”

“I do. I’ve just started reading the book, too. I’d never realized…

I mean, I know the story isn’t true, but the city is so vivid in the book, almost a character in its own right. I never thought I’d…I’m stuck for words.” He read the plaque again. “But it gives away the ending.”

“Yes, it does, rather, doesn’t it? But is that so important?”

“I’ve never thought so,” said Banks. “Besides, I’ve already seen the movie, and so far the book is following pretty closely.”

“I think you’ll find it was the other way around. Here,” Teresa said, fumbling in her purse. “Stand right next to it. I’m going to take your picture.”

Banks stood. First came the flickering of the anti-red-eye, then the flash itself. While Banks was still blinded by the light, a voice came from the end of the alley.

“Would you like me to take one of the two of you together?”

By the time Banks could see again, Teresa had handed her camera to the man, whose wife, or girlfriend, stood looking on, smiling, and she took her place next to Banks, resting her head on his shoulder by the plaque. The camera flashed again. The man checked the display to see that it had come out all right and handed the camera back to Teresa, who thanked him.

“How did you know he wouldn’t just run off with your camera?” Banks asked as they went down the steps beside the tunnel.

“Oh, don’t be such a cynic. You have to have a bit of trust in people sometimes or it’s hardly worth living.”

“I suppose so,” said Banks.

“Besides, they were walking along hand in hand. People like that aren’t usually petty thieves.”

Banks laughed. “Maybe you’d make a good cop after all,” he said. Teresa smiled. “Surely it’s just common sense.”

They continued down Stockton Street, crossed Union Square and walked along Geary back to the hotel. A cable car bell dinged up Powell toward the Mark Hopkins, where Banks had drunk his martini on his first night in the city, and a crowd was coming out of the Geary Street theater as they passed. They were staging Noel Coward’s Brief Encounter, Banks noticed. There were a few of the regular street people around-Banks recognized the black man in rags and the old woman-but nobody bothered them.

When they got to the Monaco, Banks asked, “How about a quick nightcap in the bar?”

Teresa paused, still holding on to his arm. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Too many people. They would spoil the mood. Too noisy. I’ve got a bottle of good Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon in my room. Why don’t you come up with me and we’ll have that nightcap?”

There was no mistaking the promise in her eyes. Banks swallowed. “Well,” he said. “That would just about make the perfect end to the perfect last day of a perfect holiday.”