Careless Love

9

Dr Anthony Randall’s house formed quite a contrast to Adele Balter’s and Annie’s tiny cottages, though it wasn’t quite as large and ostentatious as Rivendell. Nor was it built in the art deco style. It was an old detached house of brick and stone with mullioned windows and a slate roof, surrounded by a couple of acres of garden dotted with trees, all enclosed by a moss-covered wall. It was probably a listed building, and perhaps at one time had belonged to the lord of the manor. Dr Randall clearly didn’t restrict his duties to NHS work.

Neither Annie nor Gerry had phoned Dr Randall to let him know they were coming. They wanted the element of surprise, so they had to be prepared for his being out. The sight of the BMW parked in the semicircular driveway by the front door seemed to indicate that he was at home, however. Gerry had told Annie that Randall was a cardiothoracic surgeon, not a GP, and that he was sixty-five years old and divorced. The rest they would find out when they talked to him.

They parked the car in the street, opened the heavy wrought-iron gate and walked around the drive. There seemed to be no doorbell, so Annie banged the brass lion’s-head door knocker.

A few moments later, the door was opened by a tall, rangy man with a shock of curly grey hair, wearing a V-neck jumper over a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and grey trousers with creases sharp enough to cut yourself on. His bushy eyebrows were raised in a questioning arch. Annie and Gerry introduced themselves and flashed their warrant cards. Randall managed to look put out as he gave up his precious time and led them through a cavernous hall into a large sitting room. There was no decorative fireplace, but the room was warm enough without. Most of the furniture seemed antique to Annie, except for the three-piece suite, which was far too comfortable to be old. The doctor offered no refreshments or small talk, but simply sat at the edge of his armchair with his hands clasped on his lap as if he were about to head off somewhere at any moment and said, ‘What do you want with me? You’ll have to be quick. I don’t have much time.’

‘Busy surgery?’

‘As a matter of fact, it’s a private consultation.’

‘Ah,’ said Annie. ‘We’ll try to be as quick as we can, then, sir. Have you been following the news?’ Annie asked.

‘If I had, I wouldn’t be asking what you want, I assume. Anyway, I’m afraid not. I’ve been away at a conference in Malta for the past week.’

Nice for some, Annie thought. Why couldn’t the police training college run courses in Malta instead of Hendon? ‘Then I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Dr Randall.’

‘It’s Mr,’ said Randall, ‘but no matter. What’s wrong?’

‘Sorry, my mistake. I’m afraid a friend of yours has been found dead. At least we think he was a friend. Laurence Hadfield?’

Randall flopped back in his chair, rather theatrically, Annie thought. ‘Larry? Dead? Good Lord. That’s a shock, all right.’

‘So he was a friend of yours?’ Annie asked.

‘Yes, indeed, I’d say he was. To the extent that we played golf together frequently and enjoyed a convivial pint in a local hostelry every now and then. Larry also handled some of my investments, though they were rather small fish compared to his usual fare. I can’t understand this. As far as I know he was in good health. What on earth happened to him?’

‘We don’t rightly know yet,’ said Annie. ‘His body was found at the bottom of a gully on Tetchley Moor last Wednesday, skull fractured and neck broken as if from a fall, but we weren’t able to identify him until Friday.’

Randall frowned. ‘Bottom of a gully. I don’t understand. Was it some sort of accident?’

‘It very much looks like an accident,’ Annie replied.

‘But we’re not ruling out anything at the moment,’ Gerry added, glancing up from her notebook. ‘And we’ve no idea what he was doing there or how he got there. Can you help us at all with that?’

‘Me?’ Randall shook his head slowly. ‘I’m afraid not. It sounds like a tragic accident.’

‘The thing is,’ Gerry went on, ‘Mr Hadfield was wearing a suit and tie, and there was no sign of a car. We were also wondering if you could help us in regard to his movements over the past while?’

Randall ignored Gerry and kept looking at Annie as he spoke. ‘As I said, I’ve been away in Malta. From last Tuesday until this Saturday, as a matter of fact. Valetta. You can check, of course, if you feel it necessary.’

‘Thank you,’ said Annie, ‘but I shouldn’t think it will come to that.’

‘Just in case, though, sir,’ Gerry said, smiling, ‘would you give me the name of the conference and the hotel where it was held?’

Randall looked from one to the other, his face reddening slightly. ‘Of course,’ he said, and gave out the details more slowly than necessary for Gerry to write them down. He was treating her as if she were thick, Annie thought.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Gerry.

Randall smirked. ‘What is this? Good cop, bad cop?’

‘Sir?’ said Gerry.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Annie said. ‘Who’s playing bad cop? We’re simply doing our job.’

‘I didn’t mean to be disparaging. It’s just that you seem quite polite and friendly, whereas your sidekick over there interrupts with rather rude implications.’

‘Sidekick? Implications?’ Gerry said. ‘What exactly have I implied?’

‘That I have something to hide. That I may have to provide an alibi.’

‘I assure you it’s just routine,’ said Gerry.

‘Do you?’ Annie asked.

‘What?’

‘Have something to hide. Need an alibi.’

‘I’ve told you where I was.’

‘Ah,’ said Gerry, ‘but we haven’t told you when Mr Hadfield died. All we said was he was found last Wednesday. I mean, it would be no use you telling us you were in Malta last Tuesday, say, if he was killed last Monday, would it?’

‘Was killed?’ Randall glanced at Annie again, his eyes narrowing. ‘Are you telling me now he was murdered? You said it was an accident.’

‘I said it looks like an accident, sir. It was you who called it a “tragic accident”.’

‘In our experience,’ Gerry added, ‘almost anything can look like an accident.’

‘Who’s asking you?’ Randall shifted in his chair. ‘Do I need to call my solicitor?’ he asked Annie.

Annie was starting to regard Gerry in a new light. At first, they hadn’t got on at all, then they had managed to build a few bridges, but now she was beginning to seem like a natural. They hadn’t agreed on a strategy for interviewing Randall, but had planned to play it by ear. That clearly suited Gerry. Annie decided to let things follow the course they were on for the moment rather than trying to placate Randall’s ruffled feelings.

‘Now, why would you need a solicitor?’ she asked. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, have you? We certainly haven’t charged you with anything.’

‘It’s just the way this interrogation is going.’

‘It’s just an interview, sir,’ said Gerry. ‘Not an interrogation. We’re just here to talk to you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I’m not afraid, damn you, I—’ Randall took a deep breath and clearly held his anger in check. ‘I am not afraid,’ he repeated with hushed fury. ‘I simply want to avoid being tricked into saying something I would regret.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Annie. ‘Why would you do that? I mean regret saying something. What do you think you have to say that you would regret?’

‘Look,’ Randall growled, ‘can we just get on with it and get it over with? I’m a busy man.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Annie, with a pointed glance at Gerry that clearly discomfited Randall even further. ‘So far we’ve gathered that you were a friend of Laurence Hadfield’s, that you had financial dealings with him, and that you have been out of the country at a medical conference from Tuesday last week until the Saturday just past. Am I right?’

‘A world cardiology conference,’ Randall said. ‘I was giving a paper.’

‘So you’re a heart doctor, then?’ Gerry commented.

‘A cardiothoracic surgeon.’

‘Got it.’ Gerry made a scribble in her notebook.

Randall pointed to Gerry and said to Annie, ‘I don’t think she’s taking me seriously.’

‘Oh, I assure you, she is, sir. It’s one of the first rules we learn, to take everyone seriously, especially the professional classes. That way we can avoid misunderstandings later.’

‘Later? What misunderstandings?’

‘Well, if there is a later,’ Annie explained. ‘You know. Court. Solicitors. Judges. Stuff like that. The CPS are very strict about us getting all our ducks in a row.’

Randall sighed. ‘Can we please get this over with?’

‘Of course. Hearts to bypass and all that. Won’t be a jiffy,’ Annie went on. ‘The main reason we’re here is that you phoned Laurence Hadfield three times on the day we believe he disappeared.’ She glanced at Gerry. ‘You have the details, don’t you, DC Masterson?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Three fifty-nine, eight-o-two and eleven twenty-six. All p.m.’

‘Can you perhaps tell us why you called Mr Hadfield and what you talked about?’

‘I’ve told you. Larry was a friend. What’s so odd about ringing up a friend?’

‘On that quiz show, were you, sir?’ Gerry said, grinning. ‘Needed help with a tricky question?’

Randall ignored her.

‘Well, as far as we know,’ Annie went on, ‘those were the only phone calls Mr Hadfield received that day. Can you remember what you talked about?’

‘Not especially. Plans for a round of golf the following day, I think, a new investment opportunity. Something of that sort.’

‘The next day would have been Sunday, right?’ Annie pressed on.

‘It usually comes after Saturday.’

‘I don’t believe I mentioned that we think Mr Hadfield disappeared on Saturday.’

‘You didn’t,’ said Randall, smirking again. ‘But I remember the day I last spoke with him. It was Saturday. A week last Saturday. I’m sure his telephone records will confirm that.’

‘Oh, they do,’ said Annie. ‘They just don’t tell us what you talked about. You mentioned golf on Sunday.’

‘Yes. We arranged to play. A foursome. We had the round booked at my club.’

‘And that would be, sir?’ Gerry asked.

‘Lyndgarth’, Randall said, in a tone that was clearly meant to impress her.

‘Did Mr Hadfield turn up?’ asked Annie.

‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, he didn’t.’

‘Did he phone to apologise or explain his absence?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Got another member to make up the foursome.’

‘Weren’t you worried?’

‘Why should I be?’

‘Well, you’d talked to your friend three times the day before about a round of golf the following day, and he didn’t show up. I mean, I’d be a bit worried, wouldn’t you DC Masterson?’

‘I would, ma’am,’ said Gerry.

‘Did he say he was ill when you talked on Saturday?’ Annie pressed on. ‘Did he sound depressed or anything?’

‘No. Of course not. We’re grown men. Busy men. Things come up that need urgent attention. Are you now trying to suggest that Larry committed suicide, with all your talk of depression?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Annie. ‘But it’s a theory. I was simply wondering if there was anything in his tone or in what he said to you on Saturday that caused you to think he might have a reason for not turning up for a prearranged golf game the following day. That’s all.’

‘No, there wasn’t.’

‘Do you know where he was when you phoned him?’

‘At home. He said he was working. What does it matter?’

‘Did he like playing golf?’ Gerry asked.

‘Of course he liked playing golf.’

‘Did you phone him to ask what was wrong?’ Annie asked. ‘On Sunday?’

‘I... er... no, I didn’t.’

‘May I ask why not?

‘You may, but I’m afraid I can’t really tell you. And I’m not hiding anything. Don’t read anything into it. There just wasn’t any particular reason. I suppose it never crossed my mind that something might be wrong.’

‘Why would it?’ Annie agreed. ‘If Mr Hadfield was in good health.’ She glanced at Gerry, who put her notebook away. ‘We should go now, DC Masterson, and leave Mr Randall to his important business.’

Randall didn’t accompany them to the door, but Gerry turned around before they left, ‘Sorry to do a Columbo on you, sir,’ she said, ‘but I’m curious about the third time you rang Mr Hadfield. That was at eleven twenty-six on Saturday night, and you got no answer. It seems very late to be calling someone, especially if you can’t remember why. Was that normal?’

‘Well, I’d hardly say it was abnormal. Not everyone clocks off at five, you know.’

‘You didn’t think he might have gone to bed?’

‘I can’t say I thought about it much at all.’

‘Bye, Mr Randall,’ said Annie, taking Gerry’s elbow. ‘And thanks for your time. We’ll be seeing you.’

Before the bewildered doctor could respond, Annie ushered Gerry out. ‘You bloody minx,’ she said with a grin as they walked down the drive to the car. ‘Like to tell me what you think you were up to back there? Better still. Tell me over a drink. After all, it’ll be five when we get back to Eastvale. Clocking-off time.’ They laughed as Annie started the car.

Banks hadn’t been expecting to spend his afternoon tramping across damp grass, so his choice of footwear could have been better. Fortunately, the ground wasn’t too waterlogged, and the paths they occasionally found were either cinder or gravel.

‘No chance of any trace evidence surviving out in the open after so long,’ said Blackstone. ‘The team’s done their best, but there’s nothing so far. Just a lot of rubbish from inside the bothy to sort through. As you can see, it’s not actually that far off the B road, so someone could easily have pulled into a lay-by, dragged Sarah, or chased her to the bothy and killed her, or killed her first and then carried her body there. It’s not a busy road, so it could have been done almost anytime, but common sense suggests it was probably after dark. And we think she was killed inside the bothy. The doc says there’d have been quite a lot of blood from a head wound, and that matches what we found there.’

‘If she was killed in the bothy,’ said Banks, ‘then surely there must be prints? His and hers?’

‘We’re still working on it, but the surfaces are hardly ideal. Rough-hewn stone and rotten old wood.’

‘Fair enough.’

The small stone bothy, basically a free shelter for anyone who needed it, stood just off the path and was surrounded by crime-scene tape. The body had been taken away, of course, but a constable stood on guard and a couple of CSI officers were still going over the place, which was just an empty shell with a dirt floor and no windows. You’d have to be pretty desperate for shelter if you were willing to spend a night there, Banks thought. Still, there were dozens of these places all over the north; you saw them on walks and from roads, all in various states of disrepair. They had once been used for storage or shelter by groundsmen or gardeners on the large estates, now divided up into smaller farms. Most of them were uninhabitable, with missing roof slabs, doors or caved-in walls, and this one was no exception.

The area on the floor where the body had lain was marked out, and the CSIs told them to avoid the spots where little flags had been placed. Banks was content to stand in the doorway and look in, not wanting to disturb anything. It smelled of urine and rotten vegetation. What a place to die, he thought, trying to imagine the poor girl’s last thoughts and impressions. Had she fought desperately for her life? Had she not even seen the end coming? Had she perhaps been drugged first? Why had she gone to such a place, and with whom? And how did she know Adrienne Munro?

Tired of staring into the gloom and learning nothing, Banks turned back to the path and took a deep breath of fresh air. Blackstone stood with his hands in his pockets, kicking at stones. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked.

‘I think you were right to call me. If it really was the same killer, this gives us two goes at him.’

‘I thought you said Adrienne Munro committed suicide?’

‘Maybe it was just meant to appear that way. She died from asphyxiation after an overdose of sleeping pills. Maybe that was an accident. It’s possible that Sarah Chen was also drugged but didn’t die of asphyxiation, that she had to be killed some other way. I don’t know, Ken. I’ve no idea what, or who, we’re dealing with. Any connection between this Sarah Chen and drugs?’

‘Not according to anyone we talked to, though I know that doesn’t necessarily mean much. The drugs squad have no intelligence on her. She wasn’t a known dealer, if that’s what you’re getting at. From what I’ve heard, I’d guess she might have been a casual user, but not the hard stuff, I don’t think. We’ll find out more at the PM, of course. I’ll also get onto the pathologist about taking special pains over toxicology, considering the Adrienne Munro link.’ Blackstone glanced at his watch. ‘Why don’t you come to the team meeting with me now? You can put your case to our DCS.’

‘What? With me smelling of beer?’

‘That’s all right,’ said Blackstone. ‘You’re from North Yorkshire. They’ll be expecting it.’

‘It wasn’t a strategy,’ Gerry said over drinks in the Queen’s Arms a short while later. ‘I just started throwing things in, you know, to see how he’d react, then he really pissed me off.’

‘I’m not complaining,’ said Annie. ‘If I have one criticism of the way you handled yourself it was the use of “ma’am”. You know how I feel about that.’

‘But it worked, didn’t it? It made him feel even more superior, me tugging my forelock to you.’

Annie grinned. ‘I suppose so. What first set you off?’

‘When he called me your sidekick.’

Annie laughed and drank some beer. Dry days were all very well, but there was nothing like that first pint the day after two in a row. Gerry was on the diet ginger ale, she noticed, which wasn’t unusual. The pub was busy with the after-work crowd, and Annie smiled and said hello to a few familiar faces. Cyril was playing one of those interminable playlists that Banks seemed to love so much. Even she recognised ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?’ though she had no idea of the name of the group singing it. She quite liked it.

‘Actually, it started before that,’ Gerry went on, leaning forwards. ‘His whole attitude. Right from the start. How important his time was. The “Mr” bit. His tone of voice. The way he looked at me, as if I was something nasty he’d got on the bottom of his shoe.’

‘It’s been my experience,’ Annie said, ‘that quite a few doctors are arrogant and controlling megalomaniacs, and surgeons are among the worst. But what do you think? Anything there?’

Gerry tasted some diet ginger ale before answering. ‘Well, for a start,’ she said, ‘I don’t believe he was as shocked on hearing about Hadfield’s death as he let on.’

‘I agree. He knew already.’

Gerry nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘Then why didn’t he say so?’

‘That I don’t know. But you asked me.’

‘OK.’ Annie picked up her pint glass. ‘Go on.’

‘I wanted to test his temper, too, or his restraint. Did you notice how he almost lost it that one time, when I talked down to him, told him he’d nothing to be afraid of?’

‘How could I miss it? But what did it mean?’

‘Just that he’s got a temper and a short rein. If Hadfield was pushed into that gully, there’s a man who might have done it.’

‘If he’d had a reason.’

‘I admit I’m speculating. I’m not even saying I think he did it, or that anything was done. These are my impressions of the man. They could have had a falling out and things got physical. That business about the golf wasn’t convincing at all.’

‘What about that last phone call?’ Annie said. ‘It’s more than a bit late to be phoning someone under normal circumstances. Even a friend. And Randall didn’t leave a message.’

‘No,’ said Gerry. ‘And that’s odd, given that they’d had two previous conversations that day. Randall might almost have been expecting Hadfield not to answer. But, then, why call so late in the first place?’

‘I don’t know what the financial world is like, but could anything so urgent come up that late on a Saturday evening that would prevent Hadfield from answering his phone?’

‘A late meeting or something?’ Gerry suggested. ‘Some sort of business crisis?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The financial world is probably still our best bet if we’re searching for someone who had a reason to harm Hadfield. I think we need to examine his business dealings more closely.’

‘Do you think you can do that?’

‘Sure. I can handle it. I’ve got a few contacts in the fraud squad and white collar crime, and I know my way around the Internet.’

‘What about the Pandora charm?’ Annie asked.

‘Well, I suppose it means there was a woman involved at some point, doesn’t it? But let’s not make the sort of mistake a man would make and assume that it’s impossible a woman had anything to do with the world of high finance.’

‘And Randall?’

‘We can hardly mount twenty-four seven surveillance on him, can we, but it would be interesting to see what he does now we’ve made ourselves known to him.’

‘I’ll have a word with Alan. See if his mate Ken Blackstone from West Yorkshire can help. And I’ll see if I can find out any more about that charm.’

‘We’re in business, then,’ said Gerry, raising her glass.

‘Indeed we are,’ said Annie, clinking.

It was after seven o’clock when Banks got home from Leeds. He had dropped in at the station on his way, found everyone gone and nothing new waiting for him, so he left. Maybe the connection between Adrienne Munro and Sarah Chen — a name and an unknown phone number — was a bit thin, but it wouldn’t get any stronger unless they worked at it. Tomorrow they would start to enter everything they had on the two cases into HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, a computer programme developed to help with case management. It wasn’t a substitute for human intelligence, but it kept track of every little bit of information that was entered, and it sometimes came up with connections and inconsistencies that even the most perceptive of detectives missed, especially if the bits of connected information were on statements from two different county forces.

This escalation would mean a meeting with Area Commander Gervaise in the morning, possibly even with ACC McLaughlin. It would also mean begging for a bigger budget and more manpower. All in all, he felt he could do with a quiet evening at home before he took it all on tomorrow.

Picking up the bills and circulars after he had turned on the lights and turned up the heat a notch, Banks dumped the post on the table and walked down the hall to the kitchen. He hadn’t had a great deal of time for shopping in Leeds, but one thing he had done was drop in at Marks & Spencer’s and buy a ten-quid meal for two — including a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo — which consisted of a main of chilli and coriander chicken escalopes, a side dish of potato croquettes and a melting-middle chocolate pudding for dessert. He’d get two meals out that, at least, maybe three if he exercised a little portion control.

He picked out some chicken and croquettes and put them in the toaster oven to cook. He would see how he felt about the chocolate pudding later. That done, he poured himself a glass of wine and watched the Channel 4 news on the little television above his breakfast nook while he waited. There was nothing new, just war, famine, earthquakes, storms, scandals, trade wars, tariffs, political corruption and murder, as usual. Ken’s case got a brief mention, but not Banks’s. Another election in Africa had to be done all over again because of fraud. Italy was without a functioning government. Russia was causing trouble again. It was getting so they could write the news a few days ahead and all take a holiday for a while. About the only thing nobody ever got right in England was the bloody weather. Especially in Yorkshire. Maybe there was snow and ice ten miles down the road, but it was a clear night in Gratly, with the stars all brightly laid out on their black velvet cushion of night and a slip of a moon casting a ghostly glow over Tetchley Fell.

Banks ate at the breakfast nook while the news presenter interviewed an economic expert on today’s predictions for the country’s future. At the end of it, Banks didn’t know whether to withdraw all his savings and hide them under his mattress or plough more into his retirement fund. Economics had never been his strongest subject.

As he ate and half watched TV, he thought about the Blake quote Sarah Chen had tattooed on the back of her shoulder: ‘The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom’. Did it? He had heard it said many times before, back in the sixties, but always quoted very much out of context, which was a lengthy poem called The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Opposites intrigued Blake. In the same poem, he had also written, ‘Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires’, which Banks hoped nobody took as literally as some did the excess quote.

His own favourite was ‘A dead body revenges not injuries’, which was pretty much self-evident and also, in a way, the raison d’être for a job like his. It was an interesting poem to read and discuss, but never intended as a manual for living one’s life, the way many had taken it in the sixties. Jim Morrison, for example. Then there was Rimbaud with his ‘total derangement of all the senses’, bless him. Add Dalí’s melting clock, a Grateful Dead concert and a few doses of LSD and that pretty much defined the era Banks had grown up in.

Things were different now, though. Pundits kept saying that the millennials had different values, and approached life very differently from the previous generation. What had Sarah Chen made of the words she had tattooed on her shoulder? Perhaps nothing, like the Tesco’s checkout girl. Or perhaps it was her credo for living. Banks doubted she had taken them literally. Blackstone had said she liked to give people the idea that she was more liberated than she really was, though he also got the impression she was an extroverted personality. So what had she in common with Adrienne Munro, and how had they met, if indeed they had? Adrienne had no tattoos. And according to most people Banks had talked to, she had been rather shy and retiring, perhaps even a bit puritanical, if not entirely virginesque. Still, they say opposites attract. If it wasn’t drugs, what was it? Sex? Both were wearing rather fetching and revealing dresses, as if they were off on a night out. But where? And had they been together that night before they died?

Banks finished his meal and put his plate and cutlery in the dishwasher. It wasn’t full yet, so he just set it for another rinse cycle.

While in Leeds, he had managed to get to Waterstones and buy an anthology of Russian poetry, and then to HMV, which seemed to have less and less on offer each time he visited, especially in the music section. How he missed the old Classical Record Shop, gone for years now, though he had to admit that one could have far greater choice online. Still, it was a matter of holding the disc, or LP, of having something substantial, like a real book rather than the electronic version. He wasn’t a Luddite, but he did believe there was still a lot of value in the old media. There were plenty of deals in the DVD section, now that more people had turned to Netflix and other online sources of movies, and he ended up buying three of his all-time favourites on Blu-ray for twenty quid: The Guns of Navarone, The Bridge on the River Kwai and Doctor Zhivago, none of which he had seen for a long time.

Instead of sitting in the conservatory listening to music that evening, he took his wine into the entertainment room, put on Doctor Zhivago and sat facing the large screen TV with the lights out. He remembered first seeing the film years ago with his girlfriend of the time, Emily. They sat on the back row, as usual, and he had his arm around her, which was slowly going numb. He remembered the music, the lushly romantic ‘Lara’s Theme’, smoke from all the cigarettes, including his own, shimmering as it rose and swirled through the projector’s light, the girly shampoo smell of Emily’s hair as he turned to kiss her, the strawberry taste of her lipstick.

The film had hardly begun when his mobile buzzed, and when he answered it, he heard the familiar voice of Zelda, with her slight Eastern European accent.

‘Alan? I am sorry if I have disturbed you. It is not too late, is it?’

‘No. Not at all. As a matter of fact, I just this minute started watching Doctor Zhivago.’

Banks thought he heard Zelda laugh. ‘I hope you don’t take it too seriously as a lesson in history.’

‘I’ll try not to. What can I do for you?’

‘I am going to London tomorrow. They called earlier. I thought we should talk first.’

‘Good idea.’

‘May I come to your office tomorrow morning?’

‘Can you make it lunchtime? I have some meetings in the morning I can’t get out of. Things have escalated a bit.’

‘The girl in the car?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, but I must get a train from Northallerton in the afternoon.’

‘I’ll give you a lift to the station.’

‘Good. I will come to your office first. Goodnight, Alan. Enjoy Zhivago.’

‘I will. Goodnight. And thanks.’

Banks turned back to Doctor Zhivago and soon found himself drawn into the sweeping love story set against a background of social upheaval, war and revolution. He was sure that Boris Pasternak’s novel was nowhere near as romantic as David Lean’s film, with its lingering, exquisitely lit close-ups of Julie Christie’s eyes, and he vowed to read it soon. But for now the movie version would do.

When the film ended, a few hours and a bottle of wine later, he cried just the way he had the first time he saw it, when he had to hide his tears from Emily Hargreaves. But tonight he had nobody to hide his tears from.