Children of the Revolution

Chapter 10

Gerry Masterson pulled up outside the modern semi in Stockton around the time Banks was leaving Armley Jail to meet Ken Blackstone. It had taken her all day on the phone and the Internet to track down Judy Sallis, who had agreed to talk to her about what she could remember of her days as an English student at the University of Essex from 1971 to 1974.

The grey sky threatened more rain, but it had held off so far. The waterlogged garden had seen better days, and the front door needed a new coat of paint, but other than that, the house, both inside and out, was well maintained and sparkling clean. The furnishings in the living room appeared to be new, though they weren’t quite to Gerry’s taste. The maroon three-piece suite looked as if it came from that dreadful place they kept advertising on ITV just when you were settling into a good detective drama. Gerry sat on the sofa, as directed, and made herself comfortable. Tea wasn’t long in coming, along with a plate of digestive biscuits and custard creams. Bad for her figure and her complexion, she knew, but she took one, anyway, just to be polite.

Judy Sallis was a stout woman of about sixty, with a rather long nose and a recent perm. She kept her head constantly thrust forward, hen-like, as if she were always on the verge of saying something of import, or offering encouragement. Solicitous, some people would call it. Unnerving, more like, Gerry thought. From her research, she knew that Judy Sallis was a retired schoolteacher, had been retired for five years now, divorced for eight; she had lived in Stockton most of her life after university. She had two children, both far away, with families of their own to raise.

‘What can I do for you, love?’ she said, sitting down opposite Gerry in an armchair and smoothing her skirt. ‘Only you were a bit vague on the telephone.’

‘Sorry,’ said Gerry. ‘Force of habit, I suppose. It’s just that when the police come calling, people often don’t want to get involved.’

‘Well, my conscience is clean. And to be honest, I could do with a bit of excitement in my life.’

Gerry smiled. ‘I’m sorry to let you down, but what I want to talk to you about is hardly exciting.’

‘You’d be surprised what passes for excitement for me these days, love. You mentioned the university days, my old residence. Rayleigh Tower. That’s enough to make my day, for a start. I haven’t thought of that place in ages.’

‘Good times?’

‘Oh, yes. Mostly. Some hard work, too.’

‘Well, I’ve been trying to find people who lived there at the time you did, and you’re about the first person I’ve been able to trace who was willing or able to talk to me.’

‘Depends what you want to know. What they said about the sixties applies to the early seventies, too, you know. If you can remember it, you weren’t there.’

‘But not as much, surely?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’

Gerry opened her notebook. ‘I was wondering if you remembered anyone from those days, two people in particular?’

‘Try me.’

‘Ronnie Bellamy and Gavin Miller.’

‘I knew them both,’ said Judy. ‘Not very well. But it wasn’t a large university at the time. And Gavin was in English, like me. We were even in the same tutorial group that first year. I read about what happened to him in the paper. It’s terrible. Poor Gavin. Suspicious death, they said. Does that mean murder?’

‘Or manslaughter,’ said Gerry. ‘We think so.’

‘You don’t think Ronnie Bellamy did it, do you?’

‘No,’ said Gerry, with more conviction than she felt. ‘It’s just that we’re finding out as much about his university background as we can, and her name came up from those days.’

‘Yes, it would. Ronnie was around. She’s someone else now, of course, isn’t she? A famous writer.’

‘That’s right,’ said Gerry. ‘Charlotte Summers. She lives in Eastvale.’

‘I like her books. I went to one of her book signings at Waterstones a few years ago. She didn’t remember me. But then she always was a bit aloof, despite the leftist politics and all. Or maybe because of them. Of course, she’s a real Lady now, too. There was an article about her in the D&S a couple of years ago. Or was it the Northern Echo?’

There had been profiles of Lady Chalmers/Charlotte Summers in the Guardian, The Sunday Times and the Independent recently, according to Gerry’s research, but she gathered that, up here in Stockton, you haven’t really made it until you are written up in the Darlington and Stockton Times or the Northern Echo. ‘Ronnie Bellamy was involved in campus politics back then, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. More than just campus politics. Ronnie was very political. Dyed-in-the-wool communist. Demos and sit-ins and up the revolution and all that. All over the place, too. London. Manchester. Birmingham. She wanted to change the world. She was some sort of bigwig in the Marxist Society, I recollect. I know that sounds odd, that they’re all supposed to be equal and all that, but it really didn’t work that way. The strong, devious and ambitious will always rise to the top in any political system, won’t they? It’s only whether they trample on the masses or try to help them once they’ve climbed up the greasy pole that makes any difference. Look at the unions. Who did they ever want to help or protect except their own members? Not that you can blame them, mind you. Nobody else was going to do it for them.’

‘Was Ronnie Bellamy strong, devious and ambitious?’

‘Probably. I mean, look where she is now. Married a lord, didn’t she?’

Not quite, Gerry thought, but there was no point correcting Judy Sallis on the point. ‘And you? Were you in the Marxist Society?’

‘Me? Good Lord, no. As you can probably guess, I’ve no time for politics or politicians. Hadn’t then, and I haven’t now. You have to remember, though, those were very stormy days. The Heath government. Strikes. The three-day work week. People thought the country was coming apart at the seams. We even had striking miners all over campus. Chaos it was. But exciting, too.’

‘I would imagine so.’ Gerry took another custard cream, just to be sociable. ‘How well did you know Ronnie Bellamy?’

‘I knew who she was, saw her around the place. Not socially, like, she was in with a different crowd, but I heard her speak at rallies a couple of times. I just went out of curiosity, really, and for something to do. Rabble-rousing stuff about the workers’ revolution, mostly. She was a bit of a personality.’

‘Do you remember anything about the crowd she went about with, her friends, boyfriends, that sort of thing?’

‘Oh, she wasn’t short of boyfriends. She was quite beautiful, I remember, even as a revolutionary. No peasant skirts and hairy legs for her. A Gucci socialist all the way. Designer jeans before designer jeans were invented. Usually flared, with fancy embroidery on the bum, if I remember right. Of course, we all wore them. It was the fashion at the time. But hers always seemed more expensive, more elegant.’ Judy paused. ‘Maybe it was just her bum,’ she added wistfully. ‘She was a bit like that woman popular in films at the time. Her in Straw Dogs. Susan George.’

Gerry had never heard of Straw Dogs or Susan George, so she remained in the dark on the matter of Veronica Bellamy’s looks, except from the pictures she had come across in her research. ‘Were there any boyfriends in particular?’

‘No, none that come to mind. It’s funny, though, you should mention Gavin. I knew him. We had a few lectures together, and sometimes a group of us would get together for a coffee, or maybe even go to the union bar for a few drinks on an evening. Gavin was often around. He was quite a fit lad, but a bit shy, a bit bookish, a bit introverted. Wrote poetry, as I remember.’

‘Did Gavin have anything to do with the Marxist Society?’

‘Gavin? No. He was with the other lot. The dopers.’

‘What do you mean? He took drugs?’

‘Well, yes. Of course. This was the early seventies after all, love. Not much different from the late sixties. There were very distinct groups at university, especially back then. There were the straights, of course, who went to all the lectures and wrote their essays, or whatever, and had nothing to do with the world around them. There were the politicos, usually left-wing, who abhorred bourgeois individualism, personal emotion and, of course, anything like the sort of navel-gazing you got from acid trips or smoking some really good Afghani black or Moroccan red. Those were the dopers. They were too into mysticism, the occult and Eastern religion to give a damn about the workers or the revolution. Poets and dreamers, all of them. Some of them were so introspective they disappeared up their own arseholes. They’d sit around in someone’s flat and smoke joints and listen to the Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd or Stockhausen and make cryptic comments about life, the universe and everything. They could listen to John Cage’s four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence for hours on end and not get bored.’

Gerry laughed, though she had never heard of John Cage. ‘This was Gavin’s crowd?’

‘Very much so. Partly mine, too, sometimes, though I never felt I fully belonged. Funny when you think back on it all, isn’t it? But you wouldn’t know, would you? Gavin was a dreamer. A thinker. A poet. Not a doer. Which is where Ronnie Bellamy comes in.’

‘How?’ asked Gerry, sensing the excitement of possible revelation.

‘He was in love with her, wasn’t he?’

‘Was he?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Were his feelings requited?’

Judy thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say. They went out together for a while in the first term and into the second.’

Gerry felt a tremor of excitement. ‘And then?’

‘It ended.’

‘How?’

‘I have no idea. But I can tell you something: it wasn’t Gavin’s idea. Like a lovesick puppy he was, trying to get back with her, until he obviously realised it was no use. It had just been a casual affair to her, a fling, but she was a doer, and he was a dreamer. Besides, she was posh, too, whatever politics she adopted. Gavin was just your ordinary middle-class boy. It could never work.’

‘Did they remain friends?’

‘No. They both moved on after a while.’

‘How did Gavin handle the rejection?’

‘Not well, really. But, you know, I think he sort of enjoyed it in a way, the misery of unrequited love. I mean in a Leonard Cohen sort of way. At least he was feeling something, even if it was the pain of rejection.’ She glanced up rather sheepishly at Gerry. ‘I slept with him once, you know, after he and Ronnie split up. Mostly because I felt sorry for him. He was very tender and poetic.’ She patted her hair. ‘I wasn’t such a bad looker myself, back in the day.’

Gerry smiled. Far be it from her to comment on Judy’s activities back in the day, though she did wonder what a poetic lover might be like. Someone who quoted Keats and Wordsworth in bed? She hadn’t done too badly in English herself at school, an A in her A-levels, at any rate, and she thought perhaps Byron and Marvell might be more appropriate. Maybe John Donne, too. The one about the stiff compasses. Or maybe it meant that he moved in certain poetic rhythms, iambic pentameter shagging, da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum. And played Leonard Cohen records, too, because this, she reminded herself, was an age before CDs, and she hadn’t been born. Banks would be much better at having this conversation. At least he would have a stronger grasp of what Judy Sallis was talking about, like who Susan George was, for example, and John Cage. She put such flippant thoughts out of her mind and got back to business. ‘What happened to Gavin?’

‘He got a girlfriend he liked. Not as passionately as his great love, Ronnie, of course. But they went out together for the rest of that first year, at least. Nancy Winterson was her name. Nice girl. Good for Gavin, I thought. Sensitive, thoughtful, pretty in a pale, fragile, poetic sort of way. Bit of a pre-Raphaelite look about her, not unlike you, love, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

Gerry was sure she blushed. She was also not convinced that being seen as pale, fragile and poetic was necessarily such a good thing, especially in a detective constable. ‘Did Gavin continue to take drugs?’

Judy looked at Gerry. ‘How old are you, love?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Twenty-six. Christ. Well, you were born into a different world, where drugs are nothing but evil. When you ask if he kept on taking drugs, it sounds, forgive me, like a typical police question. One didn’t really “take” drugs or “keep on taking” them, unless they were prescriptions for some illness or other, or maybe if you were a heroin addict. Gavin smoked dope. I smoked dope. We all smoked dope—’

‘Except the Marxists?’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised. Even some of them smoked dope. Ronnie Bellamy certainly dabbled from time to time, especially when she and Gavin were an item. It wasn’t all work and no play. But the point was that it wasn’t some sort of bad thing you did, or crime you committed. We didn’t see it as that much different from having a drink or smoking a cigarette. It was a part of life. So to ask if he kept on taking drugs is sort of meaningless, do you see, like asking if he kept on breathing. Or like a religion. Do you see what I mean?’

‘Like Rastas?’

‘Exactly. That’s why they admired the Rasta culture so much, and some of the Eastern mystic sects who used mind-altering substances. Or the Mexicans with their peyote. Carlos Castaneda and all that desert magic stuff.’

Gerry had never heard of Carlos Castaneda, either. There was a whole world back there waiting to be explored, but she doubted she would ever get around to it. ‘What about the other drugs? LSD?’

‘We took LSD a bit more seriously, though I knew a couple of kids who ate it like Smarties. We knew it could be dangerous, but we also knew it had been legal until not too long ago, and that it was a seriously mind-altering substance. That was what we wanted to do, had we been the least bit articulate about it — alter our minds. The Marxists wanted to alter society from the outside, and we wanted to alter the people in it from the inside.’

‘Did Veronica ever take LSD?’

‘That I can’t tell you for certain, but I should imagine so, while she was with Gavin. It’s a sort of initiation, and he took it quite regularly then.’

While Gerry was amazed at this casual abuse of Class A drugs, she was determined not to let it show. It was, indeed, another age. These days it was ecstasy, bubble and bath salts. ‘So your crowd didn’t get along with the Marxists?’

‘We got along just fine mostly, though we didn’t mix that much, except at concerts and in the bar and stuff. They were all right, most of them. It was just that they were always trying to convince you they were right, like the Jehovah’s Witnesses or someone. It got a bit boring, sometimes, listening to the same arguments over and over again.’

‘And Ronnie?’

‘She was all right, too, I suppose. But she was... I can’t... wait... do you know what those American prom queens are like, the ones you see in movies like Carrie? Beautiful, rich, privileged, bitchy, aloof, always get the best-looking guys. What was it, the quarterback?’

Gerry nodded. ‘I’ve seen the films.’

‘Well, Ronnie was like that. Prom queen of the Marxist Society.’

‘Why do you think it ended between her and Gavin?’

‘I reckon it just fizzled out. She probably got bored with him and all that sitting around smoking dope and navel-gazing. She wanted to be out there on the barricades. But something definitely happened. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know. One day he was mooning, the next he was walking around with a face like a slapped arse.’

‘Do you have any ideas why, any thoughts?’

‘My guess is as good as yours, love. It was like it was on one day and off the next. If you ask me he got too serious, maybe told her he loved her or something. That would have been just like Gavin. Whatever it was, he seemed to pull himself together pretty soon, after a couple of weeks of Leonard Cohen records, and then he hooked up with Nancy.’

‘Do you know where Nancy is now?’

‘No idea, love. We weren’t that close.’

‘No matter,’ said Gerry. They had a name; they could always find her if they wanted to. ‘When was all this? When Gavin and Veronica split up?’

‘Not long after New Year, I think. Maybe late January, early February. 1972. You won’t remember, you weren’t born then, but it seemed like everyone was on strike. The miners were doing those flying pickets, you know, when a whole group of extra picketers can turn up almost anywhere at short notice. During the strike, the whole country had revolving power cuts, and I used to love it on an evening when the electricity went off. As long as you had a shilling for the gas meter, you could keep warm, and we all used to congregate in Brian Kelly’s or Sue Harper’s flat and smoke dope. You couldn’t play records, of course, because the electricity was off, but someone always had a guitar, and a tambourine, maybe even a flute or a recorder, and we had some good old sing-songs.’

Gerry made notes. ‘So there was a marked change in Gavin’s behaviour around that time? Early February, 1972, right?’

‘Yes. About then.’

‘And Ronnie’s?’

‘No. She carried on much as ever. In her element. Prom queen of the Marxist Society. For a while longer at least. Like I said, I think it was a one-sided relationship, such as it was. A bit of fun for her, and a bit too serious for him. Come April or thereabouts, she seemed to fade into the background a bit more.’

‘Any reason?’

‘Not as far as I know. I mean, we weren’t close enough that we’d discuss such things. Just got tired of épatering la bourgeoisie, I suppose. And there were exams to think about. I mean, when it came right down to it, she was pretty bourgeois herself, underneath all that party-line rubbish. Another cuppa?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Gerry, putting away her notebook and looking at her watch. ‘Is that the time? I’d better be getting back to the station, or they’ll be wondering what happened to me.’

‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you,’ said Judy. ‘It’s funny, opening the floodgates like that. I’ll probably start remembering all kinds of things after you’ve gone.’ She sounded rather sad that Gerry was leaving.

Gerry gave her a card. ‘This is my mobile,’ she said. ‘Ring me whenever you like if you remember something, even if it doesn’t seem important to you.’

‘Will do.’

‘There is just one thing you might be able to help me with,’ Gerry said, stopping with her hand on the door handle.

‘If I can.’

‘I could probably track down a list of Marxist Society members from back then, but is there anyone you remember who you think I could get in touch with. Someone who might be helpful?’

‘Well, there’s Mandy Parsons, I suppose. She only comes to mind because I’ve seen her on telly recently. She teaches Political Science or something like that in Leeds.’

‘The uni?’

‘I think so. Anyway, she was sounding off about the abuse of female asylum seekers and the horrors of female circumcision in the Guardian women’s section and on the local TV news not more than a month or so ago, and I remembered her from back then. She was no prom queen, but she had her ideology sorted, did Mandy. Gone feminist now, of course, but there’s probably still a bit of the old lefty in her. Marxist Feminist, perhaps.’

Gerry thanked Judy Sallis and walked towards her car, confused in political ideology and lost in thought.

For the second time that day, Winsome approached the house where Lisa Gray had her flat. She had been doing a lot of thinking since her earlier visit with Annie, and she had come to one or two conclusions she wanted to test out. She intended to find out once and for all what part Eastvale College played in Gavin Miller’s murder, if any, and to get the truth out of Lisa, whatever the cost. She thought she could do it with kindness, that Lisa might be ready to unburden herself, but if she had to take her down to the station and put her in a cell for twenty-four hours, browbeat her the way Annie had, then she would do it.

It was early evening, dark, the wet leaves muffling her footsteps as she approached the tall, narrow house, and when she first rang the bell, Winsome thought that Lisa was probably out. Then a small weary voice came over the intercom. ‘Hello?’

‘Lisa, it’s me. Winsome. DS Jackman.’

There was a long pause, and Winsome could almost feel Lisa thinking, hear the cogs turning. She knew what the visit was about. Finally, she said, ‘You’d better come up,’ and the intercom buzzed.

Once she was in the flat, Winsome accepted the offer of camomile tea and found its warmth and scent a great comfort as she settled into the armchair.

‘I suppose you’ve come back because you want me to tell you everything, haven’t you?’

‘It would help.’

‘What makes you think I haven’t?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Winsome. ‘Too many gaps in the story, maybe? Too many bits and pieces that don’t add up. I started thinking there might be good reasons for your erratic and self-destructive behaviour, for Lomax thinking you were so completely unreliable, for your withdrawal from college life.’ There was also something Annie had passed on about Banks’s interview with Kyle McClusky. Kyle had said that someone must have complained to Gavin Miller about his selling drugs, and that it was probably a woman who had been a victim of roofies and rape.

‘I’m glad you came by yourself this time. I didn’t like your friend. Sorry.’

‘Annie’s an acquired taste.’

‘That’s one way of putting it. I didn’t do anything wrong, you know. Where do you want me to begin?’

‘Where do you think it all began?’

The flames cast shadows in the hollows of Lisa’s pale elfin features, glimmered orange and red in her big eyes. She took out a pouch of Drum tobacco and rolled a cigarette. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Only tobacco.’

‘What’s all right about tobacco?’

‘You don’t...? Oh, bloody hell. Do you want me to...?’

‘It’s all right,’ said Winsome. ‘I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop someone from doing what they want in their own home.’

The firelight caught the shape of a smile on Lisa’s face. ‘As long as it’s not illegal.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Good. Because this is about the only place I can do it these days.’ Lisa lit the cigarette, pulled a shred of tobacco from her lower lip and settled down cross-legged by the hearth. ‘Are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

Winsome nodded and leaned back in her chair, cradling her mug of tea. She knew that she ought to be taking notes, but thought if she took out her notebook it would ruin the mood, the rapport. If anything of value came up, she was sure that she would be able to get Lisa to make an official statement later. But this was delicate, fragile, she suspected, if even half of what she had suspected were true. It might not even be directly relevant to the case.

‘It was over four years ago. February. Not too cold or wet. Not like Februaries these days. A mild night. I was nineteen. I thought I was a sophisticated Goth, really I did. I had the black gear, black lipstick and kohl, the chunky crosses, rings and amulets, the music. Bauhaus, PJ Harvey, Sisters of Mercy, The Cure, Joy Division.’

Of these, Winsome had heard only of Joy Division, and even then she couldn’t remember where she had heard of them. Banks, perhaps? Though she didn’t think he was into Goth music. One of them had died, she thought.

‘I’d been to a concert at the college. Wendy House. I was in my final year. There was a group of us. We’d been drinking a bit, but not a lot, and nothing more, you know, no drugs or anything. There was a boy who seemed interested in me. He wasn’t at the college, and he said he’d come up from Bradford to see the band. I didn’t know him, but he was fit, so we let him hang out with us in the bar later. When we all split up and went our own ways, he said he’d walk me home. I wasn’t drunk, and he seemed nice enough, so I didn’t mind, I wasn’t nervous or anything. We were just chatting like mates about the concert, music and stuff. Like I said, it was a mild night. I lived closer to the heart of the campus then, but it was an old house, much like this one. I had a bottle of cheap wine at home, and I offered him some, poured some for myself and went to the toilet. When I got back and started drinking it, after a while things started to get hazy. The next thing I knew it was morning, and I had a splitting headache, a dry mouth and... I... I felt terribly sore, you know, between my legs. I felt down there, and I was all sticky. I was also naked, and I didn’t remember getting undressed. I wasn’t a virgin, so it didn’t take me long to figure out what had happened. But it hadn’t happened with my consent. At least, I didn’t think so. I honestly couldn’t remember. The last thing I could bring to mind was walking back in the room from going to the loo and drinking my wine. I think there was some Wilco on the stereo. I just knew I hadn’t invited it, unless asking a boy in for a nightcap was asking for it, the way some people would have you believe. Maybe if he’d kissed me, I’d have let him. But no more. I wasn’t promiscuous. I didn’t even have a boyfriend at the time. We might have gone out together a few times and after a while, if we really liked each other, then we might have made love. But not like this. I didn’t have a chance for any of that. He raped me, and I didn’t remember a thing.’

‘I’m sorry, Lisa,’ Winsome said. ‘I mean it. What did you do?’

The shadows flickered over Lisa’s face. She sucked on her cigarette, and the tip burned brighter. ‘I got myself together. It took a while. The first day I just didn’t want to get out of the bath. I still hurt, and there was some blood. When I was able to, I talked to a few people who I knew had been with us that night, but nobody remembered who he was. I thought he must have come with someone, that someone must have invited him, but I got nowhere. I honestly don’t think people were covering for him. There was no way they could have known what he did. Maybe he came up with some mates and got separated, hung with us? There was only one odd thing I remembered from the bar earlier on the night it happened.’

‘Kyle McClusky,’ said Winsome.

‘Yes.’ Lisa peered at Winsome from under her ragged fringe. The hollows around her eyes were exaggeratedly dark, as if she had reverted to her Goth days and applied a heavy coating of kohl. ‘I distinctly remember the boy — I can’t remember his name, if I ever knew it, or what he looks like — talking to Kyle by the entrance to the toilets. I’d seen Kyle before at some of the same lectures I went to, but I didn’t really know him, or that he sold drugs.’

‘So you approached Kyle?’

‘Yes. Naturally, he laughed it off, denied the whole thing, said he’d no idea what I was talking about, and if I repeated any of it to anyone, I’d be in trouble. But I knew he was lying. And I talked to others. People who knew he sold crystal meth and roofies. It didn’t take me long to work out what had happened.’

‘So you went to Gavin Miller.’

‘I went to the only person I knew who I thought could help. Maybe now you can understand why I didn’t go to the police? Imagine what a fine witness I would have made on the stand, not remembering a thing, stumbling over the answer to every question, being made to seem like a slut. Even a sudden glimpse of my own shadow made me jump for weeks afterwards. Everyone knows that roofies are what nice college boys give to half-pissed slappers to get them into bed.’

Winsome didn’t like to tell Lisa, but she was probably right. She wouldn’t even have got as far as court with the flimsy story she had to tell. And even if she had, only about six and a half per cent of rape prosecutions are successful. The odds are that her rapist would have walked free. No wonder about ninety-five per cent of rapes went unreported.

‘Did you tell Gavin Miller what happened to you?’

‘No. I didn’t tell anyone that. I just told him about Kyle selling the drugs and all. But I think he might have guessed. If he did, he was gentleman enough not to say anything. He told me he’d deal with Kyle.’

So Kyle had been wrong in that Lisa hadn’t told Gavin Miller, but his assumption had been close enough to the truth. ‘But you didn’t know Kyle was connected with Beth and Kayleigh?’

‘No. They weren’t part of my scene. When I did find out, later, after the hearing and all, it still didn’t seem relevant until I settled down to think about it, the way you thought about our earlier conversation.’

‘What did you do after the rape?’

‘At first I was incapable of doing anything. I couldn’t even think straight, let alone help anyone. I didn’t deal with it well at all, especially not for the first few weeks. I drank too much, cut up wild. Life and soul of the party. That was me. But I didn’t sleep around. I couldn’t bear the idea of anybody touching me. Nobody could touch me. Not in any way. I felt dirty. Soiled. And worthless. It was a very strange time, like I was spinning wildly around something I couldn’t quite make out, a huge dark ugly mass at the centre of myself, a dark star that was trying to drag the rest of me, all the good bits, if there were any left, into itself, and it took all the energy I had to struggle against it and just keep spinning. There were times I didn’t dare go to sleep in case it sucked me in during the night. Even when I could, I always left the lights on. I still do. Anyway, after a while, a few weeks after Mr Miller’s dismissal, I realised what must have happened, what the girls must have done. I racked my brains for what to do. I felt responsible, like it was my fault Mr Miller had got fired, that it happened because he helped me. I was sure those girls had set him up, but there was no way of proving it. I only knew they were pally with Kyle because I saw the three of them at a party once, giggling in the corner, like I said. But that’s hardly evidence, is it? I wasn’t even sure how long ago it had happened then, but I knew it had been a while. Not that long, maybe, because I think it had all happened in March and it wasn’t the end of the year yet. It was April when I... I couldn’t deal with it. I just let things go, my studies, my appearance — not that I’d ever cared about it much, except, you know, the Goth look — my friends.’

‘What about your family?’

Lisa stiffened. ‘I didn’t tell them anything. They wouldn’t have been interested, anyway. My dad bailed years ago, and the string of useless, idle buggers my mother took in after that would’ve only laughed in my face and then grabbed my tits.’

Winsome nodded. Not a point to pursue, then. ‘So you were alone with your feelings?’

‘I got used to it. Am used to it. It’s amazing what you can get used to when you have to. Things are different now, in a lot of ways, but I still feel alone. When it comes right down to it, we’re born alone and we die alone, and pretty much all the time in between we’re alone, too. Mr Miller was right about that.’

‘You talked about things like that?’

‘Life, philosophy, being, religion? Sure.’

‘What did you do in the end?’

‘You already know what I did, don’t you? That’s why you’re here.’

‘One reason. But I’d like you to tell me the whole truth.’

‘Why? So you can repeat it in court?’

‘Lisa, that’s not where this is going, and you know it.’

‘Yeah... well. OK, so I went and told Mr Lomax that I’d overheard Beth and Kayleigh talking in the bogs about how they’d set up Mr Miller because of what he did to Kyle, and how easy it was to fool everybody.’

‘But you hadn’t heard anything of the kind, had you?’

Lisa looked away, sideways at the wall, the one with the Doors poster. Winsome followed her gaze. That young Door was certainly mesmerising, she thought. ‘No,’ said Lisa. ‘I made it up about overhearing them.’

Winsome didn’t ask why; she had no reason to. Clearly Lisa had thought she could somehow mitigate her guilt at getting Miller involved in the Kyle McClusky business in the first place, and consequently losing him his job, by speaking up in Gavin Miller’s favour, even if it meant lying. But it had been too little, too late, and by then she had gone off the rails and had gained a reputation for unreliability in all things. ‘What made you think they’d invented the story in the first place?’ Winsome asked. ‘Couldn’t Gavin Miller have actually been guilty of sexual misconduct?’

‘No. I couldn’t believe that. I knew Mr Miller, and I didn’t think he’d do something like that. I know all men are bastards, but Mr Miller was... he was different, even then, when he was still teaching. Haunted. Deep. Sad. But not in a pathetic way.’

‘Were you in love with him?’

‘God, no! I mean, not in that way. Not at all. It never even entered my mind. I admired him, liked him, enjoyed his company, and I felt guilty for getting him into trouble. But love? No. He was just a sort of mentor, I suppose. He encouraged me to think for myself.’

‘OK,’ said Winsome, holding up her hands. ‘Just checking. Affairs of the heart aren’t my speciality.’

Lisa tilted her head and gave a small smile. ‘So I gather.’

‘What happened in April? What set you on the road to clarity?’

‘What almost sent me over the edge, you mean. Surely you know that, too?’

‘I have some thoughts, but I can only hope I’m wrong.’

Lisa rolled another cigarette. Her hands were shaking slightly. ‘Well, you’re not.’ She looked Winsome in the eye. ‘You’re probably thinking AIDS or pregnancy, right?’

‘Something along those lines, yes.’

‘Well, I found out I was pregnant.’

Only the hissing and crackling of the fire broke the silence of the next few seconds, which seemed to stretch out into even deeper unexplored terrain. Winsome didn’t quite know how to respond. In a way, it was none of her business, not relevant to the case. But in another way, she had insinuated herself into Lisa’s life beyond the mere facts, the truth and the lies, and she felt put on the spot. She could respond like a cop or respond like a friend, an older sister, whatever. Or she could not respond at all. Her choice.

Lisa broke the silence and the discomfort by asking Winsome if she wanted another cup of tea. She said yes gratefully and gazed back at the poster of the beautiful half-naked man while Lisa put the kettle on.

‘Mr Miller gave that poster to me. Beautiful, isn’t he?’

Winsome hadn’t noticed Lisa come back. She nodded. ‘Who is it?’

Lisa’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve never heard of Jim Morrison?’

‘That’s Jim Morrison?’

‘Lead singer from the Doors.’ Lisa put another log on the fire. ‘He died on the third of July, 1971.’

‘I know the name,’ said Winsome, ‘but I didn’t know what he looked like. I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to those sorts of things. He died young, didn’t he?’

‘He was twenty-seven years old.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Heart failure.’

‘Caused by drugs?’

‘Probably. He was a notorious user and boozer. He’s buried in Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. I’ve been there. To his grave. Most of us who were there weren’t even born when he died.’

‘You like his music?’

‘I like his words. His poetry. He was a tortured soul. A true poet.’

Neither spoke for a moment. Lisa just stared at the Doors poster in some sort of reverence, or so Winsome thought. She guessed that Jim Morrison was probably a bad boy, and not at all the kind of person her parents would have wanted her to meet. But sometimes... there was something in her that longed for such an adventure, throwing away all the maps and all the stop signs. Caution to the wind. The moment passed.

‘I had an abortion, of course,’ Lisa said. ‘I don’t suppose you approve of that, do you?’

‘I believe that a woman has the right to choose, but I think it should be a considered choice.’

‘Oh, it was. Remember what shape I was in at the time? I wouldn’t have made a good mother at all. Certainly not with my own mother as an example.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Winsome said. ‘You can’t.’

‘Maybe not,’ Lisa said slowly. ‘Call it a pretty good intuition, like the one about Beth and Kayleigh. But I wasn’t thinking about becoming a mother at the time. I just wanted rid of it. That’s what it was, an “it”, a cancerous growth inside me. I wanted it cut out.’

‘And after that?’

‘After that, it was the end of term, end of the year, end of my academic career. I failed, naturally. I left England, took all my savings and got the Eurostar to Paris. That’s when I visited Père Lachaise. After that, I wandered around Europe doing odd jobs, menial jobs, working as a waitress or an office cleaner. Drinking myself to sleep at night from cheap bottles of wine I’d sneaked into my cheap hostel beds. There were boys, friendships, even, but still no sex. I still couldn’t... I suppose it was a sort of healing process. I was just like, frozen, as far as all that went. At a certain point, I’d just seize up and that was it. There were times when life started to seem worthwhile again. Looking at great works of art in the Louvre, the Rijksmuseum or the Prado, or in tiny out-of-the-way churches in sleepy Italian villages. It didn’t convert me to religion or anything, but it did bolster my spirits. I felt sort of like the Frankenstein monster must have done when the electric current travelled through its being, as if all my different bits and pieces were someone else’s and were suddenly melding together into one, coming to life, becoming me. It was a slow process. A rebirth. I was away for more than two years. Drifting. Mostly in France and Spain. There was a boy, towards the end. Things went all right, for a while. And now.’ She held out her arms. ‘Tra-la! I’m back.’

‘Have you ever thought of getting a proper job?’

Lisa pulled a face. ‘Don’t push it.’

‘Why not? You’re clearly an intelligent woman. There must be lots of things you can do. You could even go back to college or uni and finish your degree.’

‘I might not have a lot of money, or a career path to follow, but I’m happy doing what I’m doing for the moment, being who I am. Believe me, it’s a rare experience in my life, so don’t knock it.’

‘I didn’t mean to. Am I preaching at you again?’

‘No, not really.’ She held her thumb and forefinger a short distance apart. ‘Well, maybe just a little bit. You just expect everyone to follow the same sort of tried-and-tested path you followed. I don’t mean to be insulting, but it’s not very exciting, is it?’

‘Being a detective? I don’t know. It has its moments.’

‘Yes. The Bull. That drop kick.’

‘It wasn’t a drop kick!’

‘OK. OK. Whatever.’ She blew on the top of her tea. ‘But you know what I mean.’

‘My options were limited, too,’ said Winsome. ‘But maybe not for the same reasons as yours. Dad was a cop, back in a little hill town above Montego Bay. He’s retired now. He was my hero. Lucky he lived that long. I don’t suppose I was very imaginative in my choice of a career, but I like it.’

‘You came here by yourself?’

‘Yes. With my family’s blessing. They wanted a better life for me. A life they couldn’t have. I did well in school back home and came here to go to university.’

‘What did you study?’

‘Psychology.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be critical. I can be a bit over-defensive at times.’ Lisa paused. ‘So what’s going to happen to me now? I didn’t see you taking any notes, so I assume I can deny everything I said? Your word against mine.’

‘If you like,’ said Winsome.

‘It depends. Are you going to arrest me?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I must have done something wrong somewhere in all that I’ve told you.’

‘Being raped isn’t illegal, having an abortion isn’t illegal, travelling around Europe isn’t illegal. Maybe you’re not as much of a criminal as you like to think you are.’

‘What about lying to the police?’

‘Well, that’s another matter. In general, lying isn’t an arrestable offence. We’d have to put the whole world in jail if we could arrest people for lying. But you’ve slowed us down and misdirected us. We have many ways of dealing with that. Mostly it’s up to the individual officer’s discretion. And remember, you can always just deny everything you told me.’

‘I’m not like that.’

‘I didn’t think so. As far as I can see, you’re the victim in this, not the perpetrator.’

‘I’m not a perp! Well, that’s a relief.’

Winsome smiled. ‘Did you ever tell anyone at all about what happened to you? The rape? The pregnancy? The abortion?’

Lisa shook her head. ‘Nope. You’re the first.’

‘Don’t you think you ought to seek professional help after what you’ve been through?’

‘A shrink?’

‘Not necessarily. A counsellor of some sort.’

‘Maybe that’s what I needed four years ago, but I think I have my life together the way I like it now.’

‘Why did you tell me about it?’

‘I don’t know. It just seemed... right. I must say, though, it seems a long way from Mr Miller’s murder. I don’t see how it helps you.’

‘Maybe it doesn’t, but we don’t work in quite as linear a way as that, however straight you think we are. I add bits to the overall picture, then—’

‘What bits?’ Lisa sounded concerned.

‘Relevant bits. Not about a young girl getting raped, then finding out she’s pregnant and having an abortion.’

‘I don’t want anyone else knowing what happened to me. I don’t want to be treated like a victim.’

‘Don’t worry, you won’t be.’ Winsome shifted in her armchair, put her mug down on the table and leaned forward. ‘But let’s just examine one possibility that comes out of what you’ve told me tonight. You told me that you suspected Gavin Miller knew what had happened to you, about the roofies and the rape?’

‘Yes. I can’t really say why. It was just the way he looked at me. Maybe I’m imagining it. He’d probably have said something if he’d known, made me go see someone, like you suggested, or go to the police.’

‘Perhaps. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that he did suspect something of the sort. You don’t know who the boy was. You can’t even describe him. You say you didn’t really pursue it, didn’t try to find out.’

‘What good would it have done?’

‘But what if Gavin Miller did try to find out? What if he succeeded? You like to think he cared about you, so maybe that was his way of doing something to help. He got Kyle McClusky off the campus, but maybe he got more. The name of the boy who bought the drug and gave it to you.’

‘That took him four and a half years?’

‘These things happen. Maybe he was too devastated to try to find out at first, after he was dismissed. Maybe he didn’t even pick up the trail until you two reconnected a few months ago. Maybe he bumped into one of your old friends who was at the concert and in the bar with you that night. He or she might have remembered what the boy looked like, or what his name was. You never even asked them. Who knows?’

‘But if that were the case, wouldn’t it have been that boy who got hurt, not Mr Miller?’

‘I know it sounds far-fetched, but sometimes even police officers have to let our imaginations run free. Perhaps Gavin Miller arranged to meet him. On the railway bridge near his home, say. The boy went along, perhaps expecting blackmail, whatever. Gavin Miller confronted him. There was a fight. As you know, Mr Miller wasn’t in such good shape towards the end. He was malnourished and emaciated. I doubt he could have put up much of a fight against a younger and stronger opponent.’

‘Christ,’ said Lisa. ‘Are you saying I got him killed now? That it was because of me?’

‘It’s not all about you. If it did happen that way, it was about Gavin Miller. What he needed. Besides, all I’m doing is putting things together, making connections, stretching the facts a bit to do it. Half the time we make up stories from what we know, then test them out.’

‘But Mr Miller didn’t say anything about it when we met for coffee earlier this year. We never talked about the past at all, except like, way back, when he was a hippy and all that.’

‘But you didn’t say anything to anyone about it. At least not until tonight, to me. Maybe Gavin Miller did work it out and kept it to himself for reasons of his own. Especially if he intended to harm the boy in revenge for what he’d done to you. Anyway, I’m only giving you a hypothetical example of how some of the things you’ve told me might affect the investigation. It’s only speculation. There are some things I’ll have to share with my boss — crimes have been committed, not by you, but against you — but I promise none of what you told me will go any further than that and I’ll keep what I can to myself. What you told me is... well... it’s...’

‘In confidence?’ suggested Lisa.

‘Yes.’

‘Like between friends?’

Winsome reached for her mug. ‘Yes.’

Lisa smiled. ‘All right, then.’

‘So what brings you here at this time of night?’ Banks asked when he answered the insistent knocking at his door.

‘You know damn well what,’ said Annie, walking in and slamming the door behind her.

‘No, I don’t.’ He hated it when people said that and he didn’t know damn well what. His mother used to say it, without the swearing, if ever he asked what he was supposed to have done wrong: ‘You know quite well.’ It always made him feel like a naughty boy.

‘Come off it, Alan. You’ve been playing us for fools, Winsome and me, running two investigations and sending us out on the dummy one. You’ve been using us as cover. You don’t believe for a moment that Gavin Miller’s death has anything to do with his getting dismissed from Eastvale College. With Beth Gallagher or Kayleigh Vernon or Trevor Lomax or Jim Cooper and that crowd. You think it’s all about what happened forty years ago at the University of Essex. That’s why you’ve had Little Miss Masterson running around doing your private research and God knows what else for you while you send us off to waste our bloody time!’

They were standing in what used to be Banks’s living room and was now a sort of office-cum-den. ‘Stop pacing and sit down,’ Banks said. ‘Catch your breath. Drink? Shall we go through to the back and have a—’

‘No, I don’t want a bloody drink. And I don’t want to go through to the back. I won’t be stopping.’ Annie remained on her feet while Banks sat. ‘Of all the shitty tricks you’ve ever pulled, Alan, this one has to be—’

‘That’s not true,’ Banks argued. ‘Both lines of inquiry are still equally important. Essential. We have no idea why Gavin Miller was killed. We can’t afford to overlook Lomax and Cooper and the rest.’

‘But you lean towards Lady Chalmers, don’t you, even though you’ve been warned off?’

‘So what if I do? It’s not your job on the line. Do I think she killed him? No, I don’t. Do I think she’s closely connected somehow with what happened? Damn right, I do. But it could equally as well have been Trevor Lomax, Jim Cooper or Dayle Snider.’

‘Yet you haven’t let Winsome or me in on any of this. It’s just been you and your pretty little—’

‘That’s not true, and you know it. Hold on a minute, Annie. Are you sure this isn’t just you being jealous? Because there’s nothing to be jealous of. There’s nothing between me and Gerry.’

‘Oh, come off it, Alan. Just look at the sweet simpering little thing. She practically wets her knickers every time she gets near you.’

‘That’s not true, and it’s bloody rude of you to say it,’ came another voice from the hall, shortly followed by Gerry Masterson herself, striding through from the conservatory. Her face was red, and she was breathing hard. ‘If anyone’s jealous, it’s you, you miserable bitch. Jealous that DCI Banks has trusted me with the job and not you.’

‘Don’t be so stupid. And don’t—’

‘I’m not stupid. You march in here and practically call me a tart, accuse me of sleeping with my boss, and you expect me to just stand there and take it. You can’t talk about me like that, even if you do outrank me. Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am. Is that what you expect? Well, I’m doing my job as professionally as I can under difficult circumstances, and I suggest you try and do the same instead of playing the jealous girlfriend. As far as I can see, you’re the only one in this room who has slept with the boss.’

‘Why, you pissy little bitch—’ Annie flew at her.

‘Annie! Gerry!’ cried Banks, getting between them before things went any further. ‘Stop it. Both of you. Let’s all sit down, take a deep breath and have a drink. I don’t know about you two, but I bloody need one.’ He managed to shepherd them both, stiff-shouldered, still bristling with rage, through the connecting door into the entertainment room. It seemed the safest bet, and the closest. There were comfortable chairs, dim, relaxing lighting, and a disc of Chopin’s nocturnes was playing. There was also a cocktail cabinet and a small wine rack beside a row of glasses. Banks reached for a bottle of Layers. Thank God it was screw-top, he thought. His hands were shaking too much to handle a corkscrew. As he poured, he said, ‘Let’s all just try and calm down and get this sorted. There’s no need for fighting.’

‘She can’t talk about me like that just because she’s my boss,’ said Gerry.

‘Gerry, sit down.’ Banks handed her a glass. Her hand was shaking, too, he noticed.

Annie was still breathing fire and stalking the room. ‘Annie.’ Banks held out her glass.

For a moment Annie just glared at him, then she took the glass and flopped down in the nearest armchair, slopping a little wine down her front. Luckily, she was wearing a burgundy top. She ran her free hand through her mass of curly brown hair.

Gerry also sat, about as far away from Annie as she could get, Banks noticed, and took a demure sip of wine.

‘Right,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s all put our ranks aside for the moment. What’s this all about, Annie?’

‘I’ve seen her notes. The phone calls. The research.’

‘You’ve been going through my desk while I was out, haven’t you? Prying into my affairs,’ said Gerry. ‘Poking around my desk. I suppose you’ve been into my computer, too?’

Annie looked away. ‘Oh, don’t get your knickers in a knot.’

Banks took it that she was guilty as charged. ‘That’s not on, Annie,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

‘Why not? I have a right to know what’s going on. She works under me. I’m the deputy investigating officer, or don’t you remember that? I’m her superior officer, and I have a right to know what the people under me are up to.’

‘Superior? That’s a laugh. I do my assigned work, my duty,’ said Gerry. ‘HOLMES 2 is up to date. You find fault with my data handling if you can.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Banks, speaking to both of them. ‘None of this. It’s mine. I’ve handled it badly. I should have come clean.’

‘A bit late for that now, isn’t it?’ said Annie.

Banks took a slug of wine. All they needed now was to get drunk and fall into some sort of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? drunken row. But that was two married couples, he remembered. Still, he would keep his intake to a low level. ‘It’s a very delicate situation,’ Banks said, choosing his words carefully. ‘A balancing act. As everyone knows, I got a hell of a bollocking from the AC and the ACC the other day, and I was told in no uncertain terms to lay off the Lady Chalmers angle. But as I’m sure everyone also knows — and you, in particular, Annie — I don’t take kindly to being given orders simply because someone plays golf with the chief constable and passes on a complaint. What neither of you know is that Lady Chalmers phoned me the other night and apologised, said it wasn’t down to her that it happened. It was her brother-in-law, Anthony Litton, who was present when you and I talked to her last Thursday, Annie. So you can’t say I didn’t include you in that, can you, in addition to telling you and Winsome my thoughts on Lady Chalmers the other day. And who got the bollocking? It wasn’t you.’

‘Oh, so she’s off the hook now, is she, because she phoned and made up?’ said Annie. ‘I suppose you had a nice old nostalgic chat about how good the sixties were, didn’t you? Fancy her as well, do you?’

‘Cut it out, Annie. What I’m trying to say is that it made me even more suspicious in some ways. What Gerry’s been doing — what I’ve been asking her to do — is vital to any investigation of what role Lady Chalmers may have played in the events. And in case you don’t realise it, Gerry also happens to be the best researcher we have. She’s also the one taking the risks by doing that research. If you were to think about it all clearly, I’ve been protecting you ever since I got the bollocking last Thursday.’

‘Oh, come off it, Alan. You can’t get away with that. It’s me you’re talking to. Annie Cabbot. Remember? Your “partner”.’ She glared at Gerry Masterson. ‘And I mean that in a professional sense. When have I ever made you think I don’t have the stomach to do what it takes to get the job done?’

‘Never. But this is different.’

‘Bollocks, it’s different.’

‘I’m sorry, Annie, but—’

‘Well, at least you’re sorry. That’s a start.’ Annie drank some more wine.

She seemed to be calming down a little, Banks thought, but he would have to play this very carefully if he wanted to pull the team together rather than push them apart.

‘Is it true that I’m so easily expendable?’ Gerry asked quietly. ‘That you’ve been using me as some sort of cover to protect your favourites, DI Cabbot and DS Jackman? Because if that’s true—’

‘Of course it isn’t true,’ said Banks, not used to getting it from both barrels like this. ‘I told you. You’re the best researcher we have. That’s why I asked you to do it.’

‘Anybody could have done what I’ve done. I was a fool, wasn’t I? You never let me in on any of the important interviews. You used me. I’ve never even met Lady Chalmers. You’d either go by yourself, or take DI Cabbot here, while I slaved over the computer and the phone just waiting for AC Gervaise to walk in and catch me.’

‘Don’t be silly, Gerry,’ said Banks. ‘The work you’ve been doing is essential. That’s just my way. If anything happened, I’d take the flak for you. You must know that. Annie? You, too. Tell her.’

Annie glanced from one to the other, obviously considering her options. Finally, she said, ‘He’s right. He might be a stubborn and devious bastard, but he’s there for the team when the chips are down. He’ll always take one for the team. Which is why it pisses me off so much that he didn’t let me and Winsome in on his little game.’ She reached for the bottle and refilled her glass.

‘We were spread too thin, Annie. Someone had to deal with Lomax and the college crowd.’

‘Muggins here.’

‘There’s no muggins about it. It’s still odds-on that one of them did it. We have, however, made quite a bit of progress today.’

Annie raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? Well, I can hardly say that I have. All I’ve done is hit a brick wall with Lisa Gray. And I’m sick to bloody death of that college and everyone in it.’

‘But Winsome went back to talk to Lisa again,’ Banks said. ‘And before you start flying off the handle about her doing things behind your back, she told me she did it because she felt she had a rapport with Lisa, and she also felt that Lisa was on the verge of opening up. She judged there was a better chance if she went by herself, and she was right.’

Annie snorted. ‘So maybe I was a bit hard on the Gray girl. But you know how Winsome likes to take on lame ducks.’

‘You’re one to talk, with that Polish girl you took home with you a few months ago.’

Annie’s lips tightened to a straight white line but she took a deep breath, another sip of wine and relaxed. ‘OK, so I’m the one behind in this game, the one who’s not coming up with the goods. You’ve made that obvious enough. So go on, bring me up to speed.’

Banks let the sarcasm drip off him. He was used to that. It meant Annie was on the mend. ‘Sometimes we do get involved,’ he said. ‘We know we shouldn’t, but we do. And you know what? Sometimes it helps. Lisa Gray was a victim of rape, a rape that occurred after a boy slipped her a dose of Rohypnol he bought from Kyle McClusky. That’s why she went to Gavin Miller instead of the police. Because she was ashamed and afraid, and because he wouldn’t ask her all kinds of personal and probing questions. We do our best with rape victims, as you both know, but it’s a difficult business, a balancing act at best, soft lights and music or no. These girls have been terribly violated. I can’t begin to know how they feel.’ He looked at Annie who, he was fully aware, knew very well how it felt.

Annie glared back at him. ‘So what happened?’ she asked.

‘When she made the link between Kyle and Beth and Kayleigh, she made up a story about hearing the girls crow over the stunt they’d pulled on Gavin Miller.’

‘So she lied about overhearing them in the toilets?’

‘Yes. She’d seen them at a party. That’s how she knew they were friends.’

‘Dammit, I thought so. I thought it was rather a long time after the events themselves to be talking about them like that. So Winsome got it out of her? Good for her.’

‘Lisa was going through a bad time. Guilt, shame, feeling dirty. She was drinking a lot, trying to block out what she knew had happened, even though her memories of it were fragmentary. She also felt responsible for what the girls did to Miller, when she managed to put it all together in her fogged-up brain. It was the best she could do. At least she tried.’

‘What about the rapist?’ Gerry asked.

‘Lisa said he was just someone she met at a concert and went to the bar with later. She doesn’t remember his name or what he looks like. She said he seemed like a nice bloke. Thinks he came from Bradford.’

‘So he got away with it?’

‘So it would appear. But Kyle McClusky is in jail, admittedly for something else, but he is in jail.’

‘A lot of good that’ll do him,’ Annie said. ‘I could think of a few better punishments for rapists, or for scum like him who facilitate rape. So? Result?’

‘The college crowd is still very much in the picture. They’ve all lied or held things back. Many things could have happened over the four years that passed to bring events to a head at that railway bridge, most of them centring around Gavin Miller finding out about all the behind the scenes stuff nobody told him at the time.’

‘But we’ve no evidence that he did find out.’

‘That’s the problem. And that’s what we’re still digging for. There were plenty of dangerous secrets around, and don’t forget Gavin Miller was desperately short of money. I think it’s possible that blackmail may have been involved somewhere along the line. We know he didn’t get a loan or win it on the lottery. Drugs are still a possibility. Miller might have thought them a way to turn a quick profit, and he could easily have stepped on the wrong toes.’

‘The toes of criminals who throw people from bridges?’ said Annie.

‘Exactly. We’re not ruling it out, so Winsome will liaise again with the drugs squad and see if they can turn anything up.’

Annie topped up her wine. Banks was about to tell her she should slow down, that she was driving, but if push came to shove, she could take his spare room. It had happened before, during her convalescence after the shooting. Gerry was fine, still nursing her first glass, about three-quarters full. Banks didn’t care himself. He wasn’t going anywhere. He took the bottle after Annie and finished it. There was only about a mouthful left.

‘So where do we go now?’ Annie asked.

‘Wherever we go,’ Banks said, ‘we go as a team. The Chalmers line of inquiry is still open and thriving, as far as I’m concerned, and everything any of us gets will be shared with all. As I understand it, Gerry’s got a line on one of the members of the Marxist Society who was around at the same time as Veronica Bellamy. Gerry?’

Gerry still seemed a bit agitated, and still resentful of Annie, but she began a hesitant, though thorough, account of her talk with Judy Sallis that evening, and the lead that it had given her to Dr Mandy Parsons. When she had finished, there was a pause, then Annie said, ‘Good work. The finding and the questioning.’

A ghost of a smile flickered across Gerry’s face at the compliment.

‘But don’t get cocky about it,’ Annie added. She glanced at Banks. ‘And tomorrow?’

‘Business as usual. I’ll be talking to Veronica Chalmers again, first thing, and I don’t care who knows about it. She lied about not knowing Miller at university, and I want to know why.’

‘She was only shagging him,’ Annie said. ‘That’s why.’

‘There has to be more to it than that.’

‘Maybe not. It’s probably something she was ashamed of, if she knew what he’d become. I can think of a few old boyfriends I wouldn’t want to admit to. Besides, Miller’s been murdered. Nobody wants to admit to being involved with a murder victim, even if it was forty years ago.’

Banks gave her an inquiring glance. Annie countered it with an enigmatic smile. ‘It could have even been more recent than that. We don’t know.’

‘Lady Veronica Chalmers and the decrepit Gavin Miller having an affair?’ said Banks. ‘Give us a break.’

‘These things happen.’

‘In your dreams.’

‘And if AC Gervaise finds out what I’ve been digging up about Veronica’s past,’ said Gerry, ‘then we’re all in for it.’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Then it’ll be time for your “I am Spartacus” impersonations.’

Annie managed a little snigger at that, though the reference seemed lost on Gerry.

‘Seriously, though,’ Banks went on. ‘Are we OK with this?’

Annie and Gerry looked at one another and nodded. ‘It’s a pity Winsome isn’t here,’ Annie said.

‘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.