Cold Is The Grave

4

Banks was running about five minutes late for his dinner with Sandra when he got off the tube at Camden Town. The drizzle had turned into a steady downpour now, and puddles in the gutter were smeared with the gaudy reflections of shop signs and traffic lights. Luckily, the restaurant wasn’t far from the underground.

Banks turned up his jacket collar, but he was still soaked by the time he dashed into the restaurant. At first he didn’t recognize the woman who smiled and waved him over to her table by the window. Though he had seen Sandra briefly just a couple of months ago, she had changed her appearance completely since then. For a start, she had had her blond hair cut short and layered. If anything, the style emphasized her dark eyebrows more than ever, and Banks had always found Sandra’s eyebrows one of her sexiest features. She was also wearing a pair of round gold-rimmed glasses, not much bigger than the “granny glasses” that were so popular in the sixties. He had never seen her in glasses before, hadn’t known she needed them. From what he could make out, her clothes looked artsy, all different layers: a black shawl, a red silk scarf, a red-and-black-patterned jumper.

Banks edged into the chair opposite her. He was starving. It seemed ages since that dismal chicken pot pie in Kennington. “Sorry I’m a bit late,” he said, drying off his hair with a serviette. “I’d forgotten what a pain the bloody tube can be.”

Sandra smiled. “It’s all right. Remember, I’m used to your being late.”

Banks let that one go by. He looked around. The restaurant was busy, bustling with waiters and parties coming and going. It was one of those places that Banks thought trendy in its lack of trendiness, all scratched wood tables and partitions, pork chops, steaks and mashed potatoes. But the mashed potatoes had garlic and sun-dried tomatoes in them and cost about three quid a side order.

“I’ve already ordered some wine,” Sandra said. “A half-liter of the house claret. I know you prefer red. Okay with you?”

“Fine.” Banks had turned down a drink at Clough’s house because he hadn’t wanted to be beholden to the bastard in any way, but he wanted one now. “You’re looking good,” he said. “You’ve changed. I don’t mean that you didn’t always look good. You know what I mean.”

Sandra laughed, blushed a little and turned away. “Thank you,” she said.

“What’s with the glasses?”

“They come with age,” she said. “Anytime after you fortieth birthday.”

“Then I’m really living on borrowed time.”

A waiter brought the wine and left it for them to pour themselves. Pretentious in its unpretentiousness. Sandra paused as Banks filled their glasses, then lifted hers for a toast. “How are you, Alan?” she asked.

“Fine,” said Banks. “Just fine. Couldn’t be better.”

“Working?”

“Aren’t I always?”

“I thought Jimmy Riddle had shuffled you off to the hinterlands?”

“Even Riddle needs my particular skills every now and then.” Banks sipped some wine. Perfectly quaffable. He looked around and saw it was okay to light a cigarette. “May I cadge one?” Sandra asked.

“Of course. Still can’t give them up completely?”

“Not completely. Oh, Sean doesn’t like it. He keeps going on at me to stop. But I don’t think one or two a month is really bad for your health.”

Good sign, that, Banks thought: Sean the nag. “Probably not,” he said. “I keep waiting for them to announce they were wrong all along and cigarettes are really good for you, and it’s all the raw vegetables and fruit that do the damage.”

Sandra laughed. “You’ll have a long wait.” She clinked glasses. “Cheers.”

“Cheers. I was out where we used to live this lunchtime. Kennington.”

“Really? Why? A sentimental journey?”

“Work.”

“It was a pretty cramped flat, as I remember. Much too small with the kids. And that dentist I worked for was a groper.”

“You never told me that.”

“There’s lots of things I never told you. You usually seemed to have enough on your plate as it was.”

They studied the menu for a couple of minutes. Banks saw that he was right about the mashed potatoes. And the garlic and sun-dried tomatoes. And the price. He ordered venison sausage with braised red cabbage and garlic mashed potatoes. No sun-dried tomatoes. It seemed the perfect comfort meal for a night like this. Sandra went for steak and frites. Their orders given to the waiter, they smoked and drank in silence awhile longer. Now he was here with her, Banks didn’t know how to approach what he wanted to say. He felt curiously tongue-tied, like a teenager on his first date.

If Sandra would put this silliness with Sean aside and come back, he wanted to tell her, it was still possible that they could rebuild their relationship and move on. True, they had sold the Eastvale semi and Banks’s cottage would be a bit small for two, but they could manage there for a while at least. If Banks went through with his transfer to the National Crime Squad – if they offered him it – then who knew where they might end up living. And with Riddle owing him now, he would be all right for a glowing recommendation.

“I saw Brian last week,” Sandra said.

“He told me when I phoned him the other evening. I wanted to drop by and see him while I was here, but he said they were off to play some gigs in Scotland.”

Sandra nodded. “That’s right. Aberdeen. He’s really excited about their prospects, you know. They’ve already almost finished their first CD.”

“I know.” Their son Brian played in a rock band. They had just cut their first record with an indie label and were on the verge of getting a deal with a major record company. Banks had heard the band play the last time he was in London and had been knocked out by his son’s singing, playing and songwriting talent, had come to see him in a whole new light, a person unto himself, not just an extension of the family. He had almost written Brian off as an idler and a layabout after he nearly failed his degree, but Brian was his own person in Banks’s mind now. Independent, talented, free. The same feeling had happened with Tracy, when he had seen her with her new friends in a pub shortly after she started university. He knew he’d lost her, then – at least lost the daughter of his imagination – but in her place he had found a young woman he liked and admired, even if she was off in Paris with the monosyllabic Damon. Letting go can be painful, Banks had learned over the years, but sometimes it hurts more if you try to hold on.

“I thought you were taking Tracy to Paris this weekend?”

“She told you?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t she? I am her mother, after all.”

Banks sipped some wine. “Something came up,” he said. “She’s gone with a friend.”

Sandra raised an eyebrow. “Male or female?”

“Male. Bloke called Damon. Seems all right. Tracy can take care of herself.”

“I know that, Alan. It’s just… just difficult, that’s all.”

“What is?”

“Trying to bring up two kids this way.”

“Apart?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Even if we were still together, it would be like this. We’re not bringing them up anymore. They’re grown up now, Sandra. They live away from home. The sooner you accept that, the better.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I’m just saying it’s hard, that’s all. They both seem so distant now.”

“They are. But as I said, it would be like that anyway.”

“Maybe.”

Their food arrived and they both tucked in. The sausage was good, more meat than fat for a change, and so were the garlic mashed potatoes. Sandra pronounced her positive verdict on the steak. A few minutes into the meal, she said, “Remember when I dropped by to see you up at Gratly?”

“How could I forget?”

“I want to apologize. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Not unannounced. It was unfair of me.”

“Never mind.”

“How is she?”

“Who?”

“You know who I mean. Your pretty young girlfriend. What was her name?”

“Annie. Annie Cabbot. Detective Sergeant Annie Cabbot.”

“That’s right.” Sandra smiled. “I can’t believe you tried to con me into thinking the two of you were working. Her barefoot in those tight shorts. It was plain as the nose on your face. Anyway, how is she?”

“I haven’t seen much of her lately.”

“Don’t tell me I scared her off?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, she can’t have much staying power if she let a little thing like that scare her away.”

“I suppose not.”

“I’m sorry, Alan. Really I am. I don’t want to spoil anything for you. I want you to find someone. I want you to be happy.”

Banks ate more food and washed it down with wine. Soon, the carafe was empty. “Another?” he suggested.

“Fine,” said Sandra. “I’ll probably only have one glass, though. If you think you can manage the rest by yourself…”

“I’m not driving.” Banks ordered more wine and filled their glasses when it came.

“Was there anything… I mean, was there any particular reason you wanted to see me?” Sandra asked.

“Do I need a reason to have dinner with my own wife?”

Sandra flinched. “I didn’t mean you needed one, I just… For crying out loud, Alan, we’ve been separated for a year now. We’ve hardly spoken so much as a few words to one another in that time. And that mostly over the telephone. You can’t expect me not to wonder if you’ve got some sort of hidden agenda.”

“I just thought it was time we buried the hatchet, that’s all.”

Sandra studied him. “Sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“All right, then. Consider it buried.” They clinked glasses again. “How’s Jenny Fuller?”

Jenny was a mutual acquaintance; she was also a clinical psychologist and Banks had sought her help on a number of cases. “I haven’t seen a lot of her. She’s pretty busy now she’s back teaching at York.”

“You know,” Sandra said, toying with her few remaining frites and looking at him sideways, “there was a time when I thought you and Jenny… I mean, she’s a very attractive woman.”

“It just never worked out that way,” said Banks, who had often wondered why it hadn’t, even when it seemed that both of them wanted it to. Fate, he supposed. “She’s got poor taste in men,” he said, then laughed. “That wasn’t meant to sound that way. I didn’t mean to imply that I’d be a particularly good choice for her, just that she seems destined to end up with men who treat her badly, as if she’s constantly reliving some sort of relationship, trying to get it right and failing every time. She can’t break the cycle.”

“I know what you mean,” said Sandra. “She told me once that despite everything she’s done she doesn’t have a lot of confidence in herself, much self-esteem. I don’t know.”

They finished their meals, put their plates aside and Banks lit another cigarette. Sandra declined his offer of one. While she was at the ladies’, he poured himself more wine and debated how to broach the subject that was on his mind. As she walked back across the restaurant he noticed she was wearing jeans under her various flowing layers of clothing, and her figure still looked good. His heart gave a little lurch, and another part of him stirred, unbidden.

Sandra looked at her watch after she sat down. “I can’t stay very much longer,” she said. “I promised to meet some friends at half ten.”

“Party?”

“Mmm. Something like that.”

“You never did that up in Eastvale.”

“Things have changed since then. Besides, Eastvale closes down at nine o’clock. This is London.”

“Maybe we never should have left,” Banks said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, let’s be honest, I was getting pretty burned out. I thought a quieter life might bring us closer together. Shows how much I know.”

“It was nothing to do with that, Alan. It wouldn’t have mattered where we were. Even when you were there you were always somewhere else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. Most of the time you were out working; the rest of the time you were thinking about work. You just weren’t at home. The damnedest thing is, you never even realized it; you thought everything was just hunky-dory.”

“It was, wasn’t it? Until you met Sean.”

“Sean has nothing to do with this. Leave him out of it.”

“Nothing would suit me better.”

They fell silent. Sandra seemed restless, as if she wanted to get something off her chest before she left. “Stay for a coffee, at least,” Banks said. “And we’ll leave Sean out of it.”

She managed a thin smile. “All right. I’ll have a cappuccino. And please don’t tell me I didn’t drink that in Eastvale either. You can’t get a bloody cappuccino in Eastvale.”

“You can now. That new fancy coffee place opposite the community center. It wasn’t open when you left. Sells latte, too.”

“So the North’s getting sophisticated, after all, is it?”

“Oh, yes. People come from miles around.”

“To sell their sheep. I remember.”

“Yorkshire never really suited you, did it?”

Sandra shook her head. “I tried, Alan. Honestly I did. For your sake. For mine. For Brian and Tracy’s. I tried. But in the end I suppose you’re right. I’m a big-city girl. Take it or leave it.”

Banks filled his wineglass as Sandra’s cappuccino arrived. “I’ve applied for another job,” he told her finally.

She paused with the frothing cup halfway to her lips. “You’re not leaving the force?”

“No, not that.” Banks laughed. “I suppose the force will always be with me.”

Sandra groaned.

“But I’ll most likely be leaving Yorkshire. In fact there’s a good chance I could be based down here. I’ve applied for the National Crime Squad.”

Sandra frowned and sipped some coffee. “I read about that in the papers a while ago. Sort of an English FBI, they said. What brought all this about? I thought at least you were happy up to your knees in sheep droppings. Was it Jimmy Riddle?”

Banks scraped his cigarette around the rim of the ashtray. “A lot of reasons,” he said, “and Jimmy Riddle was a big one. I’m not so sure about that now. But maybe I’ve run my natural course up there, too. I’m just a bit behind you; that’s all. I don’t know. I think I need something new. a challenge. And maybe I’m a big-city boy at heart, too.”

Sandra laughed. “Well, good luck. I hope you get what you want.”

“It could mean travel, too. Europe. Hunting down dangerous criminals in the Dordogne.”

“Good for you.”

Banks paused to stub out his cigarette and take another sip of wine. Here goes nothing, he thought. “We’ve been apart about a year now, right?”

Sandra frowned. “That’s right.”

“It’s not that long, is it, when you think about it? People give up things for a while, then go back to them. Like smoking.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Maybe that wasn’t a good analogy. I was never much good at this sort of thing. What I’m saying is that people sometimes separate for a year or more, do other things, live in other places, then… you know, they get back together. Once they’ve got it out of their system. People can be an addiction, like cigarettes, but better for you. You find you can’t give them up.”

“Back together?”

“Yes. Not like before, of course. It never could be like before. We’ve both changed too much for that. But better. It could be better. It might mean you coming up to Yorkshire for a little while, just until things get sorted, but I promise – and I mean this – that even if the NCS doesn’t work out, I’ll get a transfer. I’ve still got contacts at the Met. There’s bound to be something for a copper with my experience.”

“Wait a minute, Alan. Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that I come up and live with you in that tiny cottage until you can get a job down here?”

“Yes. Of course, if you don’t want to, if you’d rather just wait until I get something – whatever – then I can understand that. I know it’s too small for two, really. I mean, you could come for the occasional weekend. We could see each other. Have dates, like when we were first together.”

Sandra shook her head slowly.

“What? You don’t like my idea?”

“Alan, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

“I know things got bad. I know you had to leave. I don’t blame you for that now. What I’m saying is that we can make a go of it again. It could be different this time.”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“No means no.”

“Okay.” Banks emptied his glass and poured some more. There wasn’t much left in the second carafe by now. “I suppose it must have been a shock coming out of the blue like that. Why don’t you at least take some time to think about it? About us. I apologize for springing it on you like this. You take the opportunities where and when you find them.”

“Can’t you hear what I’m saying, Alan? N O. No. We’re not moving back in together, neither up in Yorkshire nor down here in London. When I first moved out, I’ll admit I didn’t know what would become of us, how I would feel in a year’s time.”

“And you know now?”

“Yes.”

“So? What is it?”

“I’m sorry, Alan. Jesus, you have to go and make this so bloody difficult, don’t you?” She took her glasses off and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.

“I don’t understand.”

“Alan, we’re not getting back together. Not now. Not next month. Not ever. What I want to tell you is that I want a divorce. Sean and I want to get married.”

Banks looked in the large tilted mirror and saw short black hair still wet with beads of rain, which also glistened on the shoulders of his black leather jacket. Beyond the array of whiskey bottles, he saw a face that was perhaps too lean and sharply angled to be called handsome, and two bright, slightly out-of-focus blue eyes looking into themselves. He saw the kind of bloke you gave a wide berth unless you were looking for trouble.

Around him, life went on. The couple beside him argued in low, tense voices; a drunk rambled on to himself about Manchester United; noisy kids fed the machines with money, and the machines beeped and honked with gratitude. The air was dense with cigarette smoke and tinged with the smell of hops and barley. Barmen dashed about filling shouted orders, standing impatiently as the Optics dispensed their miserly measures of rum or vodka. One of them, shaking drops of Rose’s lime juice from a nozzled bottle into a pint of lager, muttered, “Jesus Christ, hurry up. I could piss faster than this.”

Banks took a long swig of beer and lit another cigarette, marveling for the umpteenth time in the last hour or so at how calm he felt. He hadn’t felt this calm in ages. Certainly not in his last few months with Sandra. After she had dropped her bombshell earlier in the evening, she had dashed out of the restaurant in tears, leaving Banks alone with his wine and the bill. The whole place had seemed to fall silent as the pressure mounted in his ears, and he felt pins and needles prickle over his entire body. Divorce. Marry Sean. Had she really said that?

She had, he realized after he had paid up and wobbled down the rain-lashed streets of Camden Town into the first pub he saw. And now here he was at the bar, on his second pint, wondering where were the anger, the pain, the rage he was supposed to feel? He was stunned, gob-smacked, knocked for six, as anyone would be after hearing such news. But he didn’t feel as if the bottom had fallen out of his world. Why?

The answer, when it came, was so simple he could have kicked himself. It was because Sandra was right. They weren’t going to get back together. He’d been deluding himself for long enough, and reality had finally broken through. He had simply been going through the motions he thought he was supposed to go through. When it really came down to it, neither of them really wanted to get back together. It was over. And this was one sure way of bringing about closure. Divorce. Marriage to Sean.

Sure, Banks knew, you can’t write off twenty years of marriage completely, and there would always be a residue of affection, even of love and, perhaps, of pain. But – and this was the important thing – it was finally over. There would be no more ambiguity, no more vain hope, no more childish illusions that some external change – a new place to live, a new job – would make everything all right again. Now they could both walk away from the dead thing that was their marriage and get on with their lives.

There would be sadness, yes. They’d have regrets, perhaps a few, as the song went. They would also always be tied together by Brian and Tracy. But he realized as he looked in the pub mirror at his own reflection that if he was to be really honest with himself right now – and this was the moment for it – then he should be celebrating rather than drowning his sorrows. Tomorrow he would phone Sandra and tell her to go ahead with the divorce, to marry Sean, that it was fine. But tonight he would celebrate freedom. What he really felt was relief. The scales had fallen from his eyes. Because there was no hope, there was hope.

And so he raised the rest of his pint in celebration and drew one or two curious looks when he toasted the face in the mirror.

Rain had smudged the neon and car lights all over the road like a finger painting as Banks walked a little unsteadily looking for the next pub. He could hear the sound of distant fireworks and see rockets flash across the sky. He didn’t want to go back to the lonely hotel room just yet, didn’t feel tired enough, despite what felt like a long day.

The next pub he found was less crowded, and he managed to find a seat in the corner, next to a table of pensioners well into their cups. He knew he was a bit drunk, but he also knew he was well within the limits of reason in his thoughts. And so he found himself thinking about what had transpired that day, how uneasy he felt about it all. Especially about his meeting with Emily Riddle at Barry Clough’s villa. The more he thought about that, the more out of kilter everything seemed.

Emily had been high; that much was obvious. Whether she was on coke or heroin, he couldn’t be certain, but the white powder on her upper lip certainly indicated one or the other. Coke, he would guess, given her jerkiness and her mood swings. She had probably been smoking marijuana, too. Craig Newton had also said she was really high when he saw her in the street, the time Clough’s minders beat him up. So was she a junkie or an occasional user? Sometimes the one shaded right into the other.

Then there was Barry Clough himself: the expensive villa, the gold, the furnishings, the Armani suit, the guns. That he was a “businessman” was all anyone would say about him, and that was a term that covered a multitude of sins. What did he really have to do with the music business? What sort of party had he met Emily at? That he was a crook of some kind, Banks had no doubt, but as to what kind of criminal activity or activities were his bent, he didn’t know. How did he make his money? Drugs, perhaps. Porn? Possibly. Either way, he was bad news for Emily, no matter how much of a ball she thought she was having now, and he was even worse news for Jimmy Riddle’s career prospects.

Banks hadn’t felt good about walking away from Clough’s house like that. Just as he hadn’t felt good about not taking on the minder at the gate. Under normal circumstances, he would have gone in there with authority, with teeth, but he was acting as a private citizen, so he had to take whatever they dished out. He was also committed to acting discreetly, and who knew what damaging revelations might come out into the light of day if he upset Clough? Part of him, perhaps due to the overstimulation of alcohol, wanted to go back there and ruffle Clough’s feathers, antagonize him into making some sort of move. But he knew enough not to give in to the desire. Not tonight, at any rate.

Instead, he called upon the gods of common sense, finished his pint and hurried out into the street to find a taxi. A good night’s sleep was what he needed now, and tomorrow would bring what it would.

Tomorrow came too early. It was 3:18 A.M. by the digital clock on Banks’s bedside table when the telephone rang. Groaning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he groped for it in the dark and finally grasped the handset.

“Banks,” he grunted.

“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, sir,” said the desk clerk, “but there’s a young lady in the lobby. She seems very distraught. She says she’s your daughter and she insists on seeing you.”

In Banks’s half-asleep, alcohol-sodden consciousness, the only thought that came clear out of all that was that Tracy was there and she was in trouble. Perhaps she had been talking to Sandra and was upset about the impending divorce. “Send her up,” he said, then he got out of bed, turned on the table lamp and pulled on his clothes. His head ached and his mouth was dry. Figuring it would take Tracy a minute or so to get up to his third-floor room, he nipped into the bathroom and swallowed a few Paracetamols from his traveling medicine kit, along with a couple of glasses of water. When he had done that, he filled and plugged in the little kettle and put a teabag in the pot.

By the time the soft knock came at his door, Banks was beginning to realize there was something wrong with the picture he had envisaged. Tracy knew where he would be, of course; he had given her the name of the hotel before she left for Paris with Damon. But it was still only Saturday night, or Sunday morning, so shouldn’t they both still be in Paris?

When he opened the door, Emily Riddle stood there. “Can I come in?” she said.

Banks stepped aside and locked the door behind her. Emily was wearing a black evening gown, loose-fitting, cut low over her small breasts and slit up one side to her thigh. Her bare arms were covered with goose pimples. Her blond hair was messily piled on her head, the remains of the sophisticated style disarrayed by the wind and rain. She looked like a naughty debutante. A twenty-five-year-old naughty debutante at that. But more remarkable than all that were the tear down the right shoulder of her dress and the question mark of dried blood at the corner of her mouth. There was also a weal on her cheek that looked as if it might turn into a bruise. Her eyes looked heavy, half-closed.

“I’m so tired,” she said, then she tossed her handbag on the bed and flopped into the armchair.

The kettle came to a boil and Banks made some tea. Emily took the hot cup from him and held it to herself as if she needed the heat. Her eyes opened a little more.

Suddenly, it seemed like a very small room. Banks perched on the edge of the bed. “What is it?” he asked. “What happened, Emily? Who did this to you?”

Emily started crying.

Banks found her a tissue from the bathroom, and she wiped her eyes with it. They were bloodshot and pink around the rims. “I must look a sight,” she said. “Have you got a cigarette, please?”

Banks gave her one and took one himself. After she had taken a few drags and sipped some tea, she seemed to compose herself a bit more.

“What happened?” Banks asked again. “Did Clough do this?”

“I want to go home. Will you take me home? Please?”

“In the morning. Tell me what happened to you.”

Her eyes started to close and she leaned back in the chair with her legs stretched out and ankles crossed. Banks worried that she would slide right onto the floor, but she managed to stay put. She looked at Banks through narrowed eyes and blew some smoke out of her nose. It made her cough, which spoiled the sophisticated effect she had probably been aiming for.

“Tell me what happened,” he asked her again.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I ran… in the rain… found a taxi and came here.”

“But you threw the address away.”

“I can remember things like that. I only have to look once. Like my mother.” She finished her cigarette and seemed to doze off for a moment.

“Did Clough do this to you? Was it him?”

She pretended to sleep.

“Emily?”

“Uh-huh?” she said, without opening her eyes.

“Was it Clough?”

“I don’t want to go back there. I can’t go back there. Will you take me home?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll take you home tomorrow.”

“Can I stay here tonight?”

“Yes.” Banks stood up. “I can get a room for you. I don’t think they’re full.”

“No.” Her eyes opened wide and she jerked forward so quickly she spilled tea over the front of her dress. If it burned her, she didn’t seem to feel it. “No,” she said again. “I don’t want to be by myself. I’m scared. Let me stay here with you. Please?”

Christ Almighty, thought Banks. If anyone found out about this, his career wouldn’t be worth twopence. But what else could he do? She was upset and she was scared. Something bad had happened to her. He couldn’t simply abandon her.

“Okay,” he said. “Take the bed, and I’ll sleep in the chair. Come on.”

He leaned forward to help her up. She seemed listless. When she finally got out of the chair, she stumbled forward against his chest and put her arms around his neck. “Have you got anything to smoke?” she said. “I’m coming down. I need something to soften the edges. I think somebody put something in my drink.” He could feel her warm body touching his under the thin material of the dress, and he remembered the images he had seen of her naked. He felt ashamed of his erection and hoped she didn’t notice, but as he disentangled her arms and moved away, she gave him a cockeyed, mischievous smile and said, “I told you before you were a liar.”

She did something with the straps of her dress, and it slipped off her shoulders over her waist to the floor. She was wearing white bikini panties and nothing more. Her nipples stood out dark and hard on her small white breasts. The black spider tattoo between her navel ring and the elastic of her panties seemed to be moving, as if it were spinning a web.

“For crying out loud,” said Banks, picking up the bedspread and swathing it around her. She giggled and fell on the bed. “Of course you don’t have anything to smoke,” she said. “You’re a copper. Detective Chief Inspector Bonks. No, he doesn’t. Yes, he does. No, he doesn’t.” She giggled again, then turned on her side and put her thumb in her mouth, drawing up her legs in the fetal position. “Hold me,” she said, taking her thumb out for a moment. “Please come and hold me.”

Banks shook his head and whispered, “No.” There was no way he was getting in that bed with her, no matter how much she said she was in need of comfort. If he thought about it, he should probably throw her out and tear up the sheets, but he couldn’t do that. Instead, he managed to pull some more blankets over her, and she offered no resistance. For a while, she seemed to be muttering and murmuring as best she could with her thumb back in her mouth, then he heard her start snoring softly.

Banks knew there would be no more sleep for him tonight. In the morning, he would go to Oxford Street when the shops opened and buy her some clothes, then they would take the first train back to Eastvale. He would drive her to her father’s house and there he would leave her, leave them all to sort it out. His job would be over.

But as he sat in the chair and smoked another cigarette, listening to the wind and rain rattling the window, and to Emily’s ragged snoring, he couldn’t help but mull the situation over. It was all wrong. He was a copper; a serious offense had been committed; the law had been broken; he should be doing something, not sitting in the armchair smoking as his chief constable’s sixteen-year-old daughter slept in his bed practically starkers with her thumb in her mouth, to all intents and purposes nothing but a child in a woman’s body.

Three fifty-two. A long wait until dawn. He glanced through the curtains and saw a flash of white moon through the gray wisps of cloud. Emily stirred, turned over, farted once and started snoring again. Banks reached for his Walkman on the table beside him and put in the Dawn Upshaw tape. Songs about sleep.

Come, Sleep, and with

Thy sweet deceiving

Lock me in delight awhile.

Not much hope of that, Banks thought, not after the day he had just been through.