someone with a key. “You didn’t see or hear anyone else call after that, did you?”
“Sorry. My bedroom’s at the back of the house and I still manage to sleep quite soundly, despite my age.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Banks.
“Look, is there something going on? You say Roy’s not come home.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Banks said, not wanting to worryFarrow. He put his tumbler of soda down and stood up. “You know, I’ll bet they went off to some pub or other, had a bit too much. They’re more than likely back at the other bloke’s place right now, still sleeping it off. It is Saturday, after all.” He started moving towards the door.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Farrow, following, “but it’s not like him. Especially as he’d only just got in.”
“Pardon?” said Banks, pausing in the doorway.
“Well, he’d just come back in, oh, not more than ten or fifteen minutes earlier, about quarter past nine. I saw his car, watched him park it in the garage. I must say, he seemed in a bit of a hurry.”
The phone call to Banks had been timed at 9:29 p.m., which meant that Roy had rung him a short while after he had arrived home. Where had he been? What was it he couldn’t talk about over the telephone? While he was on the phone, someone had come to his door, and a few minutes later Roy had gone out again, most likely with the man who had rung his doorbell. Where had they gone?
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Farrow,” said Banks. “I won’t trouble you any longer.”
“No trouble. You will let me know, won’t you, if you hear anything?”
“Of course,” said Banks.
And why shouldn’t I be all right with it? Annie thought as she parked at the top of the hill and walked towards the old Steadman house. Any romantic involvement she’d had with Banks was ancient history, so what did it matter whether he was seeing this Jennifer Clewes? Except that she was dead and Banks had disappeared.
Annie paused a moment on the bridge. It was one of those early summer days when the world seemed dipped in sunshine and life should be simple. Yet, for Annie, it was not without a tinge of melancholy, like the first sight of brown on the edges of the leaves, and she found her thoughts turning to the unresolved problems that haunted her.
There was a time, she remembered, when Banks had just come out of hospital, that there was so much she wanted to say to him, to explain, when she had wanted to apologize for being such a fool, but he wouldn’t let her get close, so she gave up. In the end, they simply carried on working together as if nothing of any consequence had happened between them.
But something had happened. Phil Keane, Annie’s boyfriend, had tried to kill Banks, had drugged him and set fire to his cottage. Annie and Winsome had dragged him out in time to save his life, and Phil had disappeared.
Officially, it wasn’t Annie’s fault. No blame. How could she have known? But she should have known, she kept telling herself. She should have recognized the signs. Banks had even hinted, but she had put it down to jealousy. She had never been so wrong about anything or anyone before. She’d screwed up relationships, of course, but that sort of thing happened to everyone. Nothing like this. Complete and utter humiliation. And it made her angry. She was a detective, for Christ’s sake. She was supposed to have an instinct for people like Phil Keane; she should have sussed him out herself.
In some ways what had happened to her was worse than the rape she had endured over three years ago. This was total emotional rape, and it stained her soul. Because she had loved Phil Keane, though she loathed to admit it to herself, now the very thought of him running his hands over her body, pleasuring her, penetrating her, made her feel sick. How could she haveseen no deeper than the charm, the good looks, the keen intelligence, that all-embracing energy and enthusiasm for life that made her –
“Sorry. My bedroom’s at the back of the house and I still manage to sleep quite soundly, despite my age.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Banks.
“Look, is there something going on? You say Roy’s not come home.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Banks said, not wanting to worryFarrow. He put his tumbler of soda down and stood up. “You know, I’ll bet they went off to some pub or other, had a bit too much. They’re more than likely back at the other bloke’s place right now, still sleeping it off. It is Saturday, after all.” He started moving towards the door.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Farrow, following, “but it’s not like him. Especially as he’d only just got in.”
“Pardon?” said Banks, pausing in the doorway.
“Well, he’d just come back in, oh, not more than ten or fifteen minutes earlier, about quarter past nine. I saw his car, watched him park it in the garage. I must say, he seemed in a bit of a hurry.”
The phone call to Banks had been timed at 9:29 p.m., which meant that Roy had rung him a short while after he had arrived home. Where had he been? What was it he couldn’t talk about over the telephone? While he was on the phone, someone had come to his door, and a few minutes later Roy had gone out again, most likely with the man who had rung his doorbell. Where had they gone?
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Farrow,” said Banks. “I won’t trouble you any longer.”
“No trouble. You will let me know, won’t you, if you hear anything?”
“Of course,” said Banks.
And why shouldn’t I be all right with it? Annie thought as she parked at the top of the hill and walked towards the old Steadman house. Any romantic involvement she’d had with Banks was ancient history, so what did it matter whether he was seeing this Jennifer Clewes? Except that she was dead and Banks had disappeared.
Annie paused a moment on the bridge. It was one of those early summer days when the world seemed dipped in sunshine and life should be simple. Yet, for Annie, it was not without a tinge of melancholy, like the first sight of brown on the edges of the leaves, and she found her thoughts turning to the unresolved problems that haunted her.
There was a time, she remembered, when Banks had just come out of hospital, that there was so much she wanted to say to him, to explain, when she had wanted to apologize for being such a fool, but he wouldn’t let her get close, so she gave up. In the end, they simply carried on working together as if nothing of any consequence had happened between them.
But something had happened. Phil Keane, Annie’s boyfriend, had tried to kill Banks, had drugged him and set fire to his cottage. Annie and Winsome had dragged him out in time to save his life, and Phil had disappeared.
Officially, it wasn’t Annie’s fault. No blame. How could she have known? But she should have known, she kept telling herself. She should have recognized the signs. Banks had even hinted, but she had put it down to jealousy. She had never been so wrong about anything or anyone before. She’d screwed up relationships, of course, but that sort of thing happened to everyone. Nothing like this. Complete and utter humiliation. And it made her angry. She was a detective, for Christ’s sake. She was supposed to have an instinct for people like Phil Keane; she should have sussed him out herself.
In some ways what had happened to her was worse than the rape she had endured over three years ago. This was total emotional rape, and it stained her soul. Because she had loved Phil Keane, though she loathed to admit it to herself, now the very thought of him running his hands over her body, pleasuring her, penetrating her, made her feel sick. How could she haveseen no deeper than the charm, the good looks, the keen intelligence, that all-embracing energy and enthusiasm for life that made her –
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