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III
Je
Dr. Je
Banks laughed. “Afraid not.”
“Pity. I was getting sort of used to that in America. Everyone’s on expenses there.”
“Let me buy the first one, at least.”
“How kind. I’ll have a small brandy please, to take the chill off.”
“And to eat?”
“Chicken in a basket.”
On his way to the bar, Banks recognized one or two of the local shop-owners and the manager of the NatWest Bank on his lunch-break. Cyril had also got the coal fire going nicely. The closest table to it was already taken by a group of ramblers in hiking boots and waterproof gear, so Banks and Je
Je
“The usual. My parents for Christmas Eve, Sandra’s for Christmas Day and Boxing Day.”
“And how is Sandra?”
“She’s fine.”
Je
Banks nodded. “It looks that way.”
“I take it that’s what you do want to pick my brains about, and this isn’t just a ruse to secure the pleasure of my company?”
Banks smiled. “Yes to the first. Not that I’d be averse to the latter.”
“Stop it, you sweet man. You’ll make the lady blush. How can I help?”
Banks lit a cigarette. “I don’t know if you can. Or if you will, rather. Just listen, first of all, and tell me if I’m going way off the tracks.”
Je
Banks told her what they knew about Owen Pierce and Michelle Chappel, stressing Owen’s reluctance to admit to knowing Michelle, her resemblance to Deborah Harrison, and what she said Owen had done to her.
When he had finished, Je
“You should know by now that you don’t always get one with crimes like this, Alan. Motiveless, stranger killings. At least not what you or I would regard as a logical or even a reasonable motive, like anger or revenge.”
“True. But bear with me, Je
Je
“And because of his mental state at the time.”
“All right, that too. And that this led him to kill her. Really he was killing Michelle.”
“Yes. What do you think?”
“I think you’ve got a point, or the begi
“You don’t think I’m way off beam?”
“Not at all.” Their food came. “How about another drink to wash this down?”
“Please. I never argue when a woman wants to buy me a drink.”
Banks watched Je
She was wearing tight black jeans and a jade-green jacket, made of raw silk, over a white shirt. Judging by the cut and the material of the jacket, the way it narrowed at her waist and flared slightly over the swell of her hips, it had probably cost her a small fortune on Rodeo Drive or some such place. But Je
Banks noticed her exchange a few words with a young man who looked like a trainee bank manager while she waited for Cyril to pour the pint. Poor fellow, Banks thought; he didn’t stand a chance. But Je
She came back with a pint of bitter for Banks and a Campari and soda for herself. He thanked her. “Making a date?” he said, nodding towards the man.
Je
When Je
“How was California?” he asked.
“All sun and surf. Just like ‘Baywatch.’”
“Really?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No, not really. You’d hate it,” she said. “Can’t smoke anywhere.”
“And they call it the Garden of Eden. Is that where you developed a taste for fried chicken?”
“Not at all. I’ve always had a weakness for lean, relatively fat-free meat deep-fried in batter and cholesterol. It appeases both conflicting sides of my nature.” She sliced off a chunk of deep-fried chicken breast and popped it in her mouth.
Banks laughed. They finished their meals in silence, then Banks lit a cigarette and said, “Back to Pierce. Look, I know I’m putting you on the spot, Je
“Like what?”
“The kind of thing we were talking about. Displacement, for example. Tell me more.”
Je
“Okay,” Je
“He’d had two pints and a whisky.”
“Okay. Let’s say, then, that we are dealing with displacement, which is a coping pattern. A defense mechanism, if you like.”
“Defense against what?”
“Stress, basically. If a situation really threatens your sense of adequacy, your ego, your self-esteem, then your reactions become defense-oriented, you defend your self from devaluation.”