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“Maybe not,” said Banks. “But we might be able to do the next best thing. Were they married?”
“Harris was. Not Proctor.”
“Is his wife still alive?”
“As far as I know.”
“Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something. Think you can find her?”
“Piece of cake,” said Michelle.
“And let’s delve a little deeper into Donald Bradford’s domain, including the circumstances of his death.”
“Okay. But what about DS Shaw?”
“Avoid him as best you can.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult these days,” Michelle said. “He’s off sick half the time.”
“The booze?”
“That’s what I’d put my money on.”
“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Banks finished his drink. “Another?”
Michelle looked at her watch. “No. Really. I’d better go.”
“Okay. I suppose I should go, too.” Banks smiled. “I’m sure my mum’ll be waiting up for me.”
Michelle laughed. It was a nice sound. Soft, warm, musical. Banks realized he hadn’t heard her laugh before. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked.
“Oh, no. Thank you,” said Michelle, standing up. “I’m just around the corner.”
“I’ll walk with you, then.”
“You don’t need to. It’s quite safe.”
“I insist. Especially after what you’ve just told me.”
Michelle said nothing. They walked out into the mild darkness, crossed the road and neared the riverside flats, close to where Banks had parked his car. Michelle had been right; it really was within spitting distance.
“This is right across the river from where they used to have the fair when I was a kid,” he said. “Fu
“Before my time,” said Michelle.
“Yes.” Banks walked her up to her door.
“Well,” she said, fumbling for her key, giving him a brief smile over her shoulder. “Good night, then.”
“I’ll just wait and make sure everything’s okay.”
“You mean until you’re sure there are no bogeymen waiting for me?”
“Something like that.”
Michelle opened her door, put on the lights and did a quick check while Banks stood in the doorway and glanced around the living room. It seemed a bit barren, no real character, as if Michelle hadn’t put her stamp on it yet.
“All clear,” she said, emerging from the bedroom.
“Good night, then,” said Banks, trying to hide his disappointment that she didn’t even invite him in for a coffee. “And take care. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She gave him a smile. “Tomorrow.” Then she closed the door gently behind him, and the sound of the bolt slipping home seemed far louder than it probably was.
It was all very well for Gristhorpe to tell A
The blow from Armitage had shaken her more than she had cared to admit to either Banks or Gristhorpe because it had made her feel the same way she had felt when she was raped nearly three years ago: a powerless victim. She had sworn afterward that she would never allow herself to feel that way again, but down in the cramped, dank space of Norman Wells’s book cellar, she had felt it, the deep, gut-wrenching fear of the female powerless against male strength and sheer brute force. A
As the evening wore on, their mood had got more and more mellow, thanks partly to liberal quantities of Chianti. When she had gone outside into the backyard with Banks, who wanted a cigarette, and when he had put his arm around her, she had felt herself tremble like a teenager as she had blurted out all the reasons about why they shouldn’t do what they were about to do.
Well, they had done it. And now she had ended the affair. Sometimes she regretted that and wondered why she had done it. Partly it was because of her career, of course. Working in the same station as the DCI you’re screwing was bad policy. But maybe that was just an excuse. Besides, it didn’t have to be that way. She could have worked in another station, somewhere where the opportunities were just as good, if not better than at Western Area Headquarters.
It was true that Banks still seemed tied to his past, to his marriage, but she could have handled that. It was also something that would have waned in time. Everyone had emotional baggage, including A
Would it be like that with every man she met? Was it to do with the rape? Possibly, she thought. Or at least partly. She wasn’t sure she would ever completely get over that. What happened that night had certainly damaged her deeply. She didn’t think she was beyond repair, just that she had a long way to go. She still had occasional nightmares, and though she had never told Banks this, sex had sometimes been an effort for her, had even hurt at times. Sometimes the simple act of penetration, however consensual and gentle, had brought back the surge of panic and the feeling of sheer powerlessness she had first experienced that night. Sex certainly had its dark side, A
A
Banks walked down the stairs and tried to shake off his sense of disappointment. It was just as well, he told himself; the last thing he needed right now was to make a fool of himself over yet another woman. And Michelle had her own demons, whatever they were. Everyone did, it seemed. You couldn’t get to a certain age without attracting a lot of clutter. But why did it always have to get in the way? Why couldn’t you just shrug it off and get on with life? Why was misery so easy to embrace and joy so bloody elusive?
Just around the corner from the flats, he stopped to light a cigarette. Before he got his lighter out of his pocket, he felt something thud into him from behind. He staggered forward and turned to face whoever had hit him. He got only a quick glimpse of a pug nose and piggy eyes before a blow to the face upset both his vision and his balance. Another blow knocked him to the ground. Next he felt a sharp pain in his ribs and a kick to his stomach made him retch.
Then he heard a dog barking and a man’s voice shouting beyond the walls of pain, felt rather than saw his attacker hesitate, and heard him whisper, “Go back where you came from, or there’ll be more of that,” before he ran off into the night.