Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“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.”