Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

“Sophia Katerina Morton.”

“Not Sophie?”

“No.”

“Kate?”

“Never.”

“Sophia it is, then.”

“Just don’t call me ‘Sugar.’”

“What?”

She smiled. “It’s a song. Thea Gilmore. It’s a bit cheeky, actually.”

“I know her,” Banks said. “She did an old Beatles song on one of those MOJO freebies. I liked it enough to buy a CD of other covers she’d recorded.”

“Loft Music,” said Sophia. “That’s good, but you should try her own songs.”

“I will. Do you work in the music business?”

“No. No, I’m a producer with the BBC. Arts radio, so I do occasionally get involved in music specials. I did a series about John Peel not too long ago, and I’ve done a few programs with Bob Harris.”

“ The Old Grey Whistle Test Bob Harris?”

“One and the same. He introduced me to Thea at his birthday party.”

“I’m impressed.”

“You would have been. Robert Plant was there, too. I’ve never met your son, though.”

“Ah, I see. You’re wooing me just to get to my son. They all try it. It won’t work, you know.”

Sophia laughed, and it lit up her features. “I’d hardly call this wooing.”

“You know what I mean.” Banks felt himself blushing.

“I do. He is a remarkable success, though, your Brian. Cute, too. You must be very proud.”

“I am. It took a while to get used to, mind you. I don’t know about the cute bit — you should have seen him when he was a surly, spotty teenager — but it’s not the easiest thing to deal with when your son decides to give up on higher education and join a rock band.”

“I suppose not,” said Sophia.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Banks said, “what were you doing at Harriet’s dinner party last night? I mean, I must admit, it didn’t really seem like your scene at all.”

“It wasn’t. And I wasn’t going to go.”

“So why did you?”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to pass over a chance to meet Eastvale’s top cop.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously! I’d heard so much about you over the years. It might sound silly, but I’ve felt I’ve known you ever since that first meeting. When Aunt Harriet told me she was inviting you to the dinner, I said I’d do my best to get there. Really, I wasn’t going to go. That’s why I was late. I only decided after it had started that I’d kick myself if I didn’t take the chance. It could have been a dreadful bore, of course, but…”

“But?”

“It wasn’t.” She smiled. “Anyway, you clearly enjoyed it so much you didn’t even want to change your clothes. I must say, it’s the first time I’ve been out with a man who wore the same clothes two nights in a row.”

So not too much of a lady, then. Banks liked that. He smiled back, and they laughed.

Their starters arrived, and they toasted with the wine and tucked in. Banks felt he would probably be better off wolfing down a burger and chips rather than the delicate and beautifully presented salad, but he tried not to let his hunger show. At least the steak and frites would fill him up. Sophia took tiny bites and seemed to savor each one. As they ate they talked about music, London, country walks — anything but murder — and Banks found out that Sophia lived in a small house in Chelsea, that she had once been married to a successful record producer but was now divorced and had no children, that she loved her job and enjoyed the luxury of her father’s Eastvale flat to visit whenever she wanted.

She was half Greek and half English. Banks remembered Harriet saying something about having a brother in the diplomatic service, and that was Sophia’s father. He had met her mother while posted in Athens, where she had worked in her father’s taverna, and against all advice they had married and had just celebrated their ruby wedding anniversary. They were away in Greece at the moment.

Sophia had spent a great deal of her childhood moving from place to place, never settling long enough in a school or a city to make friends, so now she valued those she had more than ever. Through her job, she met a lot of interesting people in the various arts — literature, music, painting, film — and she went out to a lot of events — concerts, exhibitions, festivals.

It sounded an exhausting life to Banks, a real social whirl, and he realized he simply didn’t have time for that sort of thing. His job took pretty much all he had, and what little time he had left over he used to relax with music or a DVD and a glass of wine. He went to Opera North when he could get there, took long walks in the hills when the weather was good, dropped by the local Helmthorpe pub for folk night once in a while, though less often now that Penny Cartwright, the local femme fatale, had turned him down.

As the evening continued and they topped up their wineglasses, it felt to Banks as it had under the street lamp at the bottom of Harriet’s path, as if their illuminated circle of the universe were the only real place, and everything outside it was insubstantial as shadows. That illusion was pierced when Marcel brought the bill. Banks paid, despite Sophia’s objections, and once again they found themselves out in the street saying good night. Banks had to go back to the station to see if there had been any progress. He felt extremely lucky that neither his pager nor his mobile had gone off during dinner.

Sophia thanked him for the meal, then they leaned toward each other to do the awkward cheek-kissing thing that had become so popular, but before Banks knew how it happened their lips were touching in a real kiss, long and sweet. When it was over, they walked off in opposite directions. Banks set off down the hill back to the station, realizing that he had made no specific arrangements to see Sophia again, and after about ten paces he turned around. At about the same moment Sophia looked back, too, and they smiled at each other. How odd, Banks thought. He never looked back, and he was willing to bet that Sophia never did, either.

Annie was in the station bright and early on Monday morning after a good night’s sleep and nothing stronger than a cup of hot chocolate over the course of the evening. She was just kicking the coffee machine the way you had to to get a cup out of it when Detective Superintendent Brough walked by and said, “My office, DI Cabbot. Now.”

Annie felt a chill. Was Brough a defender of the coffee machine or had Eric set out to harm her career? Had he got more photos that she hadn’t seen and sent them to Brough, or the chief constable? Or had he reported her behavior the other night? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Brough’s office was spacious and well appointed, as befitted a senior officer. He sat behind his desk and gruffly bade Annie sit opposite him in the hard chair. Her heart was thudding. She could argue that she had been drunk, but that reflected no better on her than sleeping with a snake like Eric in the first place.

“What have you got to say for yourself?” Brough asked, which didn’t help a great deal.

“About what?” Annie said.

“You know damn well what. The Lucy Payne murder. I’ve got the press so far up my arse I can taste their pencil lead, and absolutely bugger all to tell them. It’s been a week now, and as far as I can see you’ve just been marking time.”

In an odd way, Annie felt relieved that it was about the case and not about Eric. He hadn’t been in touch since Annie had paid him her visit on Friday, and that, she thought, was a good sign. Maybe he’d got the hint, which had been about as subtle as a blow to the head with a blunt object.

This was professional. This she could deal with. “With all due respect, sir,” she said, “we’ve done everything we can to trace this mystery woman, but she seems to have disappeared into thin air. We’ve questioned everyone at Mapston Hall twice — staff and patients alike, wherever possible — but no one there seems able to provide us with any kind of a lead or information whatsoever. No one knew anything about Karen Drew. It’s not as if most of the people there lead active social lives.”