Peter Robinson - Not Dark Yet

Banks glanced around at his fellow drinkers: a group of tourists, a couple of old men sitting in silence together, a businessman trying to impress his secretary, an elegant woman sipping white wine and glancing nervously at her watch, perhaps waiting for her lover, two garrulous young Frenchmen sharing jokes. Gauloises smoke drifted over from the next table, reminding Banks of his school exchange with a boy from Lille when he was about fourteen. It was quite a discovery at that age to find out you could order a beer in a bar, then sit and drink it while enjoying a Disque Bleu and no one would think twice about it.

He watched the people passing by. Nobody seemed in much of a hurry. Suddenly, he saw the young Francoise Hardy, tall, willowy, with shiny long chestnut hair, stylishly dressed, carrying four long-stemmed red roses. She noticed him looking at her and flashed him a quizzical smile that for some reason made him feel like a dirty old man. But he wasn’t dirty and he didn’t feel old. He knew quite well that she wasn’t really Francoise Hardy, but Francoise Hardy as she would have been over fifty years ago, when he was an awestruck schoolboy on his first trip abroad in the heady days of Salut les copains , Sylvie Vartan, Johnny Hallyday, France Gall, and Richard Anthony. And he didn’t feel any different now from that young man who had listened to her sing ‘Tous les garçons et les filles’ as he gazed at her photo on the album cover all those years ago.

He remembered a field outside Lille, surrounded by trees, a stolen kiss with Brigitte while the others immersed themselves in a game of boules. The scent of warm grass, the tang of wine, the softness of her lips yielding shyly. That was it. That was all. That was enough.

‘Alain.’ The familiar voice brought him back from the past in a rush. It was Jean-Claude. He had always used the French for his name, called him ‘Alain.’

Banks stood up and they embraced warmly then sat down. The waiter drifted by and Banks ordered another Bordeaux for himself and whatever Jean-Claude wanted, which was a glass of Chablis.

‘I was miles away,’ Banks said. ‘You know, I just saw a girl who was the spitting image of the young Francoise Hardy.’

Jean-Claude smiled indulgently. ‘Always the romantic.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’

‘For a policeman, I think it is.’

The drinks arrived and Jean-Claude took a sip. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You know, she was born not far from here. In the ninth, at any rate.’

‘Francoise Hardy?’

‘Oui.’

Banks’s perspective shifted slightly, as if he were viewing the place from a different angle. ‘How’s retirement?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure I know yet. It hasn’t been that long, and I’ve been consulting with my squad on high-profile cases ever since.’

‘So you’re still working?’

‘Basically, yes. But part-time. Less stress.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Let the young men do all the running round and my little grey cells do all my work.’

The shadows were creeping across the pavement in front of the Grand Comptoir restaurant over the street, almost reaching the outside tables. Its pale cream facade was still lit in the late afternoon glow. The number of pedestrians passing by started to increase as the Metro disgorged more and more people on their way home from work.

The empty tables soon filled, and the buzz of conversation got louder. Banks and Jean-Claude chatted about old times, opera, football, books, Brexit, and the future. Eventually, after the second glass of Chablis, Jean-Claude asked Banks, ‘You wanted to talk about something? You were very cryptic on the telephone. Is it something I can help with?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Banks.

‘Then I suggest we finish our drinks and discuss it over dinner. I know just the place.’

Charlotte paused so long that Annie thought she wasn’t going to answer. Finally, she cast her eyes down and muttered so softly that Annie had to lean forward to hear her. ‘Connor,’ she said. ‘Connor raped her.’

Annie slapped the table. ‘Then why the hell didn’t you tell us that from the start? Do you realise how much trouble you’ve caused; the resources you’ve wasted?’

‘That’s not my fault,’ Charlotte argued back, her eyes brimming with tears again. ‘I didn’t tell you because Marnie didn’t want anyone to know and Connor’s dead, so what the hell does it matter? You couldn’t put him in jail. How the hell was I to know there was a video and that you’d end up investigating the rape? I knew it would end like this, with you lot trying to find something to charge me with, lock me up, and throw away the key. That you’d ruin the life I’ve worked so hard to build. That’s why I didn’t tell you the truth to begin with.’

‘Oh, spare me,’ said Annie. ‘You’re telling us you lied because you were surprised by the video? That you didn’t expect to have to answer any questions? Is that why you also lied about not recognising Marnie from the first picture we showed you, leading us to waste hours of valuable time finding out who she was?’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte sniffed. ‘And now Marnie’s dead, too. They’re both dead. It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? None of it matters any more.’

‘Perhaps if you had insisted that Marnie get the kind of help she needed, she would still be alive.’

Charlotte gave her a look of pure hatred. ‘How can you?’ she said. ‘How dare you say that to me? You’re a terrible person, a cruel person.’ She started to cry again, and the lawyer passed her a tissue.

‘Ease up a little, DI Cabbot,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘You’ve just informed Mrs. Westlake about the death of her biological daughter. She has reason to be upset.’

‘You think I’m being too hard?’ Annie said. ‘Sorry. It’s a sign of the extreme frustration this case has caused me.’

‘We’re all frustrated,’ said Jessica Bowen, ‘but let us please try to remain civilised.’

Annie glanced at Gerry, who also seemed dumbstruck by her last comment. Had she really overstepped the mark? Was she cruel? The only thing to do now was to press on to the logical conclusion.

‘What was your relationship with Connor Blaydon?’ she asked.

Charlotte blew her nose and looked up with reddened eyes. ‘What do you mean, relationship ? He was my boss.’

‘Other than that?’

‘Are you suggesting there was more to it than that?’

Annie turned over a sheet of paper. ‘When Marnie’s best friend, Mitsuko Ogawa, told us about her job, she said that you were working for an old friend. We thought it seemed like an odd thing to say at the time, as you’d told us you met Blaydon at a gala event a few years before. You never mentioned a friendship. But you also indicated that you had known one another on and off for some time. Only you were very vague about it.’

‘Why should I mention a friendship? There wasn’t one. We had a working relationship. I don’t know what this Ogawa woman was talking about, but it was likely just a figure of speech.’

‘How long had you known Blaydon, then?’ Annie asked. ‘Whether you were friends or not.’

‘Like I said, a few years, on and off.’

‘How many? Twenty?’

Charlotte turned away. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

Annie referred to the notes Gerry had made again. ‘Isn’t it true that you had known Connor Clive Blaydon since you were twenty-one, in 1999? You were a rebellious young tearaway gadding around the Greek islands with some wealthy friends you’d met at St. Hilda’s, cadging lifts and sleeping berths on yachts. Didn’t you once cadge a lift on a luxury yacht called the Nerea , out of Corfu? And wasn’t this owned by one Connor Clive Blaydon?’