Dead Right by Peter Robinson Page B

night, took a deep breath and went over to mourn Jason’s death with Ray from Leeds and Dog-face Russell from Horsforth.
    VII
    It was late when Banks got home that evening, after stopping off at the station on his way from Lyndgarth, and he was tired.
    Sandra was sitting at a table at the back of the living-room sorting through some transparencies, holding them up to the desklight, scrutinizing each one in turn, her long blonde hair tucked behind her ears.
    “Drink?” Banks asked.
    She didn’t look up. “No, thanks.”
    Fine. Banks went to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a finger of Laphroaig, thought about it for a moment, then added another finger. He picked up the evening paper from the coffee-table and sat on the settee.
    “Hard day?” he asked.
    “Not bad,” Sandra said, without looking away from the transparency she was holding. “Busy.”
    Banks looked at the paper for a few minutes without taking anything in, then went over to the stereo. He chose a CD of arias by Angela Gheorghiu. A few seconds into the first one, Sandra looked over and raised a dark eyebrow. “Must you?”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Do we really have to listen to this?”
    “What harm is it doing?”
    Sandra sighed and turned back to her transparency.
    “Really,” Banks pressed on. “I want to know. What harm is it doing? Is it too loud?”
    “No, it’s not too loud.”
    “Then what’s the problem?”
    Sandra dropped the transparency on the table a little harder than necessary. “It’s bloody opera, is the problem.”
    It was true that Sandra had once taken a magnet to one of his Götterdämmerung tapes. But that was Wagner, an acquired taste at the best of times. Who could possibly object to Angela Gheorghiu singing Verdi? Sandra had even been with him to see La Traviata on their season tickets last month, and she said she enjoyed it. But that was before last Saturday.
    “I didn’t think you found it that offensive,” Banks said, walking back to the stereo.
    “No, leave it,” Sandra said. “You’ve put it on. You’ve made your point. Just leave it.”
    “What point?”
    “What point? You know what point.”
    “No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”
    Sandra snorted. “Opera. Bloody opera. The most important thing on your agenda. In your life, for all I know.”
    Banks sat down and reached for his Scotch. “Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?”
    “Yes, we’re back to that again.”
    “Well, go on, then.”
    “Go on, what?”
    “Get it off your chest.”
    “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You’d like me to get it off my chest. Let the little lady yell at you for a couple of minutes so you can tell your mates what a bloody fishwife she is. Pretend to listen, be all contrite, then just carry on as if nothing had happened.”
    “It’s not like that,” Banks protested. “If you’ve got a problem, tell me. Let’s talk about it.”
    Sandra picked up another transparency and pushed a few loose strands of hair back behind her ears. “I don’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing to talk about.”
    Angela Gheorghiu had moved on to the “Aubade” from Chérubin now, but its beauty was lost on Banks.
    “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was that important to you.”
    Sandra glanced sideways at him. “That’s just it, isn’t it?” she said.
    “What is?”
    “You never do. You never do consider how important something might be to me. It’s always your needs that come first. Like bloody opera. You never bother asking me what I might want to listen to, do you? You just go straight to your bloody opera without even thinking.”
    Banks stood up again. “Look, I said I’m sorry. Okay? I’ll take it off if it bothers you so much.”
    “I told you to leave it. It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.”
    “Too late for what?”
    “Oh, Alan, give it a rest. Can’t you see I’ve got work to do.” She gestured at the transparencies