institutional green paint on the walls and that unforgettable smell of fear.
There was nothing to worry about, of course, but Banks couldn’t help feeling just a little nervous as DI Hart put on her silver-rimmed, oval reading glasses and shuffled the papers around in front of her, as he had done many times himself, to draw out the tension and cause anxiety in the person sitting opposite. It touched the raw nerve of his childhood fear of authority, even though he knew he was authority himself now. Banks had always been aware of that irony, but a situation like this one really brought it home.
He also felt that DI Hart didn’t need to act this way with him, that she was putting on too much of a show. His fault, perhaps, for not saying who he was, but even so, it was a bit heavy-handed to talk to him in an official interview room. He had come in voluntarily, and he was neither a witnessnor a suspect. She could have found an empty office and sent for coffee. But what would he have done? The same as her, probably; it was the us-and-them mentality, and in her mind he was a civilian. Them .
DI Hart stopped playing with her papers and broke the silence. “So you say you can help with the Graham Marshall investigation?”
“Perhaps,” said Banks. “I knew him.”
“Have you any idea at all what might have happened to him?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Banks. He had intended to tell her everything but found it wasn’t as easy as that. Not yet. “We just hung around together.”
“What was he like?”
“Graham? It’s hard to say,” said Banks. “I mean, you don’t think about things like that when you’re kids, do you?”
“Try now.”
“He was deep, I think. Quiet, at any rate. Most kids joked around, did stupid stuff, but Graham was always more serious, more reserved.” Banks remembered the small, almost secret smile as Graham had watched others act out comic routines–as if he didn’t find them funny but knew he had to smile. “You never felt you were fully privy to what was going on in his mind,” he added.
“You mean he kept secrets?”
“Don’t we all?”
“What were his?”
“They wouldn’t have been secrets if I knew them, would they? I’m just trying to give you some sense of what he was like. There was a secretive side to his nature.”
“Go on.”
She was becoming edgy, Banks thought. Rough day, probably, and not enough help. “We did all the usual stuff together: played football and cricket, listened to music, talked about our favourite TV shows.”
“What about girlfriends?”
“Graham was a good-looking kid. The girls liked him, and he liked them, but I don’t think he had anyone steady.”
“What kind of mischief did he get up to?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to incriminate myself, but we broke a window or two, did a bit of shoplifting, played truant, and we smoked cigarettes behind the cycle sheds at school. Pretty much normal stuff for teenagers back then. We didn’t break into anyone’s home, steal cars or mug old ladies.”
“Drugs?”
“This was 1965, for crying out loud.”
“Drugs were around back then.”
“How would you know? You probably weren’t even born.”
Michelle reddened. “I know King Harold got an arrow in his eye at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, and I wasn’t born then.”
“Okay. Point taken. But drugs…? Not us, at any rate. Cigarettes were about the worst we did back then. Drugs may have been increasingly popular with the younger generation in London, but not with fourteen-year-old kids in a provincial backwater. Look, I should probably have done this before, but…” He reached into his inside pocket and took out his warrant card, laying it on the desk in front of her.
Michelle looked at it a minute, picked it up and looked more closely, then slid it back across the desk to Banks. She took off her reading glasses and set them on the table. “Prick,” she whispered.
“Come again?”
“You heard me. Why didn’t you
There was nothing to worry about, of course, but Banks couldn’t help feeling just a little nervous as DI Hart put on her silver-rimmed, oval reading glasses and shuffled the papers around in front of her, as he had done many times himself, to draw out the tension and cause anxiety in the person sitting opposite. It touched the raw nerve of his childhood fear of authority, even though he knew he was authority himself now. Banks had always been aware of that irony, but a situation like this one really brought it home.
He also felt that DI Hart didn’t need to act this way with him, that she was putting on too much of a show. His fault, perhaps, for not saying who he was, but even so, it was a bit heavy-handed to talk to him in an official interview room. He had come in voluntarily, and he was neither a witnessnor a suspect. She could have found an empty office and sent for coffee. But what would he have done? The same as her, probably; it was the us-and-them mentality, and in her mind he was a civilian. Them .
DI Hart stopped playing with her papers and broke the silence. “So you say you can help with the Graham Marshall investigation?”
“Perhaps,” said Banks. “I knew him.”
“Have you any idea at all what might have happened to him?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Banks. He had intended to tell her everything but found it wasn’t as easy as that. Not yet. “We just hung around together.”
“What was he like?”
“Graham? It’s hard to say,” said Banks. “I mean, you don’t think about things like that when you’re kids, do you?”
“Try now.”
“He was deep, I think. Quiet, at any rate. Most kids joked around, did stupid stuff, but Graham was always more serious, more reserved.” Banks remembered the small, almost secret smile as Graham had watched others act out comic routines–as if he didn’t find them funny but knew he had to smile. “You never felt you were fully privy to what was going on in his mind,” he added.
“You mean he kept secrets?”
“Don’t we all?”
“What were his?”
“They wouldn’t have been secrets if I knew them, would they? I’m just trying to give you some sense of what he was like. There was a secretive side to his nature.”
“Go on.”
She was becoming edgy, Banks thought. Rough day, probably, and not enough help. “We did all the usual stuff together: played football and cricket, listened to music, talked about our favourite TV shows.”
“What about girlfriends?”
“Graham was a good-looking kid. The girls liked him, and he liked them, but I don’t think he had anyone steady.”
“What kind of mischief did he get up to?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to incriminate myself, but we broke a window or two, did a bit of shoplifting, played truant, and we smoked cigarettes behind the cycle sheds at school. Pretty much normal stuff for teenagers back then. We didn’t break into anyone’s home, steal cars or mug old ladies.”
“Drugs?”
“This was 1965, for crying out loud.”
“Drugs were around back then.”
“How would you know? You probably weren’t even born.”
Michelle reddened. “I know King Harold got an arrow in his eye at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, and I wasn’t born then.”
“Okay. Point taken. But drugs…? Not us, at any rate. Cigarettes were about the worst we did back then. Drugs may have been increasingly popular with the younger generation in London, but not with fourteen-year-old kids in a provincial backwater. Look, I should probably have done this before, but…” He reached into his inside pocket and took out his warrant card, laying it on the desk in front of her.
Michelle looked at it a minute, picked it up and looked more closely, then slid it back across the desk to Banks. She took off her reading glasses and set them on the table. “Prick,” she whispered.
“Come again?”
“You heard me. Why didn’t you
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