“I thought you two were…?”

“We were. But it was a long time ago. Things change. You ought to know that.”

“I suppose so,” said Banks.

“Kath behind the bar told me about the fire, about what happened to your cottage, after she saw us talking. I’m really sorry.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Banks. “Besides, I’m having it restored.”

“Still… Anyway,” she went on, not looking at him, “I was rude that night, and I’m sorry. There, I’ve said it.”

“Why did you react the way you did?”

“It wasn’t deliberate, if that’s what you mean.”

“What, then?”

Penny paused and stared into the river. “You really don’t know, do you? All those years ago,” she said finally, “the way I felt. It was like some sort of violation. I know you saved my life and I should thank you for that, but you treated me like a criminal. You actually believed that I killed my best friend.”

At one point, that was probably true, Banks thought. It was just a part of his job, and he had never stopped to think how it might have made Penny feel. Everyone gets tainted by a murder investigation. Roy had wanted his big brother, Banks remembered, not a policeman. But where does the one end and the other begin?

“And there you were,” she went on, “asking me out to dinner, casual as anything, as if none of it had ever happened.”

“People aren’t always what they seem,” he said. “When the police come around asking questions, people lie. Everyone’s got something to hide.”

“So you suspect everyone?”

“More or less. Anyone who might have motive, means and opportunity.”

“Like me?”

“Like you.”

“But I cared about Harry Steadman.”

“That’s what you told us.”

“I could have been lying?”

“As I remember it, that case was full of lies.”

Penny took one last drag on her cigarette and flicked the stub into the river. “Oops,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. The river police will be after me.”

“Don’t worry,” said Banks. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

She favored him with another flicker of a smile. “I’d better be going,” she said, edging away. “It’s getting late.”

“All right.”

She started along the path, paused and half-turned to face him. “Good night, then, Mr. Policeman. And I’m sorry I reacted so badly. I just wanted to tell you why.”

“Good night,” said Banks. He felt a tightness in his chest, but it was now or never. “Look,” he went on, calling after her, “maybe I’m being insensitive again, and I’m sorry I got off on the wrong foot, but is it at all within the bounds of possibility, you know, what I asked you about the other night, maybe the possibility of us, of you and me, you know… having dinner sometime?”

She turned briefly. “I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “You still don’t get it, do you?” And she walked off into the shadows.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the following people for the time and care they have put into helping this book into its final shape: Sarah Turner, Maria Rejt and Nicholas Blake at Pan-Macmillan; Dan Conaway, Erika Schmid and Jill Schwartzman at William Morrow; and Dinah Forbes at McClelland amp; Stewart. I would also like to thank Michael Morrison, Lisa Gallagher, Sharyn Rosenblum, Angela Tedesco, Dominick Abel, David Grossman, David North, Katie James, Ellen Seligman and Parmjit Parmar for all their ongoing hard work and support.

I also want to thank Commander Philip Gormley, head of S019, the Metropolitan Force Firearms Unit and Detective Inspector Claire Stevens of the Thames Valley Police. As usual, any mistakes are my own and are made entirely in the interests of the story.

I also owe a debt of thanks to the music of Richard Thompson and to Victor Malarek for his book, The natashas.

About the Author

PETER ROBINSON’s award-winning novels have been named a Best-Book-of-the-Year by Publishers Weekly, a Notable Book by the New York Times, and a Page-Turner-of-the-Week by People magazine. Robinson was born and brought up in Yorkshire, England, but has lived in North America for nearly twenty-five years