"You heard me. I met this bloke and went back to his place."

"And you slept with him?"

"Well...yes."

"This was the first time you'd met him?"

"Yes. Winsome...what is it?"

"Nothing." Winsome shook her head. "Go on."

Annie took a long swig of wine. "He turned out to be a bit younger than I probably realized at first, and"

"How young?"

Annie shrugged. "Dunno. Twenty-two, twenty-three, around there."

Winsome's eyes widened. "A boy! You picked up a boy in a bar and slept with him?"

"Don't be so naive. These things do happen, you know."

"Not to me, they don't."

"Well, you're obviously not going to the right bars."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. I'm serious. I would never go home with anyone I met in a bar, and I would certainly never go home with someone so young."

"But Winsome, you're only thirty!"

Winsome's eyes blazed. "And I would still never go to bed with a twenty-two-year-old. And you...how could you do that? It's sick. You must be old enough to be his mother."

"Winsome, lighten up. People are starting to look at us. Maybe if I'd had a baby when I was eighteen I could be his mother, okay? But I didn't, so cut the Oedipus shit."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"I never knew you were such a prude."

"I am not a prude. You don't have to be a prude to have"

"To have what? What's your point?"

"Moral standards. It's not right."

"Oh, moral standards is it, now? Not right?" Annie drank more wine. She was starting to feel dizzy and more than a touch angry. "Well, let me tell you what you can do with your moral standards, little miss high and mighty, you can shove them"

"Don't say that!"

Annie stopped. There was something in Winsome's tone that caused her to back off. The two of them shuffled in their seats a while, eyeing one another. Annie poured herself some more wine. "I thought you were my friend," she said finally. "I didn't expect you to go all judgmental on me."

"I'm not being judgmental. I'm just shocked, that's all."

"What's the big deal? That's not the point of the story, anyway, his age or having a one-night stand or smoking a couple of joints, or whatever seems to have put that hair up your arse."

"Don't talk to me like that."

Annie held her hand up. "Fine, fine. I can see this isn't working. Another bad idea. Let's just pay the bill and go."

"You haven't finished your wine."

Annie picked up her glass and drained it. "You can have the rest of the bottle," she said, dropping a twenty-pound note on the table. "And you can keep the fucking change."

The sound of a car screeching to a halt in front of his cottage around half past nine startled Banks. He wasn't expecting anyone. The only person who usually dropped by on spec was his son, Brian, but he was supposed to be rehearsing in London with his new band. Well, it was the same band, really, the Blue Lamps, but they had replaced Brian's songwriting partner and fellow guitarist. Their sound had changed a little, but from the couple of demos Brian had played him, Banks thought the new guitarist was better than the one he replaced. The songwriting remained an issue, but Banks was certain Brian would come through, carry the burden.

By the time the knock at the door came, Banks was already there, and when he opened it, he was surprised to see Annie Cabbot standing there.

"Sorry it's so late," she said. "Can I come in?"

Banks stood back. "Of course. Anything wrong?"

"Wrong? No, why should there be anything wrong? Can't I drop in on an old friend when I feel like it?" As she walked in she stumbled against him slightly, and he took her arm. She looked at him and smiled lopsidedly. He let go.

"Of course you can," said Banks, puzzled by her manner and discomfited by being so jarringly dragged away from his evening alone with the book, wine and music. Bill Evans had given way to John Coltrane some time ago, and the tenor sax improvised away in the background, flinging out those famous sheets of sound. He knew it would take him a few moments to adjust to having company. "Drink?" he said.

"Lovely," said Annie, flinging off her jacket. It landed on the computer monitor. "I'll have what you're having."

Banks went into the kitchen and filled up a glass of wine for Annie and one more for himself, emptying the bottle. Annie leaned against the door jamb as he handed her the drink. "Is that all that's left?" she said.

"I've got another bottle."

"Good."

She was definitely unsteady on her feet, Banks thought, as he followed her back through to the living room and she flopped down on the armchair.

"So what brings you here?" he asked.

Annie drank some wine. "That's nice," she said. "What? Oh, nothing. Like I said, just a friendly visit. I was having dinner with Winsome in Eastvale and I just thought, you know, it's not far away."

"Eastvale's quite a drive from here."

"You're not insinuating I've had too much to drink, are you?"

"No. I"

"Good, then." Annie held up her glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers," said Banks. "What did Winsome have to say?"

"Oh, just stuff. Boring stuff. That arsehole Templeton."

"I heard that the interview with Hayley's parents didn't go well."

"Well, it wouldn't, would it? What could you have been thinking of, putting those two together? What can you be thinking of even having him in the station?"

"Annie, I don't really want to discuss"

Annie waved her hand in the air. "No. I know. Of course not. I don't, either. That's not why I came. Let's just forget about bloody Templeton and Winsome, shall we?"

"Fine with me."

"How about you, Alan? How are you doing? Julia Ford asked after you, you know. She's very attractive in a lawyerly sort of way. Don't you think?"

"I never really thought about her that way."

"Liar. What's the music?"

"John Coltrane?"

"It sounds weird."

Banks made to get up. "I'll put something else on if you like."

"No, no. Sit down. I didn't say I didn't like it, just that it sounded weird. I don't mind weird sometimes. In fact I quite like it." She gave him an odd smile and emptied her glass. "Oops, it looks as if we might need more wine, after all."

"That was quick," said Banks. He went into the kitchen to open another bottle, wondering what the hell he should do about Annie. He shouldn't really give her any more wine; she had clearly had enough already. But she wouldn't react well to being told that. There was always the spare room, if that was what it came to. That was what he decided upon.

Back in the living room, Annie had settled in the armchair with her legs tucked under her. It wasn't often she wore a skirt but she was wearing one today, and the material had creased up, exposing half her thighs. Banks handed her the glass. She smiled at him.

"Do you miss me?" she asked.

"We all miss you," Banks said. "When are you coming back?"

"No, I don't mean that, silly. I mean do you miss me?"

"Of course I do," said Banks.

"Of course I do," Annie echoed. "What do you think of toyboys?"

"Pardon?"

"You heard me."

"Yes, but I don't really know what you mean."

"Toyboys. You know what they are, don't you? Toyboys don't make good lovers, you know."

"No, I don't know." Banks tried to remember when he was a young boy. He had probably been a lousy lover. He probably was a lousy lover even now, if truth be told. If he wasn't, maybe he would have more luck finding and keeping a woman. Still, chance would be a fine thing; it would be nice to have the opportunity for more practice now and then.

"Oh, Alan," she said. "What shall I do with you?"

The next thing he knew, she was beside him on the sofa. He could feel her thighs warm against him and her breath in his ear. He could smell red wine and garlic. She rubbed her breasts against his arm and tried to kiss his lips, but he turned away.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"I don't know," said Banks. "It just doesn't feel right, that's all."

"Don't you want me?"

"You know I want you. I never didn't want you."

Annie started fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. "Then take me," she said, moving close again and breathing fast. "Men always want it, don't they, no matter what?"

Again, Banks backed off. "Not like this," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"You've been drinking."

"So?" She went back to the buttons. He could see the black lacy line of her bra and soft mounds of flesh beneath. "Not another bloody prude, are you?"

"Look," Banks said, "It's not"

Annie put a finger to his lips. "Shhh."

He moved away. She gave him a puzzled glance. "What's wrong?"

"I've told you what's wrong," he said. "This just doesn't feel right, that's all. I don't believe you really want to do this, either. I don't know what's going on."

Annie moved away and quickly tried to fasten up the buttons. Her face was flushed and angry. "What do you mean, it doesn't feel right?" she said. "What's wrong with me? Am I too fat? Not pretty enough? Are my breasts not firm enough? Am I not attractive enough? Not good enough for you?"

"It's not any of those things," said Banks. "It's"

"Or is it you? Because I have to wonder, you know," Annie went on, getting to her feet and reaching for her jacket and handbag, stumbling as she did so. "I really do have to wonder about a man like you. I mean, do you have so much going on in your miserable little life that you can afford to reject me? Do you, Alan? Do you have some pretty, young twenty-two-year-old girl hidden away somewhere? Is that it? Am I too old for you?"

"I told you. It's not any of those things. I"

But it was too late. Banks just heard her say, "Oh, fuck you, Alan. Or not, as the case may be." Then she slammed the door behind her. When he got outside she was already starting the car. He knew he should try to stop her, that she was drunk, but he didn't know how, short of trying to drag her out of the driver's seat or throwing himself in front of the wheels. In her mood, she would probably run him over. Instead, he listened to the gears grate and watched her back out in a spray of gravel at an alarming speed. Then he heard the gears screech again, and she was off down the lane through Gratly.

Banks stood there, heart pounding, wondering what the hell was going on. When he went back inside Coltrane was just getting started on "My Favourite Things."

7.

Malcolm Austin's office was tucked away in a corner of the travel and tourism department, located in a large old Victorian house on the fringes of the campus. Eastvale College had expanded over the past few years, and the squat 1960s brick-and-glass buildings were no longer big enough to house all the departments. Instead of putting up more faceless new blocks, the college authorities had bought up some of the surrounding land, including streets of old houses, and revitalized southeast Eastvale. Now it was a thriving area with popular pubs, coffee shops, cheap cafes and Indian restaurants, student flats and bedsits. The college even got decent bands to play in its new auditorium, and there was talk of the Blue Lamps making an appearance there to kick off their next tour.