“Maybe that was part of it, too,” Banks agreed. “You just knew she…did it. There were stories. Gene Pitney. Mick Jagger. The parties and all that.”

“Saint and sinner all in one package,” said Annie. “How perfect for you.”

“Christ, Annie, I was only a kid.”

“Quite a randy one, too, it seems.”

“Well, what did you think about at fourteen?”

“I don’t know. Boys, maybe, but not in a sexual way. Having fun. Romance. Clothes. Makeup.”

“Maybe that’s why I always fancied older women,” said Banks.

Annie nudged him hard in the ribs.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?”

“You know. Park here. Men,” she said, as Banks parked and they got out of the car. “When you’re young you want older women, and when you’re old you want younger women.”

“These days,” said Banks, “I take whatever I can get.”

“Charming.” Annie pressed the doorbell and a few seconds later saw the shape coming toward them through the frosted glass.

Lauren Anderson was dressed in jeans and a thin V-neck sweater, and she wore no makeup. Younger than Banks had expected, she was willowy, with full lips, a pale oval face and heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes, all framed by long auburn hair spilling down over her shoulders. As she stood in the doorway, she wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold.

“Police,” Banks said, holding out his warrant card. “May we come in?”

“Of course.” Lauren stood aside.

“In here?” Banks asked, pointing toward what looked like the living room.

“If you like. I’ll make some tea, shall I?”

“Lovely,” said Annie, following her into the kitchen.

Banks could hear them talking as he had a quick look around the living room. He was impressed by the two walls of bookshelves groaning under the weight of classics he had meant to read but never got around to. All the Victorians, along with the major Russians and French. A few recent novels: Ian McEwan, Graham Swift, A.S. Byatt. Quite a lot of poetry, too, from Heaney’s Beowulf translation to the latest issue of Poetry Review lying on the low coffee table. There were plays, too: Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Tom Stoppard, the Elizabethans and Jacobeans. There was also a section devoted to art and one to classical mythology. Not to mention the rows of literary criticism, from Aristotle’s Poetics to David Lodge on the vagaries of post-structuralism. Most of the music in the CD rack was classical, favoring Bach, Mozart and Handel.

Banks found a comfortable chair and sat down. In a short while, Annie and Lauren came in with the tea. Noting an ashtray on the table and getting a distinct whiff of stale smoke in the air, Banks asked if he might light up. Lauren said sure and accepted one of his Silk Cut. Annie turned up her nose the way only an ex-smoker can do.

“It’s a nice place,” Banks said.

“Thank you.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“I do now. I used to share it with one of the other teachers, but she got her own flat a few months ago. I’m not sure, but I think I like it better by myself.”