“But it must get to you, seeing so much of the dark side, the cruel side of human nature.”

“You’ve been there. You know what it’s like. Besides, it’s not all doom and gloom. I see plenty of good, too. Plenty of decent people trying to help others. They’re just not always who or where you expect them to be.”

“I don’t think I could do your job.”

“That’s just as well. The world will be a far better place if you stick at what you do already.”

“You’ve read my poetry?”

“Some. It’s really good. Of course, I know nothing about such—”

“Oh, tosh. Do you think I write for reviewers and literary critics? Half the time I don’t even get reviewed. How many poetry reviews do you see in your weekend papers?”

“The Observer does a few.”

“Beyond the Observer.”

“Dunno. That’s the only one I read, except for the Mail on Sunday. It’s true they don’t review much poetry.”

“The Observer and the Mail? Are you schizophrenic or something?”

Banks laughed. “No. It’s just that I find if I read both, the truth usually comes somewhere in between. And the Mail has a better TV guide.”

“Well, that’s a novel way of looking at it. Are you still reading your poetry anthology in chronological order?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had much time for it lately, but I think I’ll take your advice and jump around more. After I’ve finished your poems, that is.”

Linda offered a top-up of wine. Banks hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I keeping you from something? It’s Saturday night, after all. Do you have plans for the evening? Maybe celebrating with your colleagues?”

“No, not at all. We’ll do that next week when we know we have something to celebrate. I was just thinking of the drive home. But why not? A drop more won’t put me over the limit. As a matter of fact, I was going to drop my car at home and walk down to the Dog and Gun in Gratly. It’s folk night. I think Penny Cartwright’s back home. But there’s plenty of time for that.”

“She is,” said Linda. “I had coffee with her this afternoon.”

“You know Penny?”

“Known her for years. We’re old friends.”

“She never said.”

Linda smiled. “She talked plenty about you.”

Banks felt himself blush. “Don’t tell me. She’s never forgiven me for suspecting her of murder thirty years ago.”

Linda laughed. “Something like that. I mean, really. It’s not something one gets over that easily, I shouldn’t imagine. How could you? But I think she likes you.”

“That’s a surprise.”

The wind rustled through the leaves and birds called from the trees by the riverside. “Kingfisher not around?” he asked.

“Not today. But he’ll be back.”