“Because of what happened with Sylvia? You do know a bit about poetry, don’t you? Or at least about poets. Quite the Adam Dalgliesh.”

“I’m afraid I don’t write it.” Banks didn’t tell her that he had also read some Tony Harrison after a dying coal miner had mentioned him in conversation a year or two back. Enjoyed the poems, too. Harrison seemed to put his finger on how certain things, especially education, can cut you off from your roots. Banks felt that, especially as his father had never approved of his becoming a policeman, and he was sure that Linda understood it also, coming from a working-class background and ending up being a famous poet. All her old friends would be nervous around her now, thinking she had somehow transformed herself into an exotic and remote creature. Weird, indeed.

“Ah, well. Who needs the competition? No. I think Ted Hughes was a brilliant poet. As far as life skills went, they both sucked.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, is that on the recorder?”

Winsome smiled. “Never mind. I don’t think anyone’s going to take issue with your opinion about Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath.”

Linda clapped her hands. “Well, thank heaven for that. More orange juice?”

Banks and Winsome exchanged glances. “No, I don’t think so,” Banks said, standing up. He almost felt like telling her it had been a pleasure talking to her, but he remembered what they were there for. “I appreciate your cooperation,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll want to talk to you again and ask some more questions, if that’s all right?”

“You’ll come again?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good.”

“And if you remember anything in the meantime, however unimportant it seems, call me. It might be a good idea to . . . never mind.”

“No, go on. What? I’m intrigued.”

“It’s a lot to ask,” Banks said, “but sometimes with such old memories, it helps to work at them a bit, make an effort, perhaps write things down as they come, if they come. I mean, you’re a writer, after all. But it could be painful.”

“No,” said Linda, giving him a curious, probing look. “A journal. A memoir. It’s a good idea. I’ll try. I promise.”

She stood up and saw them out. As they walked back up the garden path, Winsome turned to Banks and said, “Well, she certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. What do you think? I believed her.”