He thought about Oriana. He had phoned her the other night in Sydney, after working out what he thought would be a good time. She hadn’t sounded exactly over the moon to hear from him, had seemed distracted, as if she had somewhere to go, something else on her mind, things to do. She was busy, she said, and still tired from the jet lag. He understood that, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she had resented his intrusion into her other life, and in the end he had hung up feeling much worse than when he had dialled the number.
‘Penny for them,’ Annie whispered in his ear.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, snapping back to the giddy world of the group celebration. ‘Just life, you know.’
‘Life, the universe, and everything?’
‘Something like that. You doing OK?’
Annie smiled and clinked glasses. ‘I’m doing OK.’
Burgess had just finished telling a funny story, and everyone was laughing. At that moment Joanna MacDonald walked in and flashed him a quick smile. She’d been invited, but Banks had assumed she wasn’t coming. But there she was, looking lovely as ever with her blonde hair loose, a powder-blue tailored jacket over a crisp white top, and a skirt that ended just above her knees. Everyone moved over and made room for her. Banks asked her what she wanted to drink and she said a gin and tonic. Off he went to the bar again.
As he waited to be served, he looked back at the table, at his team, deservedly wallowing in the feeling of a job well done. Bobby Vee gave way to Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Man of the World’. Winsome looked hale and hearty despite her terrifying experience of the previous week. She leaned in close towards Terry Gilchrist, smiling at something he was saying. Banks was pleased for her. It was about time she found someone who recognised her rare and precious qualities, and Gilchrist seemed like a decent, solid bloke. Why Banks felt so protective, he had no idea. Annie, too, deserved someone, but that might take a bit more time, he thought. She was prickly to start with, and there was still some residue left over from the shooting, however well she was doing. He cared about them all, he realised. Sometimes it was a feeling of heart-swelling pride; other times it was a burden. Tonight it was a joy to share their joy, even though he felt distant and more than a little melancholic.
Burgess switched his attentions from AC Gervaise to Joanna MacDonald, turning up the charm a notch. Banks could see Joanna responding, smiling a little flirtatiously, then laughing easily at his jokes. Their shoulders were touching, and it didn’t seem to bother her. Now she was looking serious and nodding, engaged in something Burgess was saying. As Banks walked back to the table with the gin and tonic and a double Laphroaig for himself, he experienced something that, if he were to be honest with himself, felt very much like jealousy. He sat down and shrugged it off, then picked up the whisky and knocked it back in one.
Acknowledgements
I would first like to thank Sheila Halladay for reading the manuscript when I thought it was finished and pointing out that there was still work to be done.
At Hodder, my thanks go to Carolyn Mays for such a terrific job on the editing, especially given the time constraints. Also thanks to Katy Rouse for all her assistance and to Justine Taylor for clear and clean copy-editing. At McClelland & Stewart, I would like to thank Ellen Seligman and Kendra Ward for their editing, and at Morrow, Carolyn Marino and Emily Krump.
Thanks to my agents Dominick Abel and David Grossman for their continuing support. Also thanks to the publicists —Kerry Hood at Hodder, Ashley Dunn at McClelland & Stewart and Laurie Connors at Morrow. Thanks are also due to Debby de Groot in Toronto and Jane Acton at Four Colman Getty, London.
A special thank you to Nicholas Reckert for the interesting walks that somehow always seem to suggest a possible crime scene.
Last but not least, thanks to the sales teams who make the deals and set up the special promotions, to the reps who get out on the road and sell the book to the shops, and to the booksellers themselves, without whom you wouldn’t be holding this volume in your hand. And thanks, of course, to you, the reader.
Abattoir Blues: The 22nd DCI Banks Mystery (Inspector Banks 22) Page 36
