Children of the Revolution

by Peter Robinson

  Keeping what transpired in Gervaise’s office from his team, especially those closest to him – Annie, Winsome, Gerry Masterson – had caused an even bigger headache. Fortunately, they were running out of leads. Nothing new had come up and, apart from a few further visits to the college, a chat with Miller’s post-Veronica girlfriend Nancy Winterson, and a little alibi checking, there was nothing left to be done. It wasn’t as if this had never happened before. Not all cases were solved quickly, and this was one that looked like drifting naturally towards the cold case files. Perhaps, Banks thought, at some time in the distant future, a retired detective would pick up the file and put the pieces together. By then, most likely, Oliver Litton would be long gone, and Banks and Lady Chalmers would be in their graves.

  Of course, Annie, Winsome and Gerry weren’t stupid, and Banks could tell they had formed their own theories about what might have happened. Gerry, in particular, having done so much research – including discovering that Lady Chalmers had been two months late back for her second year – was in a strong position to work things out, and Banks was convinced that she had perhaps guessed at least part of the truth. But whether out of caution or lack of interest, nobody had said anything about it, and the matter of Gavin Miller’s death had drifted away from them, obscured by a haze of crime statistics, post office robberies and sexual assaults.

  But Banks was still feeling a little sad. Though he had been able to rationalise and compartmentalise almost everything else that had happened over the past week or so, one thing that stuck in his mind was how much he had enjoyed his afternoon at the allotment with Joe Jarvis. Far from being a left-wing firebrand, the bagman, rumoured to be in league with the Russians, Jarvis had been a sick man with a headful of memories and, perhaps, still some traces of revolutionary zeal, and of passion for a girl from another world he had known centuries ago. The image of the frail man, not much older than Banks himself, shrunken in on himself, lined and pinched, skin pale and dry as parchment, had haunted him for days. Their discussion about Shostakovich had ranged far and wide, and Banks had come away feeling he had learned far more than he had imparted. He had also felt a strong connection with Jarvis because their working-class roots were similar, though both were educated, or employed, out of their class.

  He was also aware that there was something to be resolved that actually could be resolved, though he couldn’t predict the outcome. He had a good idea how it would go, but no absolute certainty, and that was why he had postponed taking any action. Because if he was wrong, the resulting furore could destroy the very lives he wanted to protect.

  Quite simply, he had wanted to tell Joe Jarvis that Ronnie Bellamy had borne him a son, and that this son was quite likely to be appointed the next Home Secretary. He could hardly imagine the expression on the dying miner’s face when he told him, but he knew that the irony wouldn’t be lost on him. There he was, a South Yorkshire miner, thorn in the side of government all his life, commie filth to many, and his son was going to be Home Secretary. Of course, it would have validated so many of Jarvis’s – and Banks’s – ideas, about class, about opportunities, the right schools and colleges, knowing the right people and all the rest, as being the only way to the top. Would Oliver Jarvis, son of a Mexborough miner, have had the same opportunities as Oliver Litton, son of a Harley Street specialist, gynaecologist to the gentry, to become Home Secretary? Of course he wouldn’t. No more than Banks had himself. His parents had known nobody of influence, had not had the money to send him to the best schools. Besides, even if they had, he wouldn’t have spoken with the right accent to be accepted there.

  In protecting the wealthy and privileged, in this case Lady Chalmers and her family, Banks had denied Joe Jarvis the knowledge of his son and his achievements. For, in the end, he hadn’t told him. There wasn’t a day had gone by since that morning in Gervaise’s office, when Banks hadn’t been on the verge of getting into his car and driving down to Mexborough. In the end, it was only the news that Joe Jarvis had been taken into hospital in a coma from which he was not expected to recover that stopped him. Even then, he had fantasised about turning up at his beside and whispering the revelation to Jarvis, imagining a slight twitch at the corner of the miner’s lips that might be an unconscious tic or the image of a smile.

  But he hadn’t gone.

  Would the risk have been worth it? Banks didn’t know. If Jarvis had been alive and kicking, in one last burst of political spirit and outrage he might well have spilled the beans to the media, and not only ruined the career of a decent, innocent man, but of a man whom the lords and masters of the security services and the emergency services all wanted to see at the helm, a man who understood their goals and their plight. So had Banks done the right thing in procrastinating? He would never know. Would Oliver Litton ever discover who his mother was? That was out of his hands, too.

  For some reason, sipping his pint and gazing out at the moonlit river, thinking such thoughts made him crave a cigarette. But the craving soon passed. Just as he glanced at his watch to check the time, a figure appeared beside him. She was wearing jeans and a dark green turtleneck jumper and carrying a brown leather shoulder bag and a glass of red wine.

  Banks turned to face her. ‘You’ve come,’ he said.

  He had offered to go and pick her up, but she had declined, saying she would make her own way there, and Banks had taken that as an omen that she wanted the option to change her mind.

  Oriana smiled and dipped her head shyly. ‘Of course. I told you I would. I keep my word.’ She put her glass down beside his and joined him looking out over the river. ‘It’s beautiful here,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. It’s a fine night. Is everything all right at Brierley House?’

  ‘Things are OK. Everyone’s still a bit down in the dumps over Tony, of course, but we’re doing all right. Oliver’s been up to visit.’

  ‘What did Lady Chalmers tell you?’

  ‘About what? The accident? Nothing more than she did at first. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ Banks had wondered whether Lady Chalmers had followed his advice and told her family about Oliver’s true origins. Apparently not. She might not have told Oriana, of course, but Oriana would have sensed the change in the atmosphere around the house if the secret was out. Perhaps she would get around to it in her own time, in her own way. It really wasn’t his business. No more than informing Oliver Litton that his late father had tried to kill his birth mother. Though his job largely involved searching for the truth, Banks had also learned over the years that some things were better left hidden. ‘So you like English folk music?’ he asked.

  ‘Very much. My grandfather learned many songs in the POW camp and working in the fields. Opera was his first love, of course – he was a proud Italian, after all – but he learned many English folk songs. He taught them to me when I was young. I haven’t got much of a singing voice, mind you. But I love the old songs, even if some of them are so very sad.’

  ‘Yes. There’s a lot of wisdom in them, though. Like “The Water is Wide”. Someone was singing it just before you arrived. “Love grows old, and waxes cold, and fades away like the morning dew.” ’

  Oriana gave him a curious look. ‘But would you really not even bother to attempt doing something because it won’t last for ever? Would you avoid doing something because you were afraid that it might not work out, or that you would fail? That’s no life.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Oriana sipped some wine and laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Like falling in love or something? Isn’t that what most of the folk songs are about?’

  ‘That or murder.’ Banks drank some beer. ‘I probably have done, on occasion.’

  ‘What, fallen in love or murder?’

  ‘Fallen in love. But I meant avoid something because it would inevitably end. Or probably more for fear of rejection than fear for its future, or lack of one.’

  ‘But all things end. Isn’t it far better to seize the moment?’

  ‘Pr
obably.’

  ‘Even if it is only a moment?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Banks looked at her. She returned his gaze. Her eyes shone in the silver light. ‘You really are very beautiful, you know,’ he said.

  She didn’t seem to react to his words. Banks didn’t know what to say, but he felt as if he were on a fulcrum. He could let the moment pass, and perhaps never find it again, or he could go the other way and seize it, despite everything, the fears, the pitfalls, the folly. He drew her to him and kissed her. She didn’t resist, which was the best he could say at first, then she began to respond, to give herself up to it.

  Afterwards, she asked, ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘It felt like the right thing to do.’

  ‘To seize the moment?’

  ‘Yes.’ Banks kissed her again. It was even better the second time.

  When they drew apart, Oriana picked up her glass, took a sip and leaned her elbow on the wall, half turning to face him.

  ‘And that one?’

  ‘Because I wanted to.’

  She laughed, then her expression turned serious, and she stared into the shadows beyond the wide water. ‘I go away a lot.’

  ‘I know. I don’t get much time off.’

  ‘And I don’t really approve of the job you do.’

  ‘I don’t approve of it myself, half the time.’

  ‘And you think I’m too young for you.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But I find most men my age far too shallow.’

  The music started up again inside the pub, an instrumental introduction, followed by Penny’s richly textured voice singing ‘Queen of Hearts’ to a hearty round of applause.

  Oriana picked up her glass, turned and made to walk over the lawn, glancing briefly over her shoulder. ‘We’d better go inside,’ she said. ‘Come on. They’re playing our song.’

  Banks remained by the wall. Then he saw her stretch out her hand behind her, as one might, perhaps, for a wayward child, and he laughed, took a step forward and grasped it. All the way to the pub he felt as if he were walking on air.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank all the people who helped me with this book. My first reader was Sheila Halladay, who sent me back to the word processor with a few pages of notes. I think that meant a lot less work for everyone else! At Hodder, I’d like to thank Carolyn Mays and Katy Rouse for their careful editing, and Justine Taylor for copy-editing. At Morrow, thanks to Carolyn Marino and Amanda Bergeron for editing, and to Greg Villepique and Andrea Molitor for copy-editing. At McClelland and Stewart, thanks to Ellen Seligman and Kendra Ward for a thorough editing job. I would also like to thank in advance the publicity teams – Kerry Hood and Poppy North at Hodder, Laurie Connors at Morrow and Shona Cook and Ashley Dunn at McClelland & Stewart. A special thank you also to Debby de Groot in Toronto. Finally, thanks to all the sales teams who make the deals and set up the special promotions, and to the reps who get out there on the road and sell the book. Thanks to all.

  “First-rate … an addictive crime series …

  bet you can’t read just one.”

  – Janet Maslin, New York Times

  “A powerful and accomplished book.”

  – Wall Street Journal

  “Classic Peter Robinson: a labyrinthine plot merged with deft characterisation.”

  – The Observer

  Internationally Bestselling Inspector Banks Novels, Now a Critically Acclaimed, Award-Winning TV Series

  “Robinson is not just a master storyteller,

  he’s a literary magician.”

  – Montreal Gazette

  “Robinson here elevates the crime novel to its highest form.… Piece of My Heart [is] among the best books in the crime fiction genre.”

  – Calgary Herald

  “Extraordinary … magical storytelling.”

  – Ottawa Citizen

  “A richly satisfying novel.”

  – Hamilton Spectator

  Internationally Bestselling Inspector Banks Novels, Now a Critically Acclaimed, Award-Winning TV Series