Dead Right - Blood at the Root by Peter Robinson

Author:Peter Robinson [Robinson, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780143052210
Google: T8BbPwAACAAJ
Barnesnoble:
Publisher: Penguin Canada; Penguin Group
Published: 1997-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

IV

Banks felt bone-weary when he arrived home that evening shortly after six o’clock. He was still upset about Frank Hepplethwaite’s senseless death, his run-in with Jimmy Riddle was still niggling him, and the lack of progress in the Jason Fox case was sapping his confidence. Well, he’d done the best he could so far. If only the lab boys or Vic Manson could come through with something.

Sandra wasn’t home. In a way, that made him feel relieved. He didn’t think he could deal with another argument right now. Or the cold shoulder.

He made himself a cheese omelette. There wasn’t any real cheese in the fridge, so he used a processed slice. It tasted fine. Shortly after eight, when Banks was relaxing with Così Fan Tutte and a small Laphroaig, Sandra got back. Anxious to avoid another scene, Banks turned the volume on the stereo very low.

But Sandra didn’t seem to notice the opera playing softly in the background. At least she didn’t say anything. She seemed distracted, Banks thought, as he tried to engage her in conversation about the day.

When he offered to take her out for a bite to eat—the omelette not having filled him up nearly as much as he’d hoped—she said she’d already eaten with a couple of friends after the arts committee meeting and she wasn’t hungry. All Banks’s conversational gambits fell on deaf ears. Even his story of Jimmy Riddle’s bollocking failed to gain an ounce of sympathy. Finally, he turned to her and said, “What’s wrong? Is this because of the other night? Are you still pissed off at me about that?”

Sandra shook her head. The blonde tresses danced over her shoulders. “I’m not pissed off,” she said. “That kind of thing is always happening with us. That’s the real problem. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how little we see of one another these days? How we both seem to go our separate ways, have our separate interests? How little we seem to have in common? Especially now Tracy’s gone.”

Banks shrugged. “It’s only been a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’ve been busy. So have you. Give it time.”

“I know. But that’s not it. We’re always busy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Work. Yours. Mine. Oh, that’s not the real problem. We’ve always been able to deal with that before. You’ve never expected a dutiful little wife staying at home all day cooking and cleaning, ironing, sewing buttons on, and I thank you for that. But even that’s not it.” She took one of his cigarettes, something she did so rarely these days that the gesture worried him. “I’ve been thinking a lot since the other night, and I suppose what I’m saying is that I feel alone. I mean in the relationship. I just don’t feel I’m part of your life any more. Or that you’re part of mine.”

“But that’s absurd.”

“Is it? Is it, really?” She looked at him, frowning, black eyebrows crooked in the furrow of her brow. Then she shook her head slowly. “I don’t think it is, Alan.

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