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- Ричард Морган
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She
briefly
curved
her
mouth
down
at
the
corners
and
went
back
to
rolling
up
the
map
she
’
d
been
studying
when
I
arrived
.
Behind
me
the
maid
pulled
the
chart
room
door
closed
with
a
heavy
click
.
Bancroft
hadn
’
t
seen
fit
to
accompany
me
into
the
presence
of
his
wife
.
Perhaps
one
encounter
a
day
was
as
much
as
they
allowed
themselves
.
Instead
,
the
maid
had
appeared
as
if
by
magic
as
we
came
down
from
the
balcony
in
the
seaward
lounge
.
Bancroft
paid
her
about
as
much
attention
as
he
had
last
time
.
When
I
left
,
he
was
standing
by
the
mirrorwood
desk
,
staring
at
the
blast
mark
on
the
wall
.
Mrs
.
Bancroft
deftly
tightened
the
roll
on
the
map
in
her
hands
and
began
to
slide
it
into
a
long
protective
tube
.
"
Well
,
"
she
said
,
without
looking
up
.
"
Ask
me
your
questions
,
then
.
"
"
Where
were
you
when
it
happened
?
"
"
I
was
in
bed
.
"
She
looked
up
at
me
this
time
.
"
Please
don
’
t
ask
me
to
corroborate
that
;
I
was
alone
.
"
The
chart
room
was
long
and
airy
under
an
arched
roof
that
someone
had
tiled
with
illuminum
.
The
map
racks
were
waist
high
,
each
topped
with
a
glassed
-
in
display
and
set
out
in
rows
like
exhibit
cases
in
a
museum
.
I
moved
out
of
the
centre
aisle
,
putting
one
of
the
racks
between
Mrs
.
Bancroft
and
myself
.
It
felt
a
little
like
taking
cover
.
"
Mrs
.
Bancroft
,
you
seem
to
be
under
some
misapprehension
here
.
I
’
m
not
the
police
.
I
’
m
interested
in
information
,
not
guilt
.
"
She
slid
the
wrapped
map
into
its
holder
and
leaned
back
against
the
rack
with
both
hands
behind
her
.
She
had
left
her
fresh
young
sweat
and
tennis
clothes
in
some
elegant
bathroom
while
I
was
talking
to
her
husband
.
Now
she
was
immaculately
fastened
up
in
black
slacks
and
something
born
of
a
union
between
a
dinner
jacket
and
a
bodice
.
Her
sleeves
were
pushed
casually
up
almost
to
the
elbow
,
her
wrists
unadorned
with
jewellery
.
