When the Music's Over Read Online Free PDF Page A

“It’s time to call in the heavy brigade.”
    â€œ WELL, BANKSY , what a turnup for the book. You and me working together again. Just like old times. Congratulations, by the way. The promotion. Long overdue.”
    They were basking in the sunshine at one of the tables outside at the Queen’s Arms, eating lunch: monster fish and chips and mushy peas, with a pint of Timothy Taylor’s for Banks and a cheap lager for Burgess. Cyril, the landlord, had taken on a new barmaid to deal with the summer rush, an attractive blond Australian called Pat, to whom Burgess had already taken a shine. Luckily, Cyril wasn’t around, as he and Burgess had history.
    â€œSo what’s your official title these days?” Banks asked. “What do I call you?”
    â€œI always fancied “Special Agent.” It has a ring to it. But in actual fact I’m a nonexecutive director. Sounds like a dull second-rate businessman. Mostly I go by plain “Mr. Burgess” these days.”
    â€œLike a surgeon.”
    â€œExactly. It’s got class, don’t you think?”
    The cobbled market square was buzzing with shoppers and tourists, and clogged with parked cars. Young girls in vests and tight denim cutoffs over black tights hung out around Greggs eating pasties, then disappeared into the amusement arcade next door. A gaggle of serious ramblers, with walking sticks like ski poles, expensive boots, baggy shorts and maps in plastic bags around their necks gathered by the market cross. A few people sat on the plinth around the market cross waiting for a local bus. Not far from Banks and Burgess sat a group of bloke-ish tourists in garish shorts and even more garish shirts, their faces flushed and eyes glazed from sunburn and beer. They were talking and laughing loudly enough that nothing Banks and Burgess spoke of could be overheard.
    â€œHave you done this sort of thing before?” Banks asked.
    â€œOnce or twice.” Burgess sat back and sipped his drink, studying Banks over the rim of his glass. “I was peripherally involved in Operation Yewtree when I was back at the Yard, so I know the way things go. Look, Banksy, you probably thought the same as I did when all this stuff started coming out. You thought it was some sort of witch hunt, wondering who’d be the next celebrity to be accused of groping a young publicist fifty years ago. Different times, you’d say, and you’d be right.” He leaned forward and tapped Banks on the chest. “You probably even thought, what’s so wrong with pinching the office girl’s bum, maybe suggesting a hotel room after work for a bit of hanky-panky? Right? I might even have a go with young Pat here, given half the chance. After all, I’m only human, and if you don’t ask . . . But that’s not what this is about. We’re not talking about a bit of how’s your father in a dark corner at the office Christmas party. A hand casually resting on a knee in a restaurant. A surreptitious brushing up against a nice pair of tits. We’ve all done that, all had a kiss and cuddle in the broom cupboard and a bit of slap and tickle under the stairwell with that secretary we fancied all year.”
    â€œSpeak for yourself,” said Banks. But he remembered. It was just such an indulgence in a dark corner under the mistletoe at an office Christmas party that had led to the only affair of his married life. He didn’t much care to be reminded of it now, though at the time it had seemed exciting and dangerous; it had made him feel alive at a time when he had felt the world and his marriage were falling apart around him. Looking back, it just made him feel guilty. Maybe it was some kind of poetic justice that his ex-wife Sandra had finally left him for another man.
    â€œBut this is something else,” Burgess went on. “It’s not even a matter of someone sticking his tongue down a girl’s throat or squeezing