Strange Affair

CHAPTER TWELVE

Late on Tuesday morning, after breakfast and a brief meeting with Brooke to review their progress so far, Annie went back to her room, packed her meager belongings and checked out of the hotel. She was looking forward to getting home, digging out some clean clothes and sleeping in her own bed again, if only for one night. She knew she would have to come back, especially as she planned on visiting Dr. Lukas at home in the near future. For the meantime, though, Brooke was leading the Roy Banks investigation, and Annie needed to show her face to the troops back up in Eastvale, talk to Stefan Nowak and Gristhorpe and see how Winsome and Kev Templeton were getting on.

She wondered what Banks was up to as she waited for a taxi. She hadn’t tried to ring him again the previous evening, deciding it was probably best to leave him and his parents in peace. From what she could remember Banks telling her, they had doted on Roy. And even though he and Roy hadn’t been close, she knew he must be distraught. Though she wasn’t unduly worried about him, he had been depressed lately, and something like this could push him over the edge. She would like to talk to him, anyway, to see him, if only to reassure herself and offer her condolences. A taxi pulled up and Annie got in.

“King’s Cross, please,” she told the driver.

“Right you are, madam.”

They had hardly got over Lambeth Bridge when her mobile rang.

“Annie, it’s Dave Brooke here.”

“Dave. What is it?”

“Thought you might be interested. I’ve just got the pathologist’s report on Roy Banks. Can you talk?”

“It’s okay,” said Annie. “I’m in a taxi on my way to the station.” The driver was listening to an interview on BBC London, chuckling to himself, and there was a Plexiglas window between the front and the back.

“Fair enough. Bottom line is the shot to the head killed him outright. It’s a twenty-two-caliber bullet, just like the one that killed Jennifer Clewes.”

“Anything on time of death?”

“He’d been in the water about forty hours. Had to have been to get in the state he was and end up on that patch of shingle, so the tide experts tell me.”

“So it can’t have been the same killers.”

“No. They couldn’t possibly have got back from Yorkshire in time.” Brooke paused. “DCI Banks isn’t going to like hearing this, but it also appears that his brother was tortured before he was shot.”

“Tortured?”

“Yes. There’s evidence of serious bruising to the body and cigarette burns on the arms and soles of the feet. Some of the fingernails have been pulled out, too.”

“Jesus,” said Annie. “Someone wanted something from him?”

“Or wanted to know how much he knew, or had given away.”

“Either way, you’re right. Alan won’t like that at all. The press-”

“They’re not going to find out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not from us. We’re keeping this to ourselves. All the press will be told is that he was shot. That will be enough for them. I can see the gun-crime editorials right now.”

“True enough,” said Annie. “They’re already having a field day with the Jennifer Clewes shooting. Anything else?”

“Just a couple of things,” said Brooke. “Remember the digital photo that came through on Roy Banks’s mobile?”

“Yes. Alan mentioned it to me.”

“As we suspected, it came from a stolen phone. Technical support didn’t have much trouble enhancing the image. They’ve got all sorts of fancy software that can filter and stretch and make predictions based on pixel statistics. The upshot is, though, that it doesn’t tell us a hell of a lot. We still can’t be absolutely certain whether the man in the chair is Roy Banks. They did manage to get something from the wall in the background.”

“What?”

“It looks as if there were two rows of letters, or words, stenciled on the rough brick. The first ends in NGS and the second in IFE. We’ve no idea how long the lines were or how many words. We’re getting a list of all abandoned factories in the Greater London area, and the experts are working on identifying some of the rusted machines. It might help figure out what sort of a factory it was. If the tide experts can come up with a general idea of where Roy Banks might have been dropped in the river, we should be able to put it all together and pinpoint where the murder took place.”

“That sounds promising,” said Annie. “Any leads on who might have wanted Roy Banks dead?”

“We’ve turned up a couple of iffy names from his business correspondence. Oliver Drummond and William Gilmore. Ever heard of them?”

“No,” said Annie.

“Well, they’re definitely in our bad books. The first one’s been involved in a couple of frauds and we think the second’s been running a chop shop. High-end. Mostly Jags and Beemers for rich Russians and Arabs. Never managed to track it down, though, and Gilmore always seems to turn out squeaky-clean. We’ve managed to get him on a few minor charges, which is why he’s on our books, but nothing big.”

“What about the men in the photograph DCI Banks gave you?”

Brooke paused. “Gareth Lambert,” he said. “He’s got no form. The other one we don’t know.”

“Doesn’t it seem important, though? Roy Banks did think it necessary to take and then hide the photo. Maybe blackmail was involved?”

“Give us time, Annie,” Brooke snapped. “You know damn well how it is with manpower and budgets. And half the bloody team’s on holiday right now. We’ll get there, eventually.”

“Okay, Dave. Hold your horses. I was only trying to be helpful.”

“I’m sorry, I know. Only we’re stretched to the limit.”

“I understand. Best of luck, then, and thanks for bringing me up-to-date. I’ll see what’s happening up north and probably be back in a day or so. Keep in touch?”

“Absolutely. Oh, by the way, our artist’s finished with Seaton now. The impression doesn’t look bad. Want a copy?”

“Thanks. It might be useful.”

“I’ll get it faxed to you.”

The traffic slowed to a crawl as the taxi got closer to the chaotic and seemingly endless construction of the Channel Tunnel Rail Link around King’s Cross. Annie didn’t have a lot of time and worried she might miss her train, but the driver found a gap in the traffic and pulled up at the side with fifteen minutes to spare. Annie paid him, picked up a couple of magazines for the journey at W.H. Smith’s, then checked the platform number on the board and headed out to the train. The station was bustling with people and it smelled of warm engines, diesel oil and smoke. Annie found her coach and seat, popped her small bag on the rack and sat down to make herself comfortable.

About three minutes before the train was due to set off, a decidedly nervous announcement came over the PA system. “Would all passengers calmly leave the train and exit the station.”

Everyone sat there for a moment, stunned, wondering if they’d heard correctly. Then it came again, not sounding calm at all: “Would all passengers calmly leave the train and exit the station.”

That was enough. Everyone grabbed their bags, dashed for the door and ran down the platform to the street.

Banks had hoped to be back in London by late morning, early afternoon at the latest, but it wasn’t to be. For a start, he slept in. Lying there in his old bed, he hadn’t been able to get to sleep for thinking about Roy and worrying about his parents, and only after the light began to grow and the birds started singing did he finally doze off until nine-thirty. Even then, he was the first one up.

If that had been the only problem, he could probably still have made fairly good time, but after he had made a pot of tea, made sure his new mobile was fully charged and walked across the road for a copy of The Independent, his mother was up and fussing. Whether the fact of Roy’s death had really sunk in yet, Banks couldn’t tell, but she seemed unnaturally calm, alert and in command.

“Your father’s having a lie-in,” she said. “He’s tired.”

“That’s okay,” said Banks. “You could have rested awhile longer yourself.”

“I rested quite enough yesterday, thank you. Now…”

And then she launched into the most extraordinary litany of “things to do,” the upshot of which was that Banks spent a good part of the day driving her around to the various relatives who lived close enough to visit, the ones in Ely, Stamford and Huntingdon, at any rate. Many had already phoned the previous evening after hearing about Roy on the news, but Banks had taken care of the telephone – including the reporters – and made sure neither his mother nor his father was disturbed.

Now Ida Banks told each one, calmly, that Roy had died and she didn’t know when the funeral would be, but they should be on the lookout for a notice in the paper.

Banks’s father was up when they got back from the first visit, just sitting in his armchair staring into space. He said he was okay, but Banks worried about him, too; he seemed to have no energy, no will.

Banks had already seen a piece about the murder in The Independent, which referred to Roy as the “wealthy entrepreneur brother of North Yorkshire policeman Alan Banks, who almost lost his life in a fire earlier this year.” Uncle Frank told him it had been on the television, too, and there had been a picture of Banks and some old footage of his cottage after the fire. Banks was glad he hadn’t seen it. God only knew what stories the tabloids were telling. Were they implying a link between the fire and Roy’s murder?

By the time he saw his mother settled back at home and had fed her another of Dr. Grenville’s pills, it was mid-afternoon. Mrs. Green, a neighbor, came over to sit with them for a while and Banks was finally able to say his good-byes and set off back to London. Before he left, he rang Burgess, gave him his new mobile number and arranged to meet at a pub in Soho around five o’clock. It was time to pick up the threads of his investigation again.

Lacking CDs, the best he could do was turn on the car radio. Classic FM was playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and Radio Three had Tippett’s Concerto for Double String Orchestra. Banks chose the Tippett because he didn’t know it as well as he did the Beethoven.

On the motorway somewhere around Stevenage, Banks noticed that a red Vectra had been following him for some time. He slowed down; the Vectra slowed. He speeded up; the Vectra kept pace. It was the middle of a warm summer afternoon on a busy road, but still Banks felt the chill of fear. He played cat and mouse with the Vectra for a while longer, then it shot past him. He couldn’t get a really good look, but he could tell there were two people in the car, one in the front and one in the back. The one in the back had a ponytail, and when the car was passing Banks’s Renault, he turned sideways and smiled, miming a shooting gun with his left hand, thumb signifying the hammer, then he tilted his hand up and blew over the tops of his first two fingers, smiling. It was a split-second vignette, then they were streaking ahead.

Banks tried to keep up with them, but it was no good. The driver was skillful and managed to weave in and out of the lanes of traffic until they had left Banks far behind. Not before he had memorized the number, though.

As he approached Welwyn Garden City, where it started to rain again, Banks wondered what the hell all that had been about. Then he realized with a sudden chill that they must have followed him from Peterborough. They were letting him know that they knew where his parents lived.

“You again,” said Roger Cropley, when Kev Templeton turned up at his front door again. “You’ve got a bloody nerve. What the hell do you want?”

“Just a few more questions,” said Templeton. “I’m by myself this time. As a matter of fact, I’m very surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be down in London. It was your wife I was planning on talking to.”

“I’m off sick,” said Cropley. “Summer cold. What do you want to talk to Eileen about?”

“Oh, this and that. But now that you’re here, too, let’s have a party, shall we?” Templeton edged his way into the hall. Eileen Cropley was standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Ah, Mrs. Cropley. Good afternoon. I don’t believe we had a proper chance to get acquainted on my last visit.”

“That’s because you were so rude, if I remember correctly. Roger, what does this man want? What have you been up to?”

“I haven’t been up to anything. It’s all right, dear.” Cropley sighed. “You’d better come through,” he said.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The living room still smelled of lavender, but the flowers had wilted and shed a few petals. “I might have been a little hasty last time,” said Templeton, when both Mr. and Mrs. Cropley had sat down. They sat on the sofa, Templeton noticed, one at each end, like bookends. Mrs. Cropley was definitely frosty. Cropley himself seemed resigned. “I hadn’t got all my ducks in a row.”

“You can say that again,” said Cropley.

“But that’s water under the bridge, isn’t it? No hard feelings?”

Cropley regarded him suspiciously.

“Anyway,” Templeton went on, “I’m glad I found both of you in. Gives me a chance to make up for bad first impressions. We’ve talked to the AA, Mr. Cropley, and they verify that you were, indeed, at the time in question, stuck on the hard shoulder of the M1 just south of the Derby turnoff.”

“As I told you.”

“Indeed. And I apologize for any… disbelief… I might have shown at the time. We tend to get quite wrapped up in our search for justice, and sometimes we trample on people’s finer feelings.”

“So what do you want this time?”

“Well, we’ve got a bit more information than we had before, and it looks as if these two men you saw in the dark Mondeo followed Jennifer Clewes – that was the victim’s name – off the A1 on the road to Eastvale, where they ran her into a drystone wall and shot her. They then returned to wherever they came from and the following night they dumped the Mondeo in the East End of London, where it was immediately stolen and later involved in a serious accident. Now, we’ve got some tire tracks the car made in a private lane in Gratly and some fingerprints that might possibly belong to one of the men. Our forensic scientists are checking the Mondeo for fingerprints to compare, but as you can imagine, after a crash like that, well…”

“This is all very interesting,” said Cropley, “but I still don’t see how my wife or I can help.”

“Hear the man out, Roger,” said Mrs. Cropley, who seemed interested despite herself.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cropley. Anyway, we got a description of the man who dropped off the car in London and a colleague down there has just faxed me an artist’s impression. I was wondering if you’d have a look at it and see if you can identify him.”

“I told you,’ said Cropley, “I didn’t get a good look. I’m not very good at describing people.”

“Most of us aren’t,” said Templeton. “That’s why looking at a picture helps.” He lifted his briefcase. “May I?”

“Of course,” said Cropley.

Templeton showed him the sketch.

Cropley stared at it for a while, then he said, “It could be him.”

“Only could be?”

“As I said, I didn’t get a good look.”

“But he did turn to look at you when the driver pulled right out in front, didn’t he? You told me that.”

“Yes, but it was dark.”

“The petrol station was well lit.”

“I’m still not certain. I mean, I wouldn’t want to swear to it in court. Is that what you want?”

“Not yet. We just want to find him.”

“Well, it definitely looks like him. The hair, the general shape of the head, but it was too dark to make out his features.”

“I understand that. Was he well-built?”

“He did have rather broad shoulders, now I come to think of it, and not much of a neck. And he seemed tall, high in the seat.”

“Fine,” said Templeton, putting the drawing away. “Many thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Cropley. “But you said you came to talk to my wife. She wouldn’t have been able to identify this man as she wasn’t with me.”

“Just seizing the opportunity, Mr. Cropley. Saved me a trip to London, this has.” Templeton took out his notebook.

“So what did you want to ask me? ” Mrs. Cropley said.

Templeton scratched the side of his nose. “That’s another matter entirely, Mrs. Cropley. At least we think it is. On the twenty-third of April this year, a young woman named Claire Potter was raped and stabbed just off the M1 north of Chesterfield. She was last seen at the Trowell services a short time earlier.”

“You mentioned this the last time you were here,” said Roger Cropley. “It meant nothing to me then and it means nothing now.”

Templeton ignored him and faced Mrs. Cropley. “We’ve now got quite a bit more information about that crime,” he said, “and believe me, whoever did it must have picked up quite a bit of blood. I was just wondering if you had ever noticed anything about your husband’s clothing around that time – you know, unusual stains, that sort of thing. Devilishly hard to get rid of, blood. You do the washing around here, don’t you?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” said Mrs. Cropley. “The sheer nerve of it.”

“Well, I’ve never been faulted for my lack of nerve,” said Templeton. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That’s my motto. So if there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest…”

“I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well, the clothes might have been beyond salvation, I suppose,” said Templeton. “Have any of your husband’s clothes gone missing over the past few months?”

“No.”

“Still,” Templeton mused aloud, “the killer washed the victim’s body, so the odds are he managed to deal with his own clothes. Very fastidious, he was. Are you a fastidious man, Mr. Cropley?”

“I like to think so,” said Cropley, “but it doesn’t make me a killer, and I resent these accusations.”

“Of course you do. It’s only natural. But I have to ask. I’d be a pretty useless detective if I didn’t, wouldn’t I?”

“Quite frankly I don’t care what kind of bloody detective you are,” said Cropley. “One thing I do know is that you’re a very offensive person and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my house immediately.”

“Just one more question, please, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Eileen Cropley glared at him.

“How often has your husband been unusually late home from work on a Friday? Say, after midnight.”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely you ought to be able to remember something like that? Don’t you wait up for him?”

“No. I usually take a sleeping pill at eleven o’clock and go to bed. I’m fast asleep before midnight.”

“So he usually gets back after eleven, then, can we say?”

She looked at her husband. “I suppose so.”

Templeton turned to Roger Cropley. “Nearly done now, sir. I remember the last time I was here with DC Jackman that you distinctly told me you usually try to get away by mid-afternoon to beat the rush-hour traffic.”

“If I can. I don’t always succeed.”

“How often in the last four months?”

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”

“I think I’d remember,” said Templeton.

“I’m not you.”

“No, you’re right about that.” Templeton put his notebook back in his inside pocket. “Well, I’ll be off now. Thanks for your time. No need to see me out. I know the way.”

Templeton walked toward the door, but just before he opened it, he turned to face Cropley again. “One more thing.” He took out his notebook again, frowned and consulted it. “The twentieth of February. Were you on your way home late that Friday, do you remember? Did you stop at Newport Pagnell?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Only, a young girl called Paula Chandler was driven off the road and an attempt was made at assaulting her. It failed. Her car doors were locked. There’s a chance she might be able to identify her assailant.”

“Am I under arrest?” Cropley said.

“Of course not,” said Templeton, “I’m only-”

“Then I want you to leave now or I’m calling my solicitor,” said Cropley, getting to his feet and striding toward Templeton. “Go on, get out!”

For a moment, Templeton thought Cropley was going to hit him, but he merely grabbed his shoulder and steered him toward the front door. Templeton didn’t resist. When the door slammed behind him, he stood for a few moments enjoying the fresh, wet smell of the late-afternoon air. It had stopped raining but the sky was still overcast and the streets were glistening. To the west, the low hills were faint gray outlines against a darker gray background. He could hear the sound of flowing water nearby, probably a beck, and a bird was singing in one of the trees. All in all, he thought, it had been a much more successful interview than the previous one.

As he got in his car, Templeton noticed a few flakes of Cropley’s dandruff on his sleeve jacket and moved to brush it off. Then he had a better idea. If Roger Cropley was their man, he thought, he was damned if DS Susan Browne was going to get all the glory.

Annie stood in the rain among the massed crowds held back by barricades at the far side of Euston Road. The entire area had been blocked to traffic and all the station exits sealed, the underground shut down. People had swarmed out of the nearby offices, shops and cafés to stand at a safe distance and see what was going on, and their presence only served to swell the crowds. Annie began to feel uncomfortably penned in. Across the road, police in protective clothing moved about like shadows inside the station itself. The words that were on most people’s lips were terrorists, bomb threat, a fact of life in London. Annie had asked one of the officers on crowd control how long it would be before the trains started running, but he didn’t know. Could be a couple of hours, could be longer was all he would say. Annie saw her trip home quickly slipping away. There was no point going if she didn’t get back until evening.

She made her way through the crowds, narrowly avoiding a poke in the eye from one of the many raised umbrellas. She didn’t care where she was walking as long as she was getting away from the people. Eventually, when she got off Euston Road and took her bearings, she found herself winding her way via the back streets toward Bloomsbury.

When she got to Russell Square, she remembered the small hotel she and Banks had stayed at a few years ago, when their relationship had been just beginning and seemed full of possibility. She couldn’t stay there by herself. It would be far too depressing. She would go back to her faceless, modern, efficient chain hotel; they would be sure to have a room available, perhaps even the same one she had just vacated, though they all looked so much the same that it didn’t matter.

If she found herself stuck in London for another night, so be it. She took out her mobile and rang Brooke. He had already faxed the artist’s impression up to Eastvalè, but said he’d be more than happy to fax it to her hotel right away. Annie then rang the hotel, made a reservation and told them she was expecting a fax. They said they would take care of everything.

In the evening, she would go and visit Dr. Lukas at her home, but before that, Annie knew she couldn’t spend another day and night in London without some new clothes, so she headed for Oxford Street. A bit of retail therapy would help dispel the gloom that seemed to have descended on her with the rain.

The pub was on Frith Street and at five o’clock it was already crowded. Burgess was there ahead of Banks, sitting on a wooden stool at a small table in the far corner, and he gestured to Banks, holding up an empty pint glass. Banks bought himself an orange juice and Burgess a pint of lager.

“Not drinking?” Burgess said, when Banks made his way back from the bar with the drinks.

“Not right at the moment. Tell me,” said Banks, “why do you always want to meet me in pubs? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your office. I’m not even entirely convinced that you have one.”

“They’d never let you in. Besides, if they did, they’d probably have to kill you. Best this way. Easier all round.”

“Are you ashamed of me or something?”

Burgess laughed, then turned serious. “How are you doing?”

“Not bad. It’s… I don’t know. Roy and I weren’t close or anything, but it still feels like a piece of me’s died.”

“It’s family,” Burgess said.

“I suppose so. That’s what everyone says. I feel as if I’ve only just started getting to know him and he’s been snatched from me.”

“I had a sister die a few years back,” Burgess went on. “She lived in South Africa. Durban. Hadn’t seen her in years, not since we were kids. She was murdered during a robbery. Shot. I felt the same way, though, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about her for ages, what it must have been like when she knew she was going to die. Still, it was quick.”

“Roy, too.”

“Nothing like a bullet for that. So what are you up to?”

Banks told him about the men who followed him on the motorway, the shooting gesture through the window.

“What have you done about it?”

“I almost turned back, but that’s probably what they wanted me to do. I called the locals in Peterborough and asked them to keep an eye open. They said they’d post surveillance on the council estate.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Can you still run down a number plate?”

“Nothing could be easier.”

Banks gave him the Vectra’s number.

“You realize it’s probably stolen, don’t you?” Burgess said.

“Attention to detail,” said Banks. “Sometimes they make little mistakes.”

“True enough.”

“Ever heard of the Berger-Lennox Centre?”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

“A private family-planning center. They deal with the whole lot. Abortions, adoption, whatever you want.”

“No,” said Burgess, “I can’t say I’ve heard of them, but then I wouldn’t have any need for such a place, would I?”

“I suppose not. But Roy was an investor and Jennifer Clewes worked there, in administration.”

“Sounds interesting, but I still don’t know anything about it. What are you going to do next?”

“I want to find out who killed Roy and why.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? The caped crusader rides again.”

“Aren’t you mixing your metaphors?”

“Probably. I don’t suppose it’s any use telling you to leave it to the locals?”

“No.”

“Thought not. What is it you want from me?”

“You’ve already told me a bit about Roy’s checkered past.”

“The arms thing?”

“Yes.”

“That was years ago. I told you, as far as we know, your brother’s been clean for the past while. Forget about it.”

“So why is he dead?”

“Some of the nicest people end up dead.” Burgess lit a Tom Thumb cigar and added to the general fug.

“Any idea who the bloke in the photo sitting at a café with Lambert is yet?”

“Nope. I’m working on it, though. It’s still doing the rounds. Believe me, I want to know as much as you do. Trouble is, this time of year a lot of blokes are on holiday. And quite a few have retired since back then. Anyway, be patient. Remember it’s not the local nick you’re dealing with here. I promise you’ll be among the first to know.”

“Tell me more about Gareth Lambert.”

“I told you. He was a business associate of your brother’s and an all-round nasty piece of work. Charming enough on the surface. Like I said, Harry Lime. I take it you have seen The Third Man?”

“It’s one of my favorite films. Look, according to Julian Harwood, Lambert’s been living in Spain.”

“My, my, you have been a busy boy, haven’t you?”

“Why come back?”

“I suppose he got bored with paella. He also got married to some beautiful Spanish actress. Centerfold material. England’s quite sexy these days, or didn’t you know? Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow, Liv Tyler, and all the rest. They all want to live here. Anyway, he’s back, and apparently he’s in the travel business.”

“Legit?”

“I didn’t say that. But there’s no evidence to the contrary. Like I said, Lambert’s elusive. He’s got no form, never once been arrested. Not in this country, at any rate. Not yet. Always manages to keep one step ahead. Sure you won’t have a real drink?”

“No, thanks. I need to keep my head clear.”

“For what?”

“For Roy.”

“Okay.” Burgess went up the bar and bought himself another pint. Banks noticed that the pub was filling up even more with the after-work crowd. There had been a blackboard outside advertising hand-pulled “real” ale, so perhaps that was what brought them in. Most of the newcomers had to stand and the crush at the bar was getting to be three deep. Some people took advantage of the break in the rain and stood outside drinking, but from what Banks could see through the open door, the sky was darkening again and they’d all be dashing back inside soon.

Burgess came back and squeezed through the bodies to his stool without spilling a drop. “Are there any other leads on Roy’s murder?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “I’ll have a word with Annie Cabbot later and see if I find out what’s going on with DI Brooke’s investigation.”

“Still screwing the lovely DI Cabbot, are you, or have you moved on to pastures new?”

Banks ignored him. Burgess was always looking for buttons to push. Usually he succeeded, but not this time. “Tell me,” Banks said, “honestly, do you think Roy could have got involved in something crooked with Lambert again?”

“Anything’s possible. But what I’m telling you is that I, we, have no knowledge of it. If they were into something together, it’s a smooth operation. You’re dealing with pros here. At least Lambert’s a pro.”

“And you’d know if there was something?”

“Maybe. If it was big enough and nasty enough. We spend a lot of time just watching and thinking, but we’re not omniscient. We don’t know everything, just most things. Besides, it’s not my problem anymore. And Lambert hasn’t been back here very long. Only a couple of months if my sources are right, which they usually are. So if there is anything, it’s either new or it’s something international and he was working it from Spain, too. Let me ask around. I’ve still got a few contacts. There’s a bloke from Interpol, Dieter Ganz, I know is interested, if I can get in touch with him. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I want to know where Lambert lives.”

“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking me that.”

“I’d have got around to it a lot sooner if I hadn’t had my parents to cope with. Are you going to tell me?”

“Can’t see why not.” Burgess gave him an address in Chelsea. “You’d only find out some other way. He’s got a place out in the country somewhere, too, where he keeps his wife, but this flat’s his pied-à-terre when he’s in town. He still travels a fair bit. And he runs his business out of an office above a dry-cleaning shop on Edgeware Road, the Marble Arch end. But watch him, Banks. He’s slippery. Remember Harry Lime.”

Banks finished his orange juice. “Tell me something,” he said. “You always put up a show of resistance, but in the end you usually tell me what I want to know. Why?”

“Entertainment value,” said Burgess. “Besides, I like you. I like to watch you work. It interests me. I see you getting more and more like I used to be. You want something, you go after it, and bugger the consequences. Bugger the law, if necessary.”

“Used to be?”

Burgess sipped some beer. “I’ve mellowed, Banksy. Grown up.”

“Bollocks.”

“It’s true. Anyway, let’s just say that DI Brooke’s interests and mine don’t always coincide. Brooke’s a plodder. I know the type. No imagination. No breadth of vision. He’s only interested in short-term results, another tick on his report card for his next promotion.”

“And you?”

“I’m more interested in the big picture, the long-term view. And I like to know what’s going on. Information’s my stock-in-trade these days, after all. I don’t get out on the street much.”

“Miss it?”

Burgess looked away. “Sometimes.” He laughed and raised his glass. “Now bugger off. And good luck with Lambert.”

It had started raining again and Banks had to fight against the influx of people trying to get back inside. He found a sheltered doorway and dialed Annie’s number on his mobile. She answered on the fourth ring.

“Annie, it’s me, Alan.”

“Where are you? I’ve been wanting to speak to you ever since I heard. I’m really sorry about what happened to your brother.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’m back in London. Where are you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Annie said, “I’m in Selfridge’s at the moment, in one of the changing rooms. You might not have heard, but they’ve closed King’s Cross. Bomb threat. Anyway, it means I’m stuck here for another night. I need something to wear. I’m just about to head back to the hotel. Look, Alan, we have to talk again. A lot’s happened.”

“I know, but it’ll have to wait. Couple of quick questions. Have Brooke’s blokes talked to Gareth Lambert yet?”

“I don’t think so,” said Annie. “Last time I talked to him Dave didn’t seem all that interested. They’re concentrating on a couple of local lowlifes called Oliver Drummond and William Gilmore. Their names came up in your brother’s business correspondence and phone records.” Banks remembered the names, but they didn’t mean anything to him.

Then Annie told him about her visit to Alf Seaton’s that morning, the description of the man with the ponytail and what had become of the Mondeo. Banks knew immediately that it was one of the men who had followed him from Peterborough, the one who had made the gesture.

“Another thing you might as well know,” Annie said. “It looks as if your brother’s girlfriend had an abortion, arranged through the Berger-Lennox Centre. That’s when he met Jennifer Clewes.”

“Jesus,” said Banks. “That’ll be Corinne you’re talking about?”

“Are there any others?”

“Probably,” said Banks, “but I think she was the most recent model, the one before Jennifer. Thanks for telling me.”

“Can we meet up? We really should talk about all this.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” said Banks. “Breakfast? I’ve still got a couple of people to talk to tonight. How about I give you a bell when I’m finished?” Banks rang off before she could protest.

The rain was really pelting down now and all Banks had for protection was his light raincoat. He stood in the doorway of the closed shoe shop looking at the people drifting back and forth between the curtains of rain, then stepped out and headed as fast as he could for Tottenham Court Road tube station.