Children of the Revolution

Chapter 14

It was well after dark that Thursday evening, and the fog was thickening fast when Banks arrived at Anthony Litton’s Derbyshire manor house, which was as out of the way as it could be, in that strange no-man’s-land between Buxton and Macclesfield. Though certainly as large and impressive as Brierley, and surrounded by a high wall, the house was older and altogether more heavy and gloomy in its aspect, the dark stone, the brooding gables and squat solidity of its symmetry. Lights were showing in two of the downstairs windows, which meant Banks was probably in luck. He wasn’t entirely certain how to approach Litton, though he had been trying to work out a strategy on the drive down, amply aided by Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony playing loudly on the Porsche’s music system.

Banks pulled up where the drive ended, in front of the door. There was another car parked to his right, a dark Mercedes, in front of the closed garage doors. When he got out and examined it, he noticed that there were deep scratches and a dent on the passenger side. Was Litton so arrogant that he couldn’t even be bothered to put it in the garage, out of sight? Did he have that much confidence in Lady Chalmers’ silence?

Banks rang the bell and waited, surprised when Litton himself answered. He had been expecting a butler or a maid in a house like that. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Litton welcomed him. ‘That detective who was browbeating Ronnie up at Brierley the other day. What are you doing here? What do you want now?’

‘I’d like to talk to you,’ Banks said.

Litton glowered and stood his ground, a stocky, angry figure, then he seemed to relent. He looked over Banks’s shoulder, then right and left. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you lot always travelled in packs.’

‘Only when we’re hunting dangerous animals.’ Banks had considered bringing Annie or Winsome with him, but had decided he needed discretion more than company at this point.

‘I suppose that ought to reassure me. Come in. You’ve got ten minutes.’ He led Banks into a sitting room that probably had a beautiful view of the surrounding hills in daylight. Now the large picture windows were covered by heavy red velvet curtains. A log fire blazed in the large hearth, though it wasn’t a particularly cold evening, and its flames glinted on the oil paintings that hung on the walls, outlining their relief. Litton sat on a sofa, perching at the edge like a man with little time to spare, and offered nothing in the way of refreshments. That suited Banks just fine. ‘Out with it, man,’ Litton urged.

Banks determined not to be goaded or wound up by Litton’s demeanour. He had the upper hand here, he kept reminding himself. ‘I notice your car has some damage on the passenger side,’ he began.

‘Some of those bloody drystone walls bulge out way too far,’ Litton answered. ‘You know what it’s like. You must have the same problem up in North Yorkshire.’

‘I also know that Lady Veronica Chalmers was forced off the road shortly after she left here in the rain the other night.’

‘Forced? As I understood it, no other car was involved.’

‘That’s not exactly true,’ Banks said. ‘There’s also damage to the driver’s side of her car.’

‘And you think I’m responsible?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be too difficult to match the paint chips.’

‘You’ve got a nerve. And what if you did? Ronnie bumped my car on her way out. I distinctly remember it. She was in a hurry because of the worsening weather. There you are. And where’s your motive?’

‘You killed Gavin Miller, and Lady Chalmers knew about it. You thought you’d convinced her it was an accident, but she still harboured some doubts. After what happened the other night, she has none at all.’

‘Who? That old drunk who fell off the bridge? The one you were harassing Ronnie about?’

‘He wasn’t old. And if he was drunk, you’re the only one who knows it.’

‘Don’t come your clever tricks with me. Why on earth would I kill someone I didn’t even know?’

‘It’s complicated,’ Banks said. ‘But Lady Chalmers now feels certain you did, and that it was you who tried to kill her. That was your mistake, Mr Litton. You went too far.’

‘Ronnie would never testify against me. We’re family.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. You’ve made her life a misery lately. I think you pushed her beyond breaking point.’

Litton folded his arms. ‘No. She would never do that to Oliver.’

Banks paused to give his words added weight. ‘Because Oliver is her son?’

At first, Litton gaped, then he got to his feet, walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large whisky, neat, from a cut-glass decanter. When he sat down again, he sank back in the chair, no longer a man in a hurry. ‘So what makes you think that?’

‘Never mind. The point is that a simple DNA test would prove it. I assume you know who the father is, too? Joe Jarvis. She might not have opened up to you about what happened, but she would have opened up to her sister.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘That’s what everybody keeps asking me. Why don’t you tell me what happened first.’ Banks spread his hands. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not wired for sound.’

Litton narrowed his eyes and glared at Banks for a while, then he said, ‘It was an accident. Gavin Miller. All right, Ronnie phoned me in some distress and said he’d been in touch, and he wanted money to keep quiet. As you know, Oliver has a bright future ahead of him, and this Miller character had read about him. He remembered some things from the old student days with Veronica — how she “disappeared” for a while, how she was late back for her second year, how she looked when she did come back. Eventually he put it all together.’ Litton glanced at Banks. ‘And, like you, all he had to do was threaten her with the possibility of exposure, and we were sunk, Oliver’s career along with us. I know that nobody could force her to take a DNA test, but Ronnie thought that if the media kept on demanding it, not doing so would be tantamount to an admission of guilt. She didn’t know what to do.’

‘So you offered to take care of things for her, to meet Miller in her place?’

‘Yes. It was a paltry enough sum. Five thousand pounds. Showed very little imagination, I thought.’

‘You paid him.’

‘Yes. You know I did. And I made sure the bills wouldn’t be traced and that you wouldn’t find my fingerprints on them.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What would be the point of going to all that trouble over the bills if you were simply giving the money to Gavin Miller? I could understand it if you were planning on getting rid of him or something, making sure there was no forensic evidence to link you to the payment, but you said it was an accident, not premeditated murder.’

Litton narrowed his eyes. ‘You think you’re a real clever bastard, don’t you, Banks?’

‘So why did you kill him?’

Litton hammered his fist on his knee. ‘I told you. It was an accident.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘He just wouldn’t give up. I told you, the man was drunk, on drugs, whatever. He was practically incoherent. He kept going on about how he remembered Ronnie, saying intimate things about her, how she had betrayed him, but how he still thought they should be together again. It was disgusting, sick. I tried to just walk away, but he grabbed my lapels. I could tell then that he’d been drinking whisky along with whatever else he’d been taking. He breathed the fumes in my face. He said he realised he hadn’t asked for enough and he’d be back for more. We grappled, struggled. He was going for my wallet, wanted more right then and there. I struggled back, and the next thing I knew he was gone. I looked over the bridge and saw him lying there at an awkward angle. I didn’t know he was dead, but I knew I had to get away from there before anyone came.’

‘So you left the money?’

‘Yes. I panicked. It was too risky to go down there.’

‘The side of the bridge was quite high,’ Banks said. ‘A simple push wouldn’t have sent him over. He had to have been lifted off his feet.’

‘He was light as a feather, Banks. I had no idea. I shook him the way you do, tried to get him off me, lifted him and thrust him into the side of the bridge, or so I thought, just to knock the breath out of him, and he went over. Simple as that. OK, so I lost my temper. But I didn’t kill him deliberately. You have to believe that.’

Banks digested what he had just heard, still not certain whether to believe Litton. He was a bullish man, and strong, so his story would probably hold some credibility with a court, should the case ever get to one. But there was an alternative explanation. ‘When you asked him what evidence he had,’ Banks asked, ‘what did he tell you?’

‘He was just like you,’ Litton sneered. ‘A few wild suppositions that couldn’t be substantiated, and the threat of DNA. I knew we couldn’t survive that.’

‘But he hadn’t actually carried out any DNA tests?’

‘No. How could he? He’d have had to have something of Ronnie’s, Oliver’s and Jarvis’s. What was he going to do, sort through their rubbish? Break in and steal a toothbrush or a hairbrush?’

And pay for the test, too, Banks thought. ‘He might have managed it, eventually,’ he said. ‘But the point is that he hadn’t. All he had was a theory and the possibility of proof. DNA.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Gavin Miller wasn’t a particularly good blackmailer,’ Banks said, ‘Probably because he’d never done it before, and it was in many ways against his nature. He wasn’t a natural criminal, just a man who’d lost his moral compass because he’d been ill-treated and found himself in dire circumstances. From his point of view, his life had been nothing but a series of betrayals. Lady Chalmers betrayed him, his wife betrayed him, the college betrayed him, his most recent girlfriend betrayed him. Even Trevor Lomax, his close friend, betrayed him, though I don’t think he knew the full extent of Lomax’s treachery, thankfully. He was desperate and confused. Blackmail must have seemed his easiest option. Miller was an oddball, an eccentric, true, but apart from a bit of recreational drug use, not a habitual criminal. What blackmailer would admit to his victim that he actually had nothing substantial to bargain with? You didn’t have to talk to Gavin Miller for very long to realise that other than this foolish and greedy drunken man standing before you, there was nothing else to betray your secret and ruin Oliver’s career. Since your wife’s death, the only people who knew were you and Lady Chalmers, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell. Oliver is her son, and she is every bit as proud of him and protective of him as you are, if not more so. But you pushed her too hard, Tony. Everyone has their breaking point, and that moment on the road, when she realised who it was who had tried to send her to her death, was hers. What were you going to do, try again?’

‘This is absurd, Banks. Even if it did come out that Oliver was the son of my sister-in-law and a dyed-in-the-wool communist union agitator, it was hardly his doing, was it? It could hardly reflect badly on him.’

‘Don’t pretend to be so naive,’ said Banks. ‘You know damn well it would mean the end for Oliver Litton and all his political ambitions, and the sad thing is that you’re right — it would be through no fault of his own. In fact, he seems to have led an exemplary life and career so far. Even if the link between Oliver and Joe Jarvis wasn’t enough to sink his career, the subterfuge of his birth and the illegalities involved in passing off Lady Chalmers’ child as your own would be. In this day and age, a politician has to be spotless, and that sometimes involves being spotless in matters beyond his control.’

Litton got up to refill his glass. ‘I asked you before,’ Banks heard him say as the whisky gurgled into the glass. ‘What are you going to do about it? If you arrest me, I’ll deny it all, of course, but you’ll still destroy Oliver. Ronnie, too, and her family. Is that what you want? That’s just what Miller would have done. Do you want to complete the blackmailer’s work for him?’

‘I don’t—’ Banks began, but before he could finish he felt a heavy blow to the back of his head that sent stars flashing through his brain and seemed to put so much pressure on his eyeballs from the inside that he thought they would burst from their sockets. It was over in a second, or less, and he let the welcome darkness flood into his veins as he slid to the floor.

It could have been hours or days since he fell unconscious, Banks felt, as he struggled to sit up, his head a mass of raging pain, the bile rising in his gorge. He was immediately sick on the carpet and slid down to the floor again. This time he lay there, trying to take slow, deep breaths, aware of his heart pounding and the blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t know if any permanent damage had been done, but there seemed to be quite a bit of blood. It had soaked through his collar and into the carpet around where his head had lain. Beside the stain he saw the cut-glass decanter. So that was what Litton had hit him with. Christ, he thought, it could have killed him.

When he felt able, he struggled to a sitting position in the armchair and laid his head against the back. Bugger Litton’s lace antimacassars. He still felt sick, and his head and his thoughts throbbed and swirled. His vision was blurred and the back of his head burned. After spending a while sitting there, he risked a glance at his watch, and slowly, the face and hands came into focus. It was going on for midnight. That was at least two hours or more since he had arrived. If Litton had made a run for it he had a hell of a start. Banks listened as best he could with the pounding in his head, but he could hear no other sounds in the house.

The next Herculean task was to get to the bathroom and clean up. The stairway looked as if it stretched about as high as the one in the Led Zeppelin song. Banks’s first attempt to get to his feet failed miserably, his legs like rubber, and it wasn’t until about ten minutes later that he felt up to trying again, gripping the sides of the armchair and pushing with all his might. The world swam, and his head hammered; he felt so dizzy that he thought he might fall over again, but he made it. He stood swaying a while until he thought he had regained a modicum of his balance and made a few hesitant steps towards the staircase.

He found the bathroom easily enough and set the taps running in the sink. When the temperature was right and he leaned forward to stick his head under the water, he felt a wave of nausea and dizziness and almost slid to the floor. But he held on to the sink and let the water flow across his head like a tropical downpour.

Afterwards, he touched the back of his head and felt a lump the size of a bird’s egg, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped, and most of the blood had washed away. He grabbed a large fluffy white towel, which he used to dry his head, carefully patting the area around the wound. The towel came away a bit pink with blood, but Banks thought it was just the residue. His vision had cleared, his balance seemed restored, and all that remained was the throbbing pain. He ransacked the bathroom cabinet and found a bottle of prescription painkillers plastered with warnings. He palmed two of them and put the bottle in his pocket, then tottered downstairs and poured himself a whisky and soda to wash them down with. A few minutes later, he was ready for his first small steps into the world outside.

Litton’s car was gone, but the Porsche stood exactly where it had been. Fog swirled around the grounds like a Hammer movie set. He had no idea what Litton was up to now, though the only explanation he could come up with was flight. He had realised the game was up and was making his escape. But Banks also realised that so much of what Litton had done, so much of what made him tick, was tied up with Oliver and Lady Chalmers, that there was a chance he had flown to one or the other seeking sanctuary and support. Given that Oliver didn’t know the secret of his own birth, Lady Chalmers would probably be the better choice. She was a woman, Litton would figure, and though she may have betrayed him to Banks, he would imagine that with a little charm, fake humility and a plea for family loyalty — especially for Oliver’s sake — he could perhaps win back her trust and head the trouble off at the pass. He had an injured police officer to cope with, of course, but no doubt he could explain that, too. And perhaps with the Litton and Chalmers spheres of influence combined, he could get enough people who counted to swallow it all.

Banks got in his car and, fearing that Litton had removed some essential engine part, stuck the key in the ignition and gritted his teeth as he turned it. The engine started first time, as it always did. Wherever Litton was going, Banks realised, north or south, there was only one road to get there. It branched north and south a few miles to the east, but up to that point, the only other way you could go was east. That part of the Peak District wasn’t exactly criss-crossed by north — south routes.

Banks knew that he probably shouldn’t be driving, especially with the painkillers he had taken, but he felt fit enough to do it, and he was damned if he was going to spend the night either at Litton’s house or in a local hospital. The fog didn’t help, though visibility wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it could have been.

Not more than three miles along the road, he saw flashing lights, blurred in the mist, ahead of him, and a vague shape in the middle of the road, which was blocked by patrol cars. It was a uniformed police officer, waving his torch around in circles. Banks pulled gently to a halt and rolled down his window to see a young patrol constable.‘What’s the problem, officer?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry, sir. This road is closed due to an accident. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn back.’

Banks could just make out, beyond the roadblock, a part of the drystone wall knocked down, but he couldn’t see beyond that. Not certain whether it was worth the risk or not, Banks let his curiosity get the better of him and pulled out his warrant card. ‘Anything I can help you with?’ he said, flashing the card.

The officer seemed to come to attention immediately. ‘No, sir. We’ve got everything under control.’

‘What happened?’

‘Car went through the wall and into the river.’

‘The driver?’

‘We haven’t found a body yet, only the car, half-submerged. It looks as if the driver might have got out through his window, but the current’s pretty strong. It’s doubtful anyone survived. If he had, it would be a first.’

‘Anything on the car?’

‘Registered to Mr Anthony Litton, sir. He’s the father of Oliver Litton. You’ve heard of him?’

‘Indeed I have.’

The constable shook his head. ‘And just the other night, not more than two miles away, his sister-in-law ran through a fence. Luckily, she came out of it all right.’

‘Well, if I can’t help, I’ll be on my way,’ said Banks, thankful that the young constable hadn’t asked him what he was doing on a minor road so far off his patch. He also realised that he probably looked a bit of a mess, and he was glad the constable hadn’t shone his torch on him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the roads around here very well,’ Banks said. ‘And I don’t have satnav. How do I get north?’

The constable scratched his head. ‘Well, sir, you can’t really get there from here, if you catch my drift. Not with this road out of commission. I’d say your best bet is to turn back, keep going till you see the signposts to Stockport and Manchester Airport, then it’s a hop, skip and a jump to the M62. That’ll be your quickest way.’

‘Thank you,’ Banks said, then backed up to a lay-by to make his turn, as the road was quite narrow. He was aware of the young constable watching him as he went. Perhaps he had smelled the whisky on his breath, or noticed the blood on his collar. He could also feel the painkillers kicking in, the throbbing in his head receding to a distant hammering, like someone fixing a fence in the far distance, and a pleasant, heavy warmth filled his head and his arms. He thought some loud music might help him stay awake, but his brain rejected every choice. He needed to think, no matter how difficult it was. In the end, he settled for silence. It would have to be enough

The summons, when it came, arrived at the ungodly hour of seven o’clock on Friday morning — ungodly most of all because Banks hadn’t crawled into bed until almost three. He seemed to remember his mother saying years ago that you’re not supposed to go to sleep with a suspected concussion, but he had been able to stay awake no longer. When he woke to the gentle blues riff of his mobile and heard the clipped voice of AC Gervaise telling him, ‘Now. My office’ he struggled to sit up, then rolled out of bed towards the shower. He noticed there was blood on his pillow, but not much. And he had awoken from his sleep, so all was well. Almost. He had a moment of panic when he worried, too late, that Anthony Litton might have faked the car accident and gone after Lady Chalmers. He should have phoned her last night when he got home, he thought. But if Litton killed Lady Chalmers, that would be the end for him, and he didn’t seem to Banks like the kind of man who would throw away what he wanted so much. He would also have had a difficult time getting to Eastvale without a car.

Taking a few minutes extra to make himself a cup of instant coffee and swallow more painkillers and a slice of buttered toast, Banks skipped the shave and hurried out to the Porsche. It was a damp, chilly morning, the tops of the hills obscured by clouds, and a mist settled low in the valley, so the tower of Helmthorpe church resembled a ship’s mast in the ocean.

Banks had had neither the time nor the inclination to think very much since his hazy journey back from the Litton house. On his way to the station, he decided on the approach that he thought would cause him the least grief. The coffee worked a little magic during the drive, and when he pulled up at the back of Eastvale Police HQ, he was feeling at least eighty per cent human again. His head still spun and throbbed, though, despite the painkillers he had taken.

AC Gervaise was waiting behind her desk and, as expected, ACC McLaughlin was in his usual comfortable chair. The CC himself wouldn’t come out of his hole even for something of this obvious magnitude. What did rather knock the wind out of Banks, though, was the presence of a grey, nondescript man sitting beside the window.

‘I understand you have already met Mr Browne, DCI Banks?’ said Gervaise.

‘Mr Browne,’ said Banks. ‘With an “e”. Yes, indeed.’

Browne inclined his head briefly in greeting, his expression inscrutable as ever. They had met once before during a particularly politically sensitive case, and all Banks really knew about him was that he was someone big in MI5. He had had a serious run-in with them during that case, and now it appeared that he was due for another. How many run-ins with MI5 could the average police career survive? he wondered.

‘You look awful,’ Gervaise said.

Banks rubbed the back of his head gently. Even that hurt. He winced. ‘I’ve had better days.’

‘And nights, so we’ve heard,’ said McLaughlin. ‘According to the Derbyshire police, that is.’

So the patrol constable had spotted something odd, seen blood or smelled whisky, and made inquiries, Banks thought. Well, good for him; he’d go far. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell us what you think you were doing going off half-cocked, alone, to interview Anthony Litton,’ said Gervaise.

‘I had nothing definite to go on,’ said Banks. ‘Suspicions, a confirmation of sorts from Lady Chalmers that, should she change her mind, wouldn’t be worth the breath it was spoken with. I was also aware of the sensitive nature of the case. The last thing I wanted to do was rush in there with the heavy brigade “half-cocked”, as you put it, and slap the cuffs on Anthony Litton. I wanted to know what was going on before I decided what to do about it.’

‘And you think that’s your place, to make decisions like that?’

‘I was the only one who knew all the details. But I was planning on laying out what I knew in front of you, ma’am.’

‘But first you went and broke all the rules in the book?’ said McLaughlin.

‘One or two, perhaps. Just little ones.’

McLaughlin glowered. ‘The most important of which was interviewing a potential murder suspect alone.’

‘I talk to people a lot by myself,’ said Banks. ‘I find I get more out of them that way.’

‘It’s not a matter of getting more out of them, Alan,’ said Gervaise. ‘It’s a matter of following the correct procedure, of obtaining evidence that can be used in court. Your recent exploits have got us nothing of the kind.’

‘Well, that should suit everyone well enough, shouldn’t it?’

Banks noticed Browne’s mouth curl at one edge in a little smile.

‘What on earth made you dash off to Derbyshire?’ Gervaise asked.

‘Someone had run Lady Chalmers off the road,’ Banks answered. ‘She’d just left her brother-in-law’s house. I thought he might know something. When I arrived, I noticed scratches and dents on the passenger side of his car. I wanted to know how he got them, so I asked him.’

‘And did he tell you?’

‘He said they must have happened when she drove away from his house in a hurry. But he was lying.’

‘You know this for a fact?’

‘It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Besides, unless he’d moved it for some reason after Veronica’s crash, Litton’s car was parked to the right of the house, in front of the garage doors.’

‘So?’

‘Well, I’m assuming that Lady Chalmers pulled up in front of the house, as I did. That’s where the drive leads, naturally, at any rate, and there’s no room on the other side of the car.’

‘I still don’t get it,’ said Gervaise.

‘No matter how Lady Chalmers left the house, by backing out, doing a three-point turn, whatever, if she’d hit Litton’s car, she would have hit it on the driver’s side, and the damage was on the passenger side, consistent with his overtaking and forcing another car off the road.’

‘It’s hardly evidence, is it, though?’ said Gervaise. ‘More like sheer speculation.’

‘It makes sense of the facts.’

‘Why on earth would Anthony Litton want to harm his own sister-in-law?’ Gervaise asked.

‘Because she knew he killed Gavin Miller, though he had convinced her it was an accident, and he felt she was becoming unstable. He knew she’d been talking to me, for example, and he was starting to feel it would only be a matter of time before she snapped.’ Banks looked at Gervaise and McLaughlin. ‘He first complained to you about me, remember, hoping to nip it in the bud. I think he realised he couldn’t, that she’d blurt it all out sooner or later, and that more drastic action was required.’

‘How do you know he killed Gavin Miller?’

‘He admitted to it. He said it was an accident, too, that they struggled, and Miller fell off the bridge.’

‘And you think he’s lying again?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘You’ll have to explain a bit better than that, Alan.’

‘It’s simple, really,’ said Banks. ‘Gavin Miller and Veronica Bellamy, as she then was, were at the University of Essex together. From what I could gather, they had gone out together for a few months in their first year. Miller must have thought there was money in it, so he contacted Lady Chalmers and asked her for money to keep quiet.’

‘About what?’ asked McLaughlin.

‘Their relationship? Some other indiscretion? Some crime they had committed? Drugs use, most likely? I don’t know exactly what. But it doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have taken much.’

‘But why so long after?’ asked Gervaise. ‘That must have been forty years ago.’

‘Because Miller was in desperate straits. Apparently, he had some woolly-headed notion about opening a record shop, and he wanted funding. He was also unravelling mentally, I think. A mix of drink and drugs and a deepening depression. And because Oliver Litton was all over the news. That was the trigger. Miller thought that if he caused the family trouble at a time like this, something that was bound to be splashed over all the tabloid front pages, given that Sir Jeremy and Lady Chalmers are celebrities of a kind, it might be worth a few thousand quid to them just to shut him up. And you all know what reporters are like. They’ll make a sow’s ear out of a silk purse in no time. It was potentially a very vulnerable time for Oliver Litton, especially with the opposition, and even contenders from his own party, searching for anything they could smear him with, however remote or spurious.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Gervaise. ‘But why was it necessary to kill Miller? Couldn’t his death have been an accident, as Litton said?’

‘It could have been, but it wasn’t,’ said Banks. ‘Lady Chalmers called her brother-in-law and asked for his help when Miller first got in touch with her, and he said he would deal with the problem, so he went to the arranged meeting with Miller instead of her. Her husband was abroad, and I doubt that she wanted him to know any sordid truths about her past, anyway. He knew nothing about Miller, and he accepted the story that he had phoned to con money out of her, posing as a member of the alumni society. According to Anthony Litton, Miller was drunk, or stoned, or both, when they met, and he became aggressive, demanding more money, physically attacking Mr Litton, and saying vile things about Lady Chalmers and the things they’d done all those years ago. There was a struggle, and Miller was so emaciated he ended up over the side and Litton scarpered. At the most, Litton said, it was manslaughter. And that was probably what it would have come to in court. But I think he set out to kill Miller, to put an end to his blackmail, once and for all. We all know that blackmailers always come back for more. He couldn’t risk that, not with his son’s career at stake.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes. Whoever killed Miller must have physically lifted him off the ground to drop him over that bridge. It’s my opinion that it would have been very unlikely to happen by accident, and Stefan Nowak and Dr Glendenning concur. There were also ante-mortem wounds indicating a struggle of some sort.’

‘And now Anthony Litton’s dead, too?’

‘As you no doubt know,’ Banks said. ‘I approached the accident scene on my way home. They hadn’t found the body when I drove up, and they turned me back, but I’m sure it didn’t take them long, and I’m equally sure they told you all about it.’

‘It was Anthony Litton,’ said Browne, speaking up for the first time. ‘The police found his body several yards downstream. Drowned. It seems he’d managed to get out the car and was trying to swim for safety, but the current was too strong, and he wasn’t much of a swimmer. It was an accident black spot, according to the police at the scene.’ He paused and put his finger to his chin. ‘Though you might be forgiven for thinking that someone who lived in the neighbourhood would be aware of that fact and would consequently drive more carefully.’ Browne shrugged. ‘According to the accident investigator, he must have been doing about sixty. No matter. It was a bad night. Fog and all. The thing is, as soon as we heard what had happened, we — that is, some colleagues of mine — paid a hasty visit to Mr Litton’s home in search of any, well, sensitive material, and they found... well, perhaps you can tell me what they found, DCI Banks?’

There was no point lying about that, Banks thought. ‘I think Mr Litton panicked when I got the truth out of him. He took me by surprise, hit me over the head with a cut-glass decanter.’ He turned to show them the bump. ‘It bled quite a lot, and I lost consciousness for some time. When I came to, he was gone. I cleaned myself up and went out to try and find him. All I found was the accident scene.’

‘We were able to clean up the mess before any questions were asked,’ said Browne. ‘You see, none of us have the depth of understanding of this case that you have, Mr Banks, especially after the extensive inquiries you and your team have been making into Lady Chalmers’ past, but I’m sure it’s all quite irrelevant now.’ He stared blankly at Banks.

‘Quite irrelevant,’ Banks said.

Browne nodded slowly. ‘Yes. You see, as I’m sure you are also aware, we, and our sister organisation the police force, of course, have a very strong interest in wanting Oliver Litton to become the new Home Secretary, though we are aware it’s still not a foregone conclusion. It would be a tragedy if anything were to jeopardise his chances at this stage. For the first time in a long while, we would have a sympathetic and understanding Home Secretary, and perhaps some of these dreadful enforced budget cuts we’ve all been undergoing might be somewhat eased. Perhaps. At least the prospect is far better than any of the alternatives, even if nothing changes.’

‘Well,’ said Banks, spreading his hands, ‘the last thing I wanted was for the press to get hold of the story and distort it out of all proportion.’

‘Admirable, Mr Banks,’ said Browne, a glint in his eye. ‘Of course, the young Mr Litton will be the recipient of a great deal of sympathy over the loss of his father at a time when it certainly can’t do his future career any harm. Perhaps a few days of personal time, for grieving, you understand, the funeral, then back into the fray with renewed vigour. After all, it was a tragic accident. A terrible night, a notorious black spot. What can one say?’

‘Indeed,’ said Banks. Why did he always feel he was entering into a John le Carré novel every time he talked to Mr Browne? Well, this was only the second time, to be strictly fair, but he felt that it could never be otherwise. ‘And the murder of Gavin Miller?’ he said.

‘Hardly murder, wouldn’t you think?’ said Browne. ‘A bit of a puzzle, still, but one that will fade very quickly. Nobody much cares about Gavin Miller.’

‘But what about my team?’

‘What about them? Do they know anything?’

‘Just some background. They’ve put in a lot of work.’

‘Then there’s no need to worry, is there, if all they know is a little background. You were getting nowhere, the investigation is being scaled down. Soon, everyone will have forgotten about it.’

‘Are there any other promising leads?’ asked McLaughlin.

‘No,’ said Banks. ‘We were looking into drugs, and connections with Eastvale College, but we kept hitting a brick wall.’

‘There you are,’ said Browne. ‘People will assume it was probably a criminal gang who does something like that. Such killers are notoriously difficult to bring to justice.’

‘Then I don’t really think we can justify the cost of an ongoing investigation, can we?’ McLaughlin said. ‘I think we can safely put it on the back-burner.’

‘What about Lady Chalmers?’ Banks asked. ‘He tried to kill her.’

‘We’ve had a brief word,’ said Browne. ‘Naturally, she is grief-stricken. I understand that she and her sister were very close, and since her sister’s death, her brother-in-law and her nephew have become even closer to her. She’s bearing up well. I’d say she’ll be right as rain, given a little time.’

‘And me?’ said Banks.

‘Just a little bump on the head,’ said Browne. ‘You’ll recover.’

‘I didn’t mean that. Should I be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my days?’

Browne raised an eyebrow. ‘No need to be melodramatic. Oh, we’ll keep an eye on you. The way we always do. I heard rumours of a promotion.’ He glanced towards ACC McLaughlin. ‘That should be nice.’

Banks turned to Gervaise and McLaughlin. Neither of them seemed very happy. ‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘I’m not sure I’ve behaved myself well enough for that.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Browne, standing to leave. ‘You did exactly the right thing. Discreet inquiries. No sending for the cavalry. A plausible conclusion to a relatively simple case. As it happens, you’ve done us all a favour this time, whether you intended to or not. Do much better, and the next thing you know we’ll be asking you to join us.’

‘I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult,’ Banks said.

Browne chuckled and left the office, waving farewell without turning around as he went.

ACC McLaughlin set off in thinly disguised pursuit, leaving Banks only with a pointed frown that lingered like the Cheshire Cat’s smile.

‘Coffee, Alan?’ asked Gervaise.

‘Please, ma’am.’

Gervaise poured excellent, strong coffee from her machine. Banks popped another couple of painkillers. Of course, he’d given them all the pack of lies they had wanted, but it was a plausible pack of lies. And why not? he told himself.

Gervaise fixed him with a penetrating gaze as she handed him the coffee. ‘Do you know the truth about what happened, Alan?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘Is there anything more that needs to be done?’

As far as Banks was concerned, Anthony Litton had murdered Gavin Miller to ensure his continuing silence over Oliver’s true parentage. But it could have been manslaughter. Anthony Litton, Banks also suspected very strongly, had committed suicide. But it could have been an accident. Banks had no proof of any of his suspicions, except what people had said to him in private, and he certainly wasn’t going to attempt to force a DNA test on Lady Chalmers, Joe Jarvis and Oliver Litton. Anthony Litton was dead, and Lady Chalmers was free of her blackmailer. It was true that she had known what was going on, but she couldn’t believe that her brother-in-law was a cold-blooded killer until he tried to murder her. Why should Oliver Litton’s career suffer because of it all? He was the only true innocent in the whole business, insofar as any politician could be called innocent, except for Lady Chalmers’ immediate family, Sir Jeremy, Angelina, Samantha, the daughter he hadn’t met, and Oriana, of course.

There was the remote possibility that Veronica Chalmers was a great actress and that she had masterminded the whole thing, manipulated Anthony Litton into getting rid of Miller for her, even that the whole lot of them were in it together, that she had deliberately bumped Litton’s car on her way out of his gates and run herself through the fence to the edge of the river, but Banks considered that highly unlikely, not being drawn to wide-ranging conspiracy theories. The more links in the chain of a conspiracy, the more likely one is to break. Anthony Litton had, after all, confessed to him that he had killed Miller, though he maintained it was an accident. There had been no sense that he had done so under instruction, and he didn’t seem the kind of man to be easily manipulated. Banks could live with that.

‘No,’ he said, and finished his coffee. Gervaise opened her laptop computer and prepared to start typing. First, she glanced up at Banks and almost smiled at him. ‘Now for Christ’s sake, Alan, go and get your head seen to.’