Strange Affair

CHAPTER EIGHT

“You look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks. You know, you shouldn’t go around creeping up on people like that doing your Sweeney impersonation. You might get hurt.”

“You do seem very jumpy.”

“Maybe I’ve got good reason to be.”

“Care to tell me about it?”

Banks gave Annie a look she’d seen before. It meant he’d get her to play out her hand first and then decide how much to share with her. So be it. “All right,” Annie said. “How about a drink?”

They were sitting in Roy’s kitchen, afternoon sunlight pouring in through the open window. Banks picked a bottle of Château Kirwan from the wine rack and Annie watched him attack it with an expensive and complicated opener. A simple corkscrew would have taken less time, she thought. After Banks poured, they sat opposite each other in silence.

“Who’s going first?” Annie asked.

“How did you find me?”

“That doesn’t matter. The point is that I have found you.”

“No,” said Banks. “The point is, why were you looking for me? Why come all the way down here when I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do?”

“You really don’t know?”

“I’ve got no idea. As far as you’re concerned, I’m on holiday. Do you know something I don’t?”

“Lots of things, probably.”

“No need to be sarcastic.”

Annie flushed. She hadn’t meant to be sarcastic, but he was driving her to it. She knew she used sarcasm to hide behind when she was feeling vulnerable or confused, the way others hide behind smoking or bad jokes. She realized it probably wasn’t the right time, but she didn’t think she could go on talking to Banks unless she cleared the air. He would have to meet her halfway. The last time she had tried to reach out to him and heal the rift, he had dismissed her. She polished off her glass and held it out for a refill. Dutch courage. Banks narrowed his eyes and poured.

“I’m sorry,” Annie said. “I don’t mean to be sarcastic. After everything that’s happened, things just seem to come out wrong.”

Banks caught her eye for a moment, then gazed past her out of the window. There were flowering shrubs outside in the backyard, and Annie could hear bees buzzing from one to another behind her. Impulsively, she reached across the table and put her hand on his arm. “What is it, Alan? We can’t go on like this. You can’t go on like this.”

Banks didn’t flinch when she touched him, but he didn’t say anything at first, just kept staring over her shoulder, through the window. Finally, he turned his eyes back to her.

“You’re right,” he said. “I feel as if I’ve been a long, long way from everything that used to matter, but I’m getting closer again.”

“Light at the end of the tunnel?”

“And all the other clichés. Yes.”

“I’m glad,” Annie said, feeling herself choke up. There was so much more to say but she sensed that now was not the time. Besides, there were other things of more immediate concern that they needed to talk about. She took another sip of wine. Definitely not your everyday quaffing plonk. Banks lit a cigarette.

“I thought you’d stopped that,” Annie said.

“I had,” said Banks. “It’s only a temporary return.”

“I hope so.”

“Why do you want to see me?”

“Have you heard about the woman found dead in the car near Eastvale?”

“I’ve read about it in the paper,” Banks said, “but they haven’t really given out much information.”

“Her name is Jennifer Clewes. Do you know anyone by that name?”

“No,” said Banks.

“Guess what we found in the back pocket of her jeans?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“An address.”

“Whose address?”

“Yours.”

Banks’s jaw dropped. “What? I can’t… What’s her name again?”

“Jennifer Clewes.”

“I’ve never heard of her. What’s it all about?”

“We don’t know yet. She had your address and directions written on a slip of paper in her back pocket, in her own handwriting,” Annie went on. “The directions were to the damaged cottage. It looks as if it has been broken into. You can imagine what a flap it created up there, finding your name and address on a victim’s person. Superintendent Gristhorpe decided to sit on it until Monday.” Annie could see that Banks was thinking furiously, trying to make things connect. “Come on, Alan, give,” she said. “You know something. What is it?”

“I don’t know anything. I’m telling the truth. I’ve never heard of the girl.”

“But you know something. I can tell.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’ve got time.” Annie was feeling a little tipsy from the wine, but what the hell, she thought, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Maybe you can start,” she went on, “by telling me what you’re doing here. Last I heard, you and your brother were hardly on the best of terms.”

“He’s disappeared,” Banks said.

“What?”

Banks told her about Roy’s phone call and the empty, unlocked house.

“Have you reported this?”

Banks said nothing, just stared over her shoulder out of the window.

“You haven’t, have you?”

“Why does everyone keep going on about it so?” said Banks, with a sudden flash of anger. “You know as well as I do how much effort we’d put into looking for a missing adult when he’s been gone less than forty-eight hours. I’ve probably done more myself than the locals would have.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Listen to yourself. There are suspicious circumstances and you know it. You told me he said it was a matter of life and death.”

“Might be a matter of life and death.”

“Fair enough, you want to split hairs. I’ll say no more right now, but don’t forget it might be your brother’s life you’re playing fast and loose with. For Christ’s sake, Alan, you shouldn’t even be here.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Oh, sometimes I just wish you’d grow up. You might be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but, quite frankly, you’re still a mess. You’ve done nothing but paperwork for the past few months, you’ve barely spoken to a soul, you rarely bother to shave, you need a haircut, and you’re half-pissed most of the time. I was in your flat. I’ve seen how you live.” There was no point going on at him, Annie knew. She just had to let her frustration out from time to time.

“What put you in such a good mood?” Banks said.

Annie just shook her head. “Look, I know you’re concerned,” she went on in a softer tone. “I know you’re worried about your brother, but you’ve got to stop being so stubborn. For his sake as well as your own.”

“You’re probably right,” Banks said, “but look at it from my point of view. I’m worried they might find out a few things about Roy our parents would rather not know, and I know there’s no way they’ll let me work on the case if it becomes official. Besides, how can I know the job’s being done properly if I don’t do it myself?”

“Sometimes I wonder how you made DCI,” Annie said. “Such skills of delegation.”

Banks laughed. Annie was surprised, and it broke the tension.

“Are you sure you’ve never heard of Jennifer Clewes?” she went on. “You’ve no idea why she should have your address in her pocket?”

“There’s a Jenn in Roy’s mobile call list.”

“That’s what her friends called her.”

“Wait here a minute.” Banks disappeared upstairs. Annie sipped more wine and looked around the kitchen. Expensive, she thought, especially for a room that didn’t get used much. Banks soon returned with a bulging folder under his arm, sat back down and started flipping through pages.

“Do you have her phone number?” he asked.

“Her mobile’s missing, but I got the number from her flatmate.” Annie read out the number from her notebook. It was the same one Banks had on Roy’s call list.

“My God,” said Annie. “So there definitely is a connection between Jennifer Clewes and your brother Roy.”

“Corinne was right. He did have a new girlfriend.”

“Corinne?”

“Roy’s fiancée. Ex-fiancée.”

“From now on, this is official,” Annie said. “I’m going to have a word with DI Brooke about your brother’s disappearance. He won’t be happy.”

“Suit yourself,” said Banks.

“Look,” Annie went on, trying to placate him, “you know you’re too personally involved to be assigned to the case – either case – but that doesn’t mean you can’t be of some use.”

“On whose terms?”

Annie managed a thin smile. “Well, it’s not as if anyone’s going to be keeping tabs on you twenty-four hours a day, is it? As long as we stay on the same page.”

Banks nodded. “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.”

“All I ask is that you share with me. Any sign of a Carmen Petri on that list, by the way?”

“Carmen? I don’t remember one. It’s an unusual name. Let me have a look.” Banks glanced through the list of names. “No,” he said. “Why? Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “The name just turned up in one of my interviews. So how do you think it all connects?”

“Let’s review what we know.”

“The way it looks is that someone was watching Jennifer’s house in Kennington on Friday evening,” said Annie. “Maybe other evenings, too, that week. Waiting for her. We don’t know why. One witness has already confirmed there was a dark blue car parked near her flat with two men inside around the time she set off, one in the front and one in the back, and he’d seen it there before. The same car – or at least we think it’s the same car – was seen at the Watford Gap service station, where Jennifer stopped to eat and fill up with petrol. It cut off another driver pulling in right behind her when she left. The only half-decent description we have is of the man in the back – muscular, with a ponytail.”

“Is that the man who killed her?”

“We don’t know, but it’s the best lead we’ve got so far. Stefan’s working overtime on the scene. Unfortunately the pursuing car wasn’t scratched or anything, so we’ve no paint chips to go on.”

“But why would Roy send this woman to see me? Why not come himself?”

“I don’t know. Her flatmate said Jennifer received a phone call around a quarter to eleven that Friday and left right after. Said it shook her up a bit. Did your brother sound worried when he heard the doorbell?” Annie asked.

“No,” said Banks. “I’ve thought a lot about that, and he sounded fine. I mean, if he’d been worried it was someone come to do him harm he wouldn’t have answered it, would he? He’d probably have tried to scarper out of the back window. Besides, the bloke across the street said Roy just locked his door and got into the car with his visitor as if things were quite normal.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“I’ve been trying to piece together the events of that day,” Banks said. “The way I see it is that Roy comes home just before half past nine, from where I don’t know, but something has upset him. He puts his mobile on the kitchen table, or it’s already there, pours himself a glass of wine and goes up to his office to check phone messages, e-mail, or whatever. He takes the wine with him. Maybe he sits and mulls things over for a minute or two, then he decides that whatever it is he’s found out is worth calling his estranged policeman brother about. Maybe he even senses that he’s in danger because of something he knows. Anyway, he phones me and tells me he needs my help. While he’s on the phone, the doorbell rings. He answers it and goes off in a car with whoever it is. Willingly, it appears. And he forgets his mobile, even though he’s given me the number. I’d say that means he’s more than a little distracted.”

“Maybe it was Roy who rang Jennifer later, then?” Annie suggested.

“And gave her directions to my cottage and told her to set off right there and then because he couldn’t come himself? Maybe it was. But why? What happened between half past nine and a quarter to eleven?”

“That we don’t know.” Annie paused. “Poor lass,” she said. “Everything I’ve found out about Jennifer tells me she was a decent, hardworking, caring person, perhaps a bit naive and idealistic.”

“So what got her killed?”

“I wish I knew.” Annie sipped her wine. The light changed and she could tell that clouds were gathering, the world darkening around them. “What are you going to do next?”

“Carry on my own personal covert operation,” said Banks

Annie smiled. “What can I say?”

“Nothing. You?”

“I’ll talk to Dave Brooke as soon as I can and I’m pretty sure he’ll want to see you. I mean it, Alan. Our cases have crossed and I’m not leaving any loose ends. Besides, given what happened to Jennifer Clewes, Roy could be in danger. Have you thought about that?”

“I haven’t thought about much else,” said Banks. “Mostly I’ve been thinking that he’s done a runner, with kidnapping a distant second. Your connecting him with the murdered girl puts a different complexion on things.”

“I’m glad you see it that way. If you’d bothered to keep in touch, we might have got to this point ages ago.”

“How was I to know you were looking for me?”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, I’ve still got a couple of things to do tomorrow. Jennifer was killed on our patch, but her life was down here. It makes things awkward.”

“So what do you have to do?”

“Visit Jennifer’s workplace, for a start. She worked at a family-planning center in Knightsbridge. It-”

“What’s it called?” Banks asked.

“The Berger-Lennox Centre. Why?”

Banks opened the folder again and started turning over sheets of paper, some of them covered with his own spidery scrawl. Finally he pointed to a printed sheet. “I thought I remembered the name,” he said. “It’s one of the centers Roy invested in. One of Julian Harwood’s companies. Are you sure that’s where Jennifer Clewes worked?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps that’s where they met, then. Harwood told me that Roy’s a hands-on sort of investor, likes to check out his assets. And if Jennifer Clewes was a good-looking young woman…”

“Which she was,” said Annie.

“Bingo.”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“Maybe not,” said Banks. “But it’s another connection. One person murdered, another disappeared. Her phone number is in his book, my address is in her back pocket, and they have this family-planning center in common. I don’t know about you, but that’s way too many coincidences for me. Maybe I’ll go with you tomorrow. Find out for certain. Someone must remember if Roy’s been there.”

Annie paused. She wanted to be diplomatic but didn’t quite know how to do it. In the end, she threw caution to the wind. “You can’t,” she said. “You know you can’t. It’s not your case. I’ve already made it clear I’m making your brother’s disappearance official and I’m giving you a bit of room to maneuver, but you can’t just come muscling in. You have no official standing in the Jennifer Clewes investigation whatsoever.”

“But what if there’s a connection with what’s happened to Roy?”

“Look, Alan, you’ve got no official standing there, either. I’m not taking you with me and that’s that.”

“Fine,” said Banks. “Okay. I understand.”

“Don’t sulk. It doesn’t suit you.” Annie stood up. She felt a little wobbly, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. “And stick around. DI Brooke will be wanting to take your statement.” Annie heard a light tapping sound on the leaves behind her. It quickly grew louder and faster. The rain had started again.

It was early evening and Banks was sitting in Roy’s office reading through the files of correspondence Corinne had printed out when he heard someone at the door. At first he thought it might be Roy, but why would he be knocking at his own door? Then he thought it might be DI Brooke come to interview him and decided it would be best to get it over with. Even so, he looked for some sort of weapon, just in case. All he could find was a set of golf clubs in the landing cupboard, so he grasped one of the irons and answered the door. The man who stood there was about Banks’s age. He was wearing a dark suit, had a neat side parting in his graying black hair and a serious, intelligent look in his eyes. He could have been a policeman, Banks thought, except that he was wearing a clerical collar. He looked at the golf club and at Banks.

“Hello,” he said, reaching his hand out tentatively. “Hunt’s the name. Ian Hunt. Roy home?”

Banks shook his hand. It felt damp and cool. “No,” he said. “I’m his brother, Alan. What’s it about?”

“He’s mentioned you,” said Hunt. “The policeman. But I didn’t think… Never mind.”

Banks had a good idea what Ian Hunt didn’t think, but he kept quiet. He needed all the information he could get, and a defensive attitude from the outset wouldn’t help matters much. He wondered what the hell the vicar was doing calling around at Roy’s house. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes. Yes, please, if it’s all right.”

Banks propped the golf club by the front door and led the way to the kitchen at the back, where he had recently sat with Annie, and offered Hunt a chair. Hunt made no comment about the club. Banks didn’t want to seem as if he was interrogating the man, but he realized he had practically forgotten the simple art of conversation after all his years in the force. His job affected the way he saw and dealt with everyone. He had even been brusque with Corinne. “Why did you want to see Roy?” he asked.

“No real reason,” Hunt said. “Only he didn’t turn up at church this morning, and that’s not like him.”

Banks nearly fell off his chair. “Church?” Wonders never cease.

“Yes. Why? What’s so strange about that?”

“Nothing,” said Banks, who hadn’t set foot inside a church since his childhood, except for weddings and funerals. He and Roy hadn’t been given a particularly religious upbringing, and neither of their parents had been regular churchgoers. At school, back in those days, there were prayers and a hymn every morning, of course, but apart from a few years of Sunday school and a brief stint in the Lifeboys and Boys’ Brigade, that had been it as far as Banks was concerned. Now this.

“Normally, I wouldn’t bother dropping by,” said Hunt, “but there was a meeting of the restoration fund committee after the service and Roy has always been a keen contributor. Not only financially, you understand, but also in terms of ideas. Very creative mind, Roy.”

“Cup of tea, Vicar?”

“Please. And call me Ian. Unless you want me to call you Chief Inspector?”

“Ian it is.” Banks put the kettle on. Tea with the vicar on a Sunday afternoon, he thought. How very genteel. This wasn’t a world he would ever have suspected Roy of inhabiting. He found the tea bags next to the coffee and put two in the flower-patterned teapot.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Banks as the kettle was coming to a boil, “when did Roy start going to church?”

“I don’t mind at all,” said Hunt. “He started attending services on the sixteenth of September, 2001.”

“I didn’t expect you to remember the exact date,” Banks said.

“But how could I forget? You’d be surprised how many people returned to the church, or first started attending, around that time.”

Banks had to think for a moment before he realized the significance of the date. It must have been the first Sunday after the attack on the World Trade Center. But why should that affect Roy so much? He poured boiling water into the pot. “What drew him there?” he asked.

Hunt paused. “You really don’t know much about your brother, do you?”

“No,” said Banks. “And the more I find out, the less I know.”

“That’s the universal paradox of knowledge”

“Maybe so,” said Banks, “but at the moment I’m interested in more practical knowledge. I don’t suppose you have any idea where Roy might be?”

Hunt blinked. “I was the one who came here looking for him, remember?”

“Even so.”

Hunt looked at Banks with curiosity in his eyes. “I can see you’ve been trained not to take anything at face value,” he said. “No, I have no idea where he is.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I told you. The meeting. It’s not like Roy not to even leave a message.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Last Sunday.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“We chatted briefly after the service.”

“How did he seem?”

“Fine. Quite normal.”

Banks got the milk from the fridge, giving it a quick sniff to see if it was still all right, poured the tea, then sat down opposite Hunt. “I don’t mean to seem so abrupt,” he said, “but I’m concerned. Roy left a rather disturbing message on my answering service, and when I came down here to see him he’d disappeared and the front door was unlocked.”

“I can see why you would be concerned,” said Hunt.

“So the two of you chatted often?”

“Yes,” said Hunt. “We’d often spend an hour or two together, usually at the vicarage, sometimes over lunch.”

Roy lunching at the vicarage was an image Banks found very hard to visualize. “Did he open up to you? I mean, did he…”

“I know what you mean.” Hunt shifted in his chair. “Yes, I’d say he opened up about his feelings. At least to some extent.”

“Feelings about what?”

“Many things.”

“I’m afraid that’s a bit too vague for me,” said Banks. “Do you think you could be more specific? It’s not as if you took his confession or anything.” Banks realized that he hadn’t ascertained what denomination Hunt represented. “I mean, you’re not Catholic, are you?”

“Church of England. But I don’t know how much I can help you. Roy never went into great detail about anything he did.”

“I don’t suppose he would,” said Banks. “But did you get any idea why he started attending church on the sixteenth of September, 2001, other than some vague sense of unease about the way the world was going?”

“It wasn’t that.” Hunt took a deep breath. “It’s my feeling that your brother had lost his moral compass, had become so engrossed in the making of money that how he made it no longer mattered to him.”

“He’s not unusual in that,” said Banks.

“No. But it’s my guess that what happened in New York on the eleventh brought it home to him in no uncertain terms.”

“You’re not saying he was somehow connected to the attacks, are you?”

“Oh, no,” said Hunt. “No, you’re missing the point entirely.”

“What, then?”

“Didn’t he tell you? He was there.”

Banks had to pause a moment to take this in. “Roy was in New York when the attacks took place?”

Ian Hunt nodded. “According to what he told me, he had an appointment with a banker in the second tower. He was running late and his taxi got caught up in traffic. The next thing he knew, everyone was coming to a halt and getting out of their cars, some of them pointing up. Roy got out, too, and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The smoke and flames. People jumping out of windows. It took him three days to get on a flight home.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Banks. “Sorry. He never told me this.”

“But you’re not close, are you?”

“No.”

“Anyway, it gave him pause for thought – the enormity of it all, fate, how everything was connected, what unimaginable consequences could arise from seemingly unimportant, unrelated actions. These were all things he wanted to talk about. I had no answers, but he seemed to find something of what he wanted in the church, in prayer, Holy Communion, and in our discussions.”

Banks remembered what Burgess had said about the arms deal. Roy had found out that a shipment he had brokered had found its way into the wrong hands. Had Roy really been so naive as to think that arms dealing was just a business like any other? He probably hadn’t given it too much thought, Banks decided, lured by the money and the excitement. Warned off by Special Branch, he had backed away from that line of work immediately, but he had witnessed the attacks on the World Trade Center and he was stricken by conscience, by the fact that guns or missiles he had exported could have been used in something like this. Roy realized he had crossed a line and he didn’t like what he saw on the other side.

Suicide bombers in distant desert places are one thing, but being there, in New York, on the eleventh of September, 2001, and witnessing what happened must have been devastating. It certainly made it impossible for Roy to remain willfully ignorant of the kind of things terrorists intended to do to the West, given the means and opportunity. And, unknowingly or not, Roy had once helped out with the means. Hence the guilt. Roy had turned to the church for absolution.

This was a new perspective on his brother, and one that would take Banks a little time to get used to. It certainly didn’t match the Roy he remembered from the last time he had seen him just eight months ago, but then that had been Roy-at-home, a careful image he projected for his parents. Had Roy even told their parents what he had seen? Banks doubted it. Despite his religion, though, Roy had continued to make money; he had hardly given it all to charity and taken a vow of poverty, or chastity, for that matter. Clearly guilt only went so far and cut so deep.

So what had happened to him? Had he lost his moral compass again? The making of money, perhaps even more than the money itself, was an addiction to some people, like gambling, heroin or cigarettes. Banks had given up smoking the previous summer when he found out that an old schoolfriend had died from lung cancer, but he had started again after a fire took his home, his possessions and, almost, his life. Where was the logic in that? But such is the nature of addiction.

“Has anything in your recent conversations given you any reason to think Roy might have got into some sort of dangerous gray area again?” Banks asked.

“No,” said Hunt. “Nothing.”

“He didn’t mention his business activities?”

“We didn’t talk about business. Our conversations were mostly of a philosophical and spiritual nature. Look, I know Roy’s not a natural man of religion, and I very much doubt that he’s a saint, even after what happened, but he does have a conscience and sometimes it troubles him. He’s still a hard-nosed businessman, the kind of person you’d expect to cut a corner or two and not always ask too many questions, but I’d say he’s a lot more careful these days. He’s drawn his own lines.” Hunt paused. “He’s always looked up to you, you know.”

“You could have fooled me.” Growing up, Banks had done everything wrong. He had stayed out too late, got caught shoplifting and smoking, got into fights, neglected his school-work, and, the final insult, he had turned away from business studies and chosen a career of which neither of his parents approved. Roy, on the other hand, from five years behind, had watched his brother’s progress and learned what not to do.

“It’s true,” said Ian Hunt. “He did look up to you, especially when you were children. You just never paid him any attention. You ignored him. He felt neglected, rejected, as if he always let you down.”

“He was my little brother,” said Banks.

Hunt nodded. “And always in the way.”

Banks remembered when he was going out with Kay Summerville, his first serious girlfriend. Roy was about twelve at the time, and whenever their parents went out for a night at the local pub and Banks invited Kay over to listen to records, among other things, he would always have to pay Roy to stay in his room. So maybe Roy was always in the way, Banks thought, but he found the means to profit from it.

“Anyway,” Banks said, “I wasn’t aware that he looked up to me in any way. He certainly never let it show.”

“I’m not saying Roy isn’t competitive. You were good at sports, for example. He wasn’t, so he worked hard at what he did best. He compensated.”

Good? Banks had been a tolerable fly halfback then, fast and slippery. At cricket he hadn’t been much cop as a batsman but had been a decent mid-pace bowler. Roy had been an overweight, bespectacled and unattractive child, not at all athletic, and at school the other kids teased him and called him a swot. Once the bullying got serious enough that Bank stepped in and put an end to it, so no one could say he never did anything for Roy. But he certainly hadn’t done enough.

“Even now he looks up to you,” Hunt went on.

“That I find even harder to believe,” said Banks, wondering what there was to look up to: a failed marriage and a thankless job. Especially when Roy had it all: the flashy car, women falling at his feet, the mews house. But they were all things, Banks realized, all material possessions. Even the women, to some extent, were status symbols. Look at me with a beautiful young woman on my arm. All for show. Roy’s three marriages had ended in divorce, and not one of them had produced any children. He had even broken off his engagement to Corinne. Banks at least had Brian and Tracy.

He saw that Hunt was standing, ready to leave. “Sorry,” said Banks. “Just thinking about what you said.”

“That’s all right,” said Hunt. “I should go. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be of more practical help. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate. It’s St. Jude’s, just down the street.”

“Thanks. Oh, hang on a minute.” Banks fetched one of the digital photos and showed it to Hunt. “Do you recognize either of those men?”

Hunt shook his head.

“You’ve never seen Roy with either of them?”

“No, never.”

They shook hands again and Ian Hunt left.

Maybe the mistake Banks had made in trying to figure Roy out was to dismiss his spiritual and emotional sides. Now he had discovered that Roy had become a regular churchgoer, it changed things, added a dimension he hadn’t suspected. Did it help him figure out what had happened to Roy? Perhaps not, but it might affect the way in which he conducted his investigation. Previously, he’d been looking for something dodgy that Roy had been connected to, something he had perhaps run away from; now, though, the field was wide open. Possibly Roy had stumbled over something he shouldn’t have or perhaps he had become a threat to people he had once worked closely with, and instead of turning a blind eye he had planned on blowing the whistle? But on what, on whom?

Gaps in the clouds let through bright lances of light and the western sky turned vermilion and violet. The crowds queuing for the sunset ride on the London Eye shifted restlessly in the downpour and people on Westminster Bridge watched the huge Ferris wheel from under their umbrellas and rain hoods.

Eight-year-old Michaela Toth had been excited all day about the promised ride. It was to be the highlight of her first ever weekend in London – even better than Madame Tussaud’s and the zoo – and her mum and dad were letting her stay up late especially. Even the rain didn’t dampen her spirits as she stood in the queue hopping from foot to foot, clutching her yellow plastic handbag with the pink flower on it. It seemed as if they would never get there, edging forward at a snail’s pace like this. Michaela could hardly believe that the Eye was so much bigger than she had imagined, or that it never stopped turning, even when you got on and off. The thought made her just a little bit scared, but nicely so.

Inch by inch, they moved forward. As soon as the cars emptied, they filled up again. A squat red tugboat chugged down the river, leaving its arrowhead wake in the darkening water. It was still light enough to see the men standing on the deck and Michaela noticed one of them point in her direction. At first she thought he was just pointing at the Eye, but more men joined him and the tug changed direction, heading for the bank.

Michaela tugged on her father’s hand and asked him to take her to the wall to see what the men were pointing toward. At first she thought he wasn’t going to, but then she could tell he got curious too because he asked her mother to keep their place in the queue and said they’d be back in just a moment.

The tug was getting close to the embankment as they got to the railings beside the Eye. The people on Westminster Bridge were pointing their way now, too, and Michaela wondered if they’d seen a dolphin, or even a whale, though she didn’t really believe there were any whales or dolphins living in the river Thames. Maybe one had escaped from an aquarium. Or maybe someone had fallen in the river and the men on the tugboat were going to rescue him.

Holding her father’s hand, Michaela strained to see over the embankment wall. She was just tall enough to manage it. The tide was very low and a pebbly shingle bank stuck out of the water like a whale’s back just below the wall. Lying on the shingle bank was the sprawled figure of a man. A dark shape, he was lying on his stomach and his arms were stretched out in front of him, his lower half in the water. Michaela’s father pulled her away quickly.

“What is it, Daddy?” she asked, frightened. “What’s that man doing there?”

Her father didn’t answer; he simply led her away. When they rejoined her mother in the queue, her father spoke and Michaela heard the words “dead body.” Soon, others started drifting toward the wall. One woman screamed. Michaela worried she might not get her ride after all. If there was a dead body down there, perhaps the London Eye would even stop turning.

After the Reverend Ian Hunt had left, Banks put away the golf club, feeling rather foolish, locked up the house and went upstairs with the remains of his wine. He rang Julian Harwood, who confirmed that he was managing director of the Berger-Lennox Centre but said he had never actually been to the place and had never heard of Jennifer Clewes. Banks had no reason to disbelieve him.

Banks felt a sudden urge to listen to some music before bed. He found a CD he had never heard before: Lorraine Hunt Lieberson singing two Bach cantatas. Roy’s top-of-the-line stereo system brought out the rich timbre of the strings, and when he closed his eyes Banks could imagine himself in a room surrounded by the small ensemble. And the voice was sublime, almost enough to make you believe in God. He thought of Penny Cartwright singing “Strange Affair.” Different, but another wonderful voice.

Banks sipped wine, feeling a pleasant buzz; he let the music roll over him and thought about Annie, Roy, Jennifer Clewes and the Berger-Lennox Centre. He would like to have been invited to go along with Annie in the morning, but she was right – it wasn’t his case, and he was a bit of a mess. When he examined his feelings, it was curious how little her comments really hurt. At the time, they had stung, but they had quickly sunk in, and he knew they were true. He had let things go. If he wasn’t as bad as the hapless fellow in one of his favorite Nick Lowe songs, he had been getting there.

Perhaps a few months ago, before the Phil Keane business, Annie would have welcomed his company, but now she didn’t quite seem to trust him. And she was right not to do so. The last thing he had on his mind was going back up to Yorkshire.

The CD finished and Banks looked for something else to put on. Roy didn’t have the Mahler songs, but he did have Strauss’s Four Last Songs, one of Banks’s favorite pieces of music; so he put that on. As it turned out, he wasn’t far into the second song when he heard the phone ring in Roy’s office. Putting his glass down, he hurried across the landing to answer it.

The London Eye towered over the scene, a huge dark semicircle against the moonlit clouds. It was closed for the night now, but still turning slowly, always turning. Nearby, on the stone steps that led down to the hump of shingle bank bared by the tide, the SOCOs came and went like ghosts in their protective clothing. It was a precise ballet in which every dancer knew his steps. Despite the occasional shout and chatter or static over police radios, there was an odd hush about the scene, and no sense of hurry, as if the mighty heart of the city were lying still. Even the media beyond the taped-off area were strangely quiet. Arc lamps lit rough slimy stone, shingle and greasy water alike, and a police video camera recorded everything. The rain had stopped, and from Westminster Bridge a few curious onlookers watched over it all, silhouettes against the light dying in the west.

When Banks arrived at the taped-off area, Burgess was already waiting for him, a grim look on his face. He had explained to Banks over the telephone that when he saw on the news that the body of a white male about Roy’s age had washed up by the London Eye, his alarm bells had gone off. They had found no identification on the body, so there was no evidence yet that it was Roy, and indeed he hoped it wasn’t, but it might be worth Banks’s coming along and having a look.

Banks hadn’t needed to be asked twice.

Burgess took him by the arm and led him over to a thickset man with a red moon-shaped face. “DI Brooke, Lambeth North,” said Burgess, “meet DCI Banks, North Yorkshire Major Crimes.”

The two men nodded at each other. “DI Brooke?” said Banks. “You’ll be the chap Annie Cabbot’s working with on the Jennifer Clewes case?”

“Annie and I go back a long way.”

Banks gestured toward the river. “Is he still down there?”

“The police surgeon’s pronounced death, but the SOCOs haven’t finished yet. They’ll have to move fast, though, because the tide’s coming in.” Brooke paused and looked down at his feet. “Look, Superintendent Burgess here told me he thinks there’s a possibility it might be your brother down there?”

“I hope to God it’s not,” said Banks, “but it’s a possibility, yes. He’s missing.”

“Sorry to have to put you through this.”

“Better than not knowing,” said Banks. “Can we go down?”

“There’s some extra overalls in the SOCOs’ van. And mind your step, those old stone stairs are worn and slippery.”

Kitted out in protective clothing, Banks and Burgess showed their identifications to the officer guarding the scene, ducked under the tape and approached the steps. The landing at the bottom didn’t quite reach as far as the exposed shingle bank, so the SOCOs had already set up a makeshift bridge made of planks. It wobbled a little as Banks and Burgess crossed. Once, Banks almost lost his footing and he became suddenly aware of how much he had had to drink that day. Water lapped gently against the stone wall.

Banks felt a tightness in his chest as he approached the shingle bank and breathing became an effort. Burgess gave a nod and one of the SOCOs gently turned the body so that the face was visible. Banks squatted, feeling his knees crack, and looked into Roy’s dead eyes. There was a little hole in his left temple, close to the childhood scar Banks had accidentally inflicted on Roy with a toy sword. Banks felt himself sway on his haunches and stood up so fast it made him dizzy. Burgess grabbed his elbow.

“I’m all right,” said Banks, disengaging himself.

“Is it him?”

“It’s him,” Banks said, and the only thing he could think as he tried to rein in his surging emotions was What the hell am I going to say to my parents?

“Let’s get back up on shore,” Burgess said.

Banks followed him back over the planks and up the steps. Brooke and his DS were waiting for confirmation. The sooner you identified the body, Banks knew, the sooner you put the machinery of a major investigation in motion. He nodded to Brooke.

“I’m sorry,” Brooke said.

“Look,” said Banks, “do you think you could keep it under wraps? His identity, that is. I’d like to be the one who tells our parents, in person, but not tonight. It’s too late.”

Brooke looked at the crowd on the bridge and the reporters and camera operators behind the crime scene tape. “We can tell them we’re still awaiting official identification of the body,” he said. “That should hold them off for a while.”

“First thing tomorrow,” said Banks. Just not tonight, he prayed. He couldn’t stand the idea of going over to Peterborough right now and waking his parents up and spending the night comforting them in their grief, knowing they would probably prefer it were Alan rather than Roy. Daylight would make it easier, he thought. Let them have just one more night of peace; there would soon be enough dreadful nights to come. “Can you tell Annie for me, please?” he asked.

“Of course. In the morning.”

“Thanks.”

Brooke paused. “I’m sure you know I was intending to visit you, anyway,” he said. “In fact, DI Cabbot and I had a little word about you earlier this evening.”

“I thought you might,” said Banks.

“This changes everything, of course, but I’ve still got some questions for you,” Brooke went on. “When you’re up to it, that is.”

“I’m up to it now,” said Banks.

“Right. Superintendent Burgess tells me you’ve been stopping at your brother’s house. How about we go there?”

“Fine,” said Banks, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. “Let’s go.”