Strange Affair

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Sit down slowly,” the man said, “and keep your hands in sight.”

Banks did as he was told.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“I might well ask the same.”

“I asked first. And I’ve got the gun.”

“My name’s Alan Banks.”

“Do you have any identification?”

Banks put his hand slowly in his inside pocket and brought out his warrant card. He shoved it across the table to the man, who examined it carefully, then pushed it back and slipped his gun inside a shoulder holster hidden by his jacket.

“What the fuck was all that about?” said Banks, feeling a rush of anger as the adrenaline surged back.

“I had to be sure,” said the man. “Dieter Ganz, Interpol.” He offered his own card, which Banks studied, then stuck out his hand. Banks didn’t feel like shaking it; he felt more like thumping him. Ganz shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he went on. “Detective Superintendent Burgess told me you might be here, but I had to make certain.” He didn’t have much of an accent, but it was there, if you listened, in his speech patterns and careful diction.

“How did you get in?”

“It wasn’t difficult,” said Ganz, glancing toward the back window. Banks saw that a circle of glass about the size of a man’s fist had been cut out of it just below the catch.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” said Banks, “but after that little scare I could do with a drink.”

“No, thank you,” said Ganz. “Nothing for me.”

“Suit yourself.” Banks opened a bottle of Roy’s Côte de Nuits and poured himself a generous glass. His hand was still shaking. “So Burgess sent you, did he?”

Ganz nodded. “He told me where you would be. I’m sorry it took so long but he had a little difficulty finding me. I’ve been out of the country. It seems that we have interests in common.”

“First of all, you’d better tell me what yours are.”

“At the moment, my interest is in people smuggling, more specifically, the smuggling of young women for the purposes of sexual exploitation.”

Ganz looked undercover, Banks thought. He was young, early thirties at most. His blond hair was a bit too long and greasy, and he clearly hadn’t shaved for four or five days. The linen jacket he wore over his shirt was creased and stained, and his jeans needed a wash.

“And what interests do we have in common?” Banks asked.

Ganz took a piece of paper from his side pocket and unfolded it on the table. It was a copy of the photo Banks had given to Burgess. “You’ve been asking questions about who this man with Gareth Lambert is,” he said.

“Lambert told me his name is Max Broda.”

“That is correct,” said Ganz. “Max Broda. He’s an Albanian traveling on an Israeli passport.”

“Why would he do that?”

Ganz smiled, showing a missing front tooth. “No troublesome visas to worry about.”

“What’s his business?” Gareth Lambert had told Banks that Max worked in the travel business, organizing tours and cruises, but somehow or other Banks didn’t think Ganz would be here if that were the case.

“Broda’s a trader,” said Ganz. “Do you know what that is?”

“A trader in what?”

“Have you ever heard of the Arizona Market?”

“No.”

“I know it sounds American, but it’s actually in Bosnia, between Sarajevo and Zagreb. It’s like those old markets you see in movies, you know, the casbah, so romantic with its stalls of colorful goods and its narrow winding streets. During the day many people go there to buy pirated CDs and DVDs and knockoff Rolexes and Chanel perfume. But at night it becomes a market of a different kind. At night you can buy stolen cars, guns, drugs. And young women. They are sold there like sheep and cattle are sold at your country shows. Sometimes they are auctioned off, made to parade naked holding numbers while the traders touch them and caress them before they make their bids, look in their mouths like you would if you were buying a horse. When they’ve been bought, many of them end up working in clubs and brothels in Bosnia, servicing the international peace-keeping forces, but many are also smuggled into other countries to work in peep shows and massage parlors.”

“I suppose that’s where Lambert comes in?” Banks said. “The Balkan route.”

“That’s one way,” Ganz agreed. “Serbia, Croatia, Albania, Macedonia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Montenegro and Kosovo. But there are others, and they are always changing. They cross wherever the border is unguarded. Many women from Russia, Ukraine and Romania are smuggled through the eastern route, through Poland to Germany, or through Hungary. From Serbia to Italy, many smugglers prefer to use Albanian seaports and ship the women over on rubber dinghies. Not all of them make it. But however they get here, once they are inside the EU, they can be moved around more freely.”

“So Lambert and Broda are in business together?”

“Yes.” Ganz’s eyes hardened. “Broda buys the women and Lambert arranges to get them into the country. He doesn’t do it himself, of course. That would be too risky. But he knows the weak spots and who can be bribed. We think they have been in business for some time. Lambert was based in Spain before, but things got a bit too hot for him there, so now he’s over here, and the travel business is a perfect cover for the trips he has to make.”

“So Gareth Lambert and Max Broda have been conspiring to smuggle young girls into England for the purpose of prostitution for some years now?”

“Yes. But not just England. That’s why it is difficult to pin them down. We are trying to build up dossiers on similar operations in Paris, Berlin and Rome. It’s a widespread problem.” He paused. “I have seen these women, Mr. Banks, talked to them. To call them ‘women’ is not strictly accurate in the first place. They are no more than girls, some as young as fourteen or fifteen. They are lured from their homes by promises of jobs overseas as nannies and models, maids and waitresses. Sometimes they are smuggled out and sold straightaway, sometimes they are taken to breaking houses in Belgrade. There they are forced to live in filthy conditions. They are humiliated, beaten, starved, denied even the most basic human decencies, raped repeatedly, drugged, made to be compliant. When their spirits are broken, they are taken to the markets and sold to the highest bidder. After that, even if they are smuggled to Rome, Tel Aviv, Paris or London, they are forced to live in terrible conditions and service ten, twenty, even thirty men a night. If they don’t play the game and pretend they are enjoying what is done to them, they are beaten and threatened. They are told that if they try to escape they will be hunted down and killed along with their families back home.”

“I’ve heard something of this,” said Banks, shaken by the images Ganz was offering up, “but not… the extent.” He shook his head.

“Most people do not know,” Ganz said. “Many prefer not to know. People like to think that girls who end up as prostitutes deserve no less, that they chose what they do, but many didn’t. You can buy a young girl for as little as a thousand pounds and make over a hundred thousand pounds a year from her. Once she is worn out, you buy a new one. It makes good business sense, does it not?”

“I can’t believe my brother was involved in this.”

“He wasn’t, as far as I know,” said Ganz. “From what Superintendent Burgess has told me, it is my guess that your brother and his girlfriend found out what was going on.”

“Through the Berger-Lennox Centre?”

“And through Dr. Lukas, yes.”

“What’s her part in all this?”

“She is trying to help the girls who get pregnant. That is all. She asks no questions. They are lucky they have someone like her, otherwise…”

“But what’s her connection?”

“That we do not know for sure. This investigation here is very new. Most of the work we have been doing has been in Bosnia, Romania and Serbia.”

“Was Carmen one of the girls she was trying to help? Carmen Petri?”

Ganz frowned. “I’m sorry, I do not know the name.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Petri, you say?”

“Something like that.”

“It sounds Romanian.”

“But you haven’t heard of her?”

“No.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “Go on.”

“Anyway,” Ganz continued. “No matter what Dr. Lukas does or does not know, there’s a pimp involved somewhere, and Lambert and Broda supply him with girls smuggled from eastern Europe. He probably keeps them in more than one house, depending on how many girls he owns. Perhaps there is even more than one pimp. I do not know. We have been waiting for Broda or Lambert to lead us there.”

“But they haven’t?”

“Not yet. We were worried they might be on to us. Lambert’s moving between the flat and the travel office, and he spends most weekends playing the local squire in his country manor.”

“Where’s that?” Banks asked.

“A village called Quainton, near Buckingham. That’s where he leads his exemplary life. Anyway, where there are pimps and smugglers you will usually find organized crime, too, and that is always dangerous.”

“The Russian Mafia?”

“Most likely.”

Banks told him what he had heard from Annie about the two men suspected of killing Jennifer and, perhaps, Roy.

Ganz nodded slowly. “Sounds like their style.”

“So what next?”

“We think these recent murders might bring things to a boil. Someone might make a mistake.”

“Are you here to warn me off?”

Ganz laughed. “Warn you off? Superintendent Burgess told me you would probably say something like that.”

“Oh? What else did he tell you?”

“That it would do no good. Some people we can warn off easily, but not you. He said you’re nobody’s man.”

“He’s right.”

Ganz waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “No, I don’t want to warn you off. I want to use you in a way I can’t use the police who are investigating the case. I want you to keep on doing right what you’re doing. I just want you to know that you’re involved in stirring up a wasps’ nest.”

“Go on.”

“I’m not saying that you’re not in danger – they may have killed you if you had been at the address your brother gave his girlfriend – but I think with all the trouble caused by the two murders they have already committed, they would think twice right now about killing a policeman. When you came down here they no doubt kept an eye on you, just for form’s sake, but they had other things to occupy them, and they knew your brother hadn’t had time to tell you anything, or you wouldn’t have been floundering around in the dark the way you were. They also tortured him before they killed him and he told them you knew nothing. He also told them where you lived, and they rang the men in the car. Fortunately, your brother gave them the wrong address. They sent the digital image on the mobile, too. Perhaps they didn’t know you had it, but they knew your brother didn’t. That’s just their style, a sick joke. Max Broda himself, most likely. If you hadn’t got it, whoever had the phone at the time would have. Even the police. It didn’t matter to them. It couldn’t be traced. It was stolen and they threw it away as soon as they had used it. After that, they let you know that they know where your parents live. That is also very much their style. And don’t worry, your parents are safe. It wasn’t something we could leave for the locals to deal with alone.”

“You have men there, too?”

“One. Armed. Anyway, now that you have actually been to see Gareth Lambert, and probably got him worried, things might be a bit different, I’m not sure.”

“You know I’ve seen Lambert?”

“Superintendent Burgess said he’d told you where to find him. I didn’t think you would just sit around and not act on that information. What did you think?”

“I didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him.”

“In that, you were right. From now on, we’ll try to watch your back as best we can, but for obvious reasons I can hardly show my hand. It is a shame you English police are unarmed.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” said Banks, thinking that there weren’t many times in his career when he had felt the need for a gun, though now might be one of them. “And by the way, do you have a license for that one you’re carrying?”

Ganz laughed. “I have your government’s permission, if that’s what you mean. Do you want one? I’m sure I can get one for you.”

“I’d probably shoot myself in the foot,” said Banks. “But thanks for the offer.”

“I almost forgot,” Ganz said. “Mr. Burgess told me to tell you he checked the number and the red Vectra was stolen from a multi-story car park in Putney. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Banks. It meant the car that had followed him from his parents’s house was stolen, as he had expected.

“What are you going to do now?”

Banks looked at his watch. “I’m going to have another glass of wine and think over what you’ve said.” Later, when it was open, Banks planned to visit the Albion Club on The Strand and see if he could find out more about Roy’s final hours, but he didn’t see any reason for telling Dieter Ganz that. If Interpol were keeping an eye on him, they’d find out soon enough, anyway.

Susan Browne arrived in Eastvale from Derby at four o’clock, just after Annie had left for the station, bearing the positive fruits of the very discreet DNA comparison, and more.

She told Templeton on their way to Roger Cropley’s house that DI Gifford had made inquiries at Cropley’s software firm in London and found that he regularly left late on Fridays and that he had left late on Friday, the twenty-third of April, as there had been an office party that evening to celebrate a lucrative new contract.

Cropley was clearly not thrilled to see the two detectives on his doorstop late that afternoon. He tried to shut the door, but Templeton got a foot in. “It’s better if you let us in,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll stay here while DS Browne goes for a search warrant.”

Cropley relaxed the pressure on the door and they entered, following him into the living room. “I don’t know why you won’t leave me alone,” he said. “I’ve told you time after time I know nothing about any murders.”

“You mean you’ve lied time after time,” said Templeton. “By the way, this is DS Browne. She’s come all the way from Derby just to talk to you. Say hello.”

Cropley said nothing, just stared at Susan Browne. She sat down and smoothed her skirt. “Mr. Cropley,” she said, “I’ll come right to the point. When DC Templeton here first came to me with his suspicions, I was skeptical. Now I’ve had time to think about things and make a few inquiries, I’m not too certain.”

“What inquiries?”

Susan slipped a folder out of her briefcase and opened it. “According to my information, you left your office in Holborn at about eight o’clock on Friday the twenty-third of April this year.”

“How do you know that?”

“Is it true?”

“I don’t remember. How can you expect me to remember that far back?”

“It’s true according to our evidence. That would put you at Trowell services around the same time as Claire Potter.”

“Look, this is absurd. It’s nothing but circumstantial.”

“On two other occasions you left late,” Susan went on reading, “two other women were either followed or assaulted shortly after leaving the M1.”

“I haven’t assaulted anyone.”

“What we’re going to do, Mr. Cropley,” Susan went on, “is take you down to the police station for further questioning. There you will be fingerprinted and photographed and a sample of your DNA will be taken. Once we have-”

The door opened and Mrs. Copley walked in. “What’s going on, Roger?” she demanded.

“They’re harassing me again,” Copley said.

His wife looked at Susan and Templeton, then back at her husband, an expression of scorn on her face. “Maybe you deserve it,” she said.

“Do you know something, Mrs. Cropley?” Templeton asked.

“That’s between me and my husband,” Mrs. Cropley said.

“A woman has been murdered,” Susan said. “Raped and stabbed.”

Mrs. Cropley folded her arms.

Susan and Templeton looked at each other and Susan turned back to Cropley, who had gone ashen. “Once we have the photographs, we’ll be showing them to every worker in every café and petrol station on the motorway. Once we have your DNA, we’ll compare it with traces found at the scene of Claire Potter’s murder. You might have thought you were thorough,” Mr. Cropley, “but there’s always something. In your case it’s dandruff.”

“Dandruff?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know we can get DNA from dandruff? If you even left one flake at the scene, we’ll have it in the evidence room and we’ll be testing it.”

Cropley looked stunned.

“Anything to say?” Susan went on.

Cropley just shook his head.

“Right.” Susan stood up. “Roger Cropley, you’re under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Claire Potter. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

As Cropley walked out, head hung, between Browne and Templeton, his wife turned her back and stood in the center of the room rigid as a statue, arms still folded.

Annie was half an hour late as she made her way through the crowded pavements of Covent Garden to the restaurant Dr. Lukas had mentioned on Tavistock Street. She had just missed the 4:25, and as the 5:05 was a slow train, she had to catch the 5:25, which arrived on time at 8:13. On the train, she rang Dr. Lukas at the center, but was told the doctor wasn’t there that day. She left a message, which she couldn’t be sure Dr. Lukas had received, and then she had phoned the restaurant to leave a message there, too. She also rang her usual hotel to book a room for the night. The desk clerk recognized her name and voice and got so chatty it was embarrassing.

Well, Annie thought as she dashed into the crowded restaurant, Dr. Lukas had said she would be waiting, and there were worse places to wait. She spotted the doctor at a corner table and made her way over. It was small restaurant with intimate lighting and white linen tablecloths. A blackboard on the wall listed specials and wine suggestions. There was music playing, but it was so faint Annie couldn’t make out what it was. It sounded French, though.

“Did you get my message?” she asked, sitting down and catching her breath.

Dr. Lukas nodded. “It’s all right,” she said, tapping the paperback she was reading. “I have my book. I was prepared to wait. They know me here. They are very understanding.”

Annie browsed the menu, which was decidedly traditional, and decided on ratatouille. Dr. Lukas had already settled on bouillabaisse. Once they’d got their orders in, the doctor poured Annie a glass of Chablis and topped up her own.

“I’m sorry I made you come all this way,” she said, “but I couldn’t possibly tell you over the telephone.”

“It’s all right,” said Annie. “I had to come back anyway. You’re going to tell me everything?”

“Everything I know.”

“Why not tell me before?”

“Because the situation has changed. And things have gone too far.”

The waiter appeared with a basket of bread and Annie broke off a chunk and buttered it. She hadn’t eaten on the train and realized she was starving. “I’m listening.”

“It’s very difficult for me,” Dr. Lukas began. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“Helping the girls?”

“Not that so much. If I hadn’t done it, who would?”

“Is it about Carmen Petri?”

“Only partly. To understand what I have to say, you have to know where I come from. L’viv is a very old city, a very beautiful city in many ways, with many fine ancient buildings and churches. My mother was a seamstress until arthritis made her fingers of no more use. My father was a mining engineer. My parents remember when Jews were rounded up and killed by the Germans in the war. You hear about the massacre at Babi Yar, near Kiev, but there were many smaller massacres elsewhere, including L’viv. My parents were lucky. They were children then and they hid and were not found. When I lived there, Ukraine was still part of the Soviet Union. I grew up in a modern part of the city, ugly Stalinist blocks. We were poor and ill-fed, but there was a strong sense of community, and sometimes you could even believe in the ideals behind the reality of the revolution. When Ukraine became an independent state in August 1991, things were chaotic for a while. Nobody knew what was going to happen. That was when I left.”

Annie listened, interested in Dr. Lukas’s story but curious as to where it was leading. Before long, their food was served and Dr. Lukas poured more wine. As if reading Annie’s mind, she smiled and said, “You might be wondering where all this is going, but please indulge me.” She talked more about her childhood, the state school, unsanitary living conditions, her ambition to become a doctor. “And here I am,” she said. “Ambition fulfilled.”

“You must be very proud.”

Dr. Lukas frowned. “Proud? Yes. Most days. Then, about a year ago, a man came to see me at my home. I remembered him from school, from the building in L’viv where his family lived, close to mine. He said he had heard I was a successful doctor here through his parents, who had read an article about me in the local newspaper. It’s true. Many people left Ukraine, but their stories continue to be of interest to those who have not experienced the world outside.”

“What did he want?”

“When he was at school, he was a bully. When he got older, he and his gang terrorized the building we lived in, extorting money, burgling apartments, selling black-market goods. Nobody was safe from him. Then suddenly he was gone. You can imagine how relieved we all were.”

“But he turned up here, in London?”

“Yes. He told me he traveled all around Europe, learning the ways of the free world, the free economy, and his training in L’viv served him well.”

“He’s the man who sends the late girls to you, isn’t he?”

Dr. Lukas said nothing for a moment. She had turned pale as she was talking, Annie noticed, and her bouillabaisse sat mostly uneaten in front of her. Finally, she whispered, “Yes. That’s what he is now. A pimp. When he first came to see me it was because one of his girls had problems with her periods that made her unreliable. Then he realized what a good idea it would be for me to be their unofficial doctor, so to speak. And that was the start of it all.”

“And this has been going on for a year?”

“Yes.”

“And how many girls have you seen during that time.”

“Maybe fifteen, sixteen.”

“All pregnant?”

“Most. Some had sexually transmitted infections. One had a bad rash in her pubic area. One girl was bleeding from her anus. Whatever it was, he brought them to me at the center after it was closed for the day. I would get a phone call telling me to stay late.”

“Why did you help him?” Annie thought she knew the answer to the question as she was asking it, but she needed to hear it from Dr. Lukas. A noisy party across the room broke into gales of laughter.

Dr. Lukas looked over at them, then she turned to face Annie, her expression somber. “He told me he would kill my parents back in L’viv if I didn’t do as he said or if I told anyone. I know he can do it. He still has contacts there.”

“What’s changed?”

“My parents are no longer in L’viv. They have left for America to live with my brother in San Francisco. I was waiting to hear the confirmation that they have arrived. They telephoned me today.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t care about me,” said Dr. Lukas. “Besides, he’s not going to hurt me. I’m far too useful to him alive.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Annie said, “he’ll be in jail.”

Dr. Lukas laughed. “Yes,” she said. “Running his empire from a cell. And on the outside someone will replace him. Another monster. The world has no shortage of monsters.” She shook her head. “But it’s gone far enough. Poor Jennifer… that man…”

“Roy Banks was his name. What about Carmen Petri?”

Dr. Lukas gave Annie a curious look. “That was the beginning of the end, really. Carmen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Until Carmen, I could turn a blind eye, could even believe that what I was doing was good and that the girls had better lives as prostitutes here than they would in their war-torn villages and towns back home. I didn’t know the truth. Like everyone, I thought they chose to do what they did, that there must be something wrong with them to start with, something bad about them. I was naive.”

“How did Carmen change this?”

“The girls wouldn’t talk. I asked them about their lives but they refused to tell me anything. They were too scared. Carmen… she was a bit more confident, more intelligent… I don’t know. Perhaps it was even Jennifer, the way she was kind to her. Whatever the reason, Carmen did let something slip.”

“What was that?”

“She told me that one of the new girls had been locked in a small room and beaten because she refused to perform some vile sex act. She also told me that the girl had been on her way home from school in a small village in Bosnia when two men abducted her by knifepoint and forced her into prostitution. She was fifteen. That was the first time I realized that these girls didn’t start out one step from prostitution in the first place, that there was nothing ‘bad’ about them. They were normal girls, like you and me, and they were forced to do what they do. Like me, they fear for their families back home. Those who have families. These poor girls… He has them smuggled from Bosnia, Moldavia, Romania and Kosovo. Many are orphans because of the wars. When they have to leave the orphanages at sixteen, they often have no money and nowhere to go. His men are waiting for them on the doorstep. The girls are terrified of him. They won’t talk about what happens, but I’ve seen bruises, cuts sometimes. I didn’t ask questions, and I am not proud of that, but I saw. Then Carmen… she spoke out.”

“When was this?”

“A week ago last Monday.”

“What happened to her?”

“Nothing, as far as I know.”

“She’s not dead?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t see why she would be.”

“But if they thought she told you and Jennifer what was really going on…?”

“I don’t think they knew what she told us, and she’s too valuable to them.”

“But they must have found out something.” Annie said. “Jennifer and Roy Banks are dead. When Jennifer told Roy, he must have started digging, asking questions. He had contact with people who… well, let’s just say he knew criminals.”

“Perhaps I am wrong then. I don’t know. All I know about Carmen is what she told me. She got pregnant, so he sent her to me. I suppose the only unusual thing is that Carmen has decided to have the baby. She’s a devout Catholic and she refused to have a termination.”

“That’s permitted?”

“In some circumstances,” said Dr. Lukas. “It would depend on the loss of income. Carmen is one of the special girls, blessed with good looks and a fine figure. She is also a very intelligent girl and she speaks English very well. She was never a street prostitute, more what you would term a call girl.”

“So how is he going to make for his loss of income?”

“I can only guess,” said Dr. Lukas. “There are some men who like to have sex with pregnant women and are willing to pay extra for it. That way she would have fewer customers but make as much, or more, money.”

Annie’s stomach turned. She could understand why Dr. Lukas wasn’t eating. She’d lost her appetite as well. “And the baby?”

“Adoption. She spoke about the way they were taking care of her and feeding her well for a Mr. Garrett, who I assume is paying good money for Carmen’s baby.”

“Will you tell me the pimp’s name?”

“His real name is Hadeon Mazuryk. He calls himself Harry. His nickname is ‘Happy Harry’ because he looks eternally sad. He is not, of course, it’s just a freak of physiognomy.”

“Do you know where he keeps the girls?”

Dr. Lukas nodded. “There’s a house near King’s Cross. I went there once. An emergency. You must be careful, though.”

“Why?”

“He has a gun. I’ve seen it.”

Banks had raided Roy’s wardrobe again for suitable attire. He didn’t think he would get far in the Albion Club wearing jeans and a casual shirt. Trousers were a problem. Roy’s didn’t fit him and he had brought only one pair of trousers, which didn’t match any of Roy’s jackets. In the end he just had to hope the place was poorly lit so that black and navy blue didn’t look too bad together.

The man on the door, looking rather like a cross between a butler and a bouncer, asked him for his membership. Banks flashed his warrant card.

“Police? I hope there’s no trouble, sir?” he said.

“None at all,” said Banks. “Just a few questions and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Questions?”

“Yes. Were you on duty here last Friday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember Roy Banks arriving with Gareth Lambert?”

“Such a tragedy about Mr. Banks. The perfect gentleman. Who could do such a thing?”

“Who indeed? But did you see them arrive?”

“Yes. It would have been about ten o’clock.”

“And were you here when they left?”

“They didn’t leave together. Mr. Banks left first, at about twelve-thirty, and Mr. Lambert stayed much later. Perhaps three o’clock, something like that.”

So Lambert was telling the truth about that much, at least. “Did they leave alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know where Mr. Banks went after he left?”

“Mr. Banks didn’t say. He just bade me good night as usual.”

“You didn’t call a minicab for him?”

“There are always plenty of taxis on The Strand, and there’s a taxi rank at Charing Cross.”

“Right,” said Banks. “Okay to go inside?”

“Please try not to upset the members.”

“I only want to talk to the staff.”

“Very well.”

Banks was surprised when he got inside the club. The door opened into a spacious low-ceilinged bar, and where he had been expecting dark wainscoting, chandeliers and waiters in burgundy bum-freezers, he found tubular fittings, halogen lighting and waitresses in pinstripe suits, with trousers rather than skirts. Fan-shaped splashes of color from well-hidden lights decorated the walls in shades of blue, pink, green, red and orange. The chrome tables were high, with matching leather-topped stools. This definitely wasn’t one of those old gentlemen’s clubs where the right sort of people stay over when they are down in the city for the weekend; it was primarily an up-market casino with bar and restaurant facilities, the sort of place where you might have found James Bond fifty years ago. Now it played host to a hip young crowd of stockbrokers, investment bankers and the occasional old smuggler like Gareth Lambert.

As it turned out, the dress code was also a lot more relaxed than Banks had expected – he had never been to a club before and he still thought in terms of Lord Peter Wimsey and Bertie Wooster – and he was surprised to see that not everyone was wearing a tie or a suit. Business casual was in. The place wasn’t very busy, but a few people sat around drinking and chatting, and a group of Japanese businessmen had the one large table by the far wall, where they were entertaining some expensive-looking women. Most of the people in the place seemed to be in their thirties, which made Roy and Lambert slightly older than the average member. Nobody paid Banks any undue attention. There was no music.

Banks took one of the stools at the bar and ordered a bottle of Stella. The price was every bit as outrageous as he had expected. The bartender was a woman in her late twenties, by the look of her, about the same age as Corinne and Jennifer. She had very fine short hair dyed pink and blond. She smiled at Banks when she took his order. She had a nice smile; dimples, too.

Banks showed her his card. “Do you work here every night?” he asked.

“Most nights,” she said, scrutinizing the card more closely than the doorman had. “Yorkshire? What brings you down here?”

“Cases can take you all over the place,” Banks said. “People move around a lot more than they used to.”

“You can say that again.”

“Actually, I’m making a few inquiries about Roy Banks. I understand he was a member.”

“Poor Mr. Banks,” she said. “He was a real sweetheart.”

“You knew him?”

“Not really ‘knew.’ I mean, not outside of work. But we talked here occasionally. You tend to do that, in this job. He always had time for the bar staff, not like some of our more stuck-up members.”

“Did he sit at the bar and tell you his troubles?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. That only happens in films.”

“What’s your name, by the way?”

“Maria.”

“Pleased to meet you, Maria.”

“What relation are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your name’s Banks, too. I saw it on that card. Are you his brother?”

“Yes,” Banks said.

“You must be gutted.”

“I am. But I’m also trying to find out what happened. Did you talk to him last Friday?”

“Yes. He and Mr. Lambert were sitting at that table just over there.” She pointed to a discreet corner table. “Mr. Banks always made a point of coming over and saying hello and asking me how I was doing. And he always made sure he left a decent tip.”

“Did he have anything to say that night?”

A waitress appeared asking for drinks. Maria excused herself for a moment and filled the order with graceful efficiency. “What was it you wanted to know?” she asked when she came back.

“Just if Roy had said anything out of the ordinary to you.”

“No. Nothing. Not that that I remember.”

“Did he seem upset or annoyed?”

“Not at first. A bit preoccupied, maybe.”

“Later?”

“After he’d been talking to Mr. Lambert for a while he seemed to be getting uncomfortable, if you know what I mean. I don’t know how to describe it, but you could sort of feel the tension, even from over here.”

“Others noticed?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve always been very sensitive to the vibes people give off.”

“And these were bad?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Were they arguing?”

“No. They never raised their voices or anything like that. It was just a sort of tense negotiation.”

Lambert had told Banks that Roy had been pressing him for contacts in the arms business, but Banks didn’t believe that. “What happened next?”

“After he used the telephone, Mr. Banks went through to the casino and I didn’t see him again.”

“Mr. Lambert?”

“He sat by himself for a while, then he went into the casino, too.”

“You say Roy used the telephone?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“There’s a public telephone in the corridor by the toilets,” she said. “Down there.” She pointed directly across the room. Banks turned and saw the phone on the wall. From where Lambert had been sitting, he couldn’t possibly have seen Roy make the call. “Not a lot of people use it because everyone’s got a mobile these days, haven’t they, but he must have forgotten his or the battery was dead or something.”

Banks thought of the mobile sitting on Roy’s kitchen table. “Was it a long phone call?”

“No. Just two or three minutes.”

“How long had he been here when he made it?”

“Not long. Maybe half an hour or so, a bit longer.”

That must have been the call he made to Jennifer, Banks thought, sending her up to Yorkshire. “And how did he seem after that?”

“Like I said, he went into the casino. He didn’t say good-bye, though, and that’s not like him.”

“Did Mr. Lambert make any phone calls?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Could he have done?”

“Oh, yes. I mean, he went to the toilet. He could have used his mobile there, if he had one with him. But I didn’t see him make any calls, that’s all I meant.”

“Thanks very much, Maria,” said Banks. “You’ve been a great help.”

“I have?”

Banks made sure to leave her a decent tip and wandered out onto The Strand. He glanced about him to see if there was anyone watching for him, but if there was, he didn’t notice. According to the doorman and Maria, Roy had left the club around half past twelve. There were plenty of taxis passing by, Banks could see. So what had Roy done? Got in a taxi? Or had someone offered him a lift? It couldn’t have been Lambert, because he was still in the casino. So who?