Strange Affair

CHAPTER THREE

“What do you make of it, Annie?” Gristhorpe asked.

They were sitting in the superintendent’s large, carpeted office, just the two of them, and the sheet of paper lay between them on Gristhorpe’s desk. It wasn’t Banks’s writing, Annie was certain. But beyond that, the whole thing was a puzzle. She had certainly never seen the dead woman before, nor had she ever heard Banks mention anyone called Jennifer Clewes. That in itself meant nothing, of course, she realized. In the first place, it might not be her real name, and in the second, Banks may well have been keeping many aspects of his life from her, including a new girlfriend. But if she was his girlfriend, why did she need directions and his address? Perhaps she had never visited him in Gratly before.

Was she new on the scene? Annie doubted it. The way Banks had been behaving lately – withdrawn, moody and uncommunicative – was hardly conducive to pulling a new girlfriend. Who would take him on, the shape he was in? And this woman was young enough to be his daughter. Not that age had ever stopped a man, but… Perhaps even more important was that she had ended up with a bullet in her head. Knowing Banks had its dangers, as Annie well knew, but it was not usually fatal.

“I don’t know, sir. I’d say the most likely explanation is that it’s her own writing. Maybe she copied it down over the phone. We’ll be able to find out for sure when we get a sample of Jennifer Clewes’s writing.”

“Have you been able to get in touch with DCI Banks?”

“He’s not at home and his mobile’s turned off. I’ve left messages.”

“Well, let’s just hope he gets one of them and rings back. I’d really like to know why a young woman was driving up from London to see him in the middle of the night and ended up with a bullet in her head.”

“He could be anywhere,” Annie said. “He is on holiday, after all.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“He doesn’t tell me much these days, sir.”

Gristhorpe frowned and scratched his chin, then he leaned back in his big padded chair and linked his hands behind his head. “How’s he doing?” he asked.

“I’m the last person to ask, sir. We haven’t really talked much since the fire.”

“I thought you two were friends.”

“I like to think we are. But you know Alan. He’s hardly the type to open up when he doesn’t want to. I think perhaps he still blames me for what happened, the fire and all. After all, Phil Keane was my boyfriend. Whatever the reason, he’s been very quiet lately. To be honest, I think it’s partly depression as well.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. It happens sometimes after illness or an accident. About all you can do is wait till the fog disperses. What about you?”

“Me? I’m fine, sir. Coping.” Annie was aware how tight and unconvincing her voice sounded, but she could do nothing about it. Anyway, she was coping, after a fashion. She certainly wasn’t depressed, just hurt and angry, and perhaps a little distracted.

Gristhorpe held her gaze for just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Then he said, “We need to find out why the victim had Alan’s address in her back pocket. And we can’t ask her.”

“There’s a flatmate, sir,” said Annie. “The lads from Lambeth North got bored with hanging around outside and went in for a look. Jennifer Clewes was sharing with a woman called Kate Nesbit. At least there were letters there addressed to a Kate Nesbit and a Jennifer Clewes.”

“Have they talked to this flatmate?”

“She’s not home.”

“Work?”

“On a Saturday? Maybe. Or she might have gone away for the weekend.”

Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Better get down there, Annie,” he said. “Let your old pal at Kennington know you’re on your way. Find the flatmate and talk to her.”

“Yes, sir.” Annie stood up. “There is one other thing.”

“Yes?”

Annie gestured toward the scrap of paper. “This address. I mean, it is Alan’s address, but it’s not where he’s living now.”

“I noticed that,” said Gristhorpe. “You think it might be significant?”

“Well, sir,” Annie said, hand on the doorknob, “he’s been living at that flat in the old Steadman house for four months now. You’d think everyone who knew him – knew him at all well, at any rate – would know that. I mean, if it was a new girlfriend or something, why give her his old address?”

“You’ve got a point.” Gristhorpe scratched the side of his nose.

“What action do you think we should take?”

“About DCI Banks?”

“Yes.”

Gristhorpe paused. “You say he’s not answering his phones?”

“That’s right; neither his home phone nor his mobile.”

“We need to find him, as soon as we can, but I don’t want to make it official yet. I’ll get Winsome to ring around his family and friends, see if anyone knows where he is.”

“I was thinking of dropping by DCI Banks’s place – both of them – just to have a look around… you know… make sure nothing’s been disturbed.”

“Good idea,” said Gristhorpe. “Are you sure you’re all right on this?”

Annie looked over her shoulder. “Of course I am, sir,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

Out in the street, Banks tried knocking on a couple of neighbors’ doors, but only one answered, an elderly man who lived in the house opposite.

“I saw you going into Roy’s,” the man said. “I was wondering if I should ring the police.”

Banks took out his warrant card. “I’m Roy’s brother,” he said, “and I am the police.”

The man seemed satisfied and stuck out his hand. “Malcolm Farrow,” he said as Banks shook hands. “Pleased to meet you. Come inside.”

“I don’t want to intrude on your time, but-”

“Think nothing of it. Now I’m retired, every day’s the same to me. Come in, we’ll have a snifter.”

Banks followed him into a living room heavy with dark wood and antiques. Farrow offered brandy, but Banks took only soda. Much too early in the afternoon for spirits.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Banks?” Farrow asked.

“Alan, please. It’s about Roy.”

“What about him? Lovely fellow, that brother of yours, by the way. Couldn’t wish for a better neighbor, you know. Cheerful, considerate. Capital fellow.”

“That’s good to know,” said Banks, judging by the slight slur in his voice and the network of purplish veins around his bulbous nose that Malcolm Farrow had already had a snifter or two. “I was just wondering if you had any idea where he’s gone?”

“You mean he’s not back yet?”

“Apparently not. Did you see him leave?”

“Yes. It was about half past nine last night. I was just putting the cat out when I saw him going out.”

Just after the phone call, Banks realized. “Was he alone?”

“No. There was another man with him. I said hello and Roy returned my greeting. Like I said, you couldn’t wish for a more friendly neighbor.”

“This other man,” said Banks. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“Afraid not. It was getting dark by then, you see, and the street lighting’s not very bright. Besides, to be perfectly honest, I can’t say my eyesight’s quite what it used to be.”

Probably pissed to the gills, too, Banks thought, if today was anything to go by. “Anything at all you can remember?” he said.

“Well, he was a burly sort of fellow with curly hair. Fair or gray. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice any more than that. I only noticed because he was facing me at first for a moment, while Roy had his back turned.”

“Why did Roy have his back turned?”

“He was locking the door. Very security-conscious, Roy is. You have to be these days, don’t you?”

“I suppose so,” said Banks, wondering how the door had come to be unlocked and the burglar alarm unarmed when he got there. “Where did they go?”

“Got in a car and drove off. It was parked outside Roy’s house.”

“What kind of car?”

“I’m not very good with cars. Haven’t driven in years, so I haven’t taken much of an interest. It was light in color, I can tell you that much. And quite big. Looked expensive.”

“And they just drove off?”

“Yes.”

“Had you see the man before?”

“I might have, if it was the same one.”

“Was he a frequent visitor?”

“I wouldn’t say frequent, but I’d seen him a couple of times. Usually after dark, so I’m afraid I can’t do any better with the description.”

“Was either of them carrying anything?”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Suitcase. Cardboard box.”

“Not that I could see.”

That meant that Roy’s computer equipment must have been taken later, by someone with a key. “You didn’t see or hear anyone else call after that, did you?”

“Sorry. My bedroom’s at the back of the house and I still manage to sleep quite soundly, despite my age.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Banks.

“Look, is there something going on? You say Roy’s not come home.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Banks said, not wanting to worry Farrow. He put his tumbler of soda down and stood up. “You know, I’ll bet they went off to some pub or other, had a bit too much. They’re more than likely back at the other bloke’s place right now, still sleeping it off. It is Saturday, after all.” He started moving toward the door.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Farrow, following, “but it’s not like him. Especially as he’d only just got in.”

“Pardon?” said Banks, pausing in the doorway.

“Well, he’d just come back in, oh, not more than ten or fifteen minutes earlier, about quarter past nine. I saw his car, watched him park it in the garage. I must say, he seemed in a bit of a hurry.”

The phone call to Banks had been timed at 9:29 P.M., which meant that Roy had rung him a short while after he had arrived home. Where had he been? What was it he couldn’t talk about over the telephone? While he was on the phone, someone had come to his door, and a few minutes later Roy had gone out again, most likely with the man who had rung his doorbell. Where had they gone?

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Farrow,” said Banks. “I won’t trouble you any longer.”

“No trouble. You will let me know, won’t you, if you hear anything?”

“Of course,” said Banks.

“And why shouldn’t I be all right with it? Annie thought as she parked at the top of the hill and walked toward the old Steadman house. Any romantic involvement she’d had with Banks was ancient history, so what did it matter whether he was seeing this Jennifer Clewes? Except that she was dead and Banks had disappeared.

Annie paused a moment on the bridge. It was one of those early-summer days when the world seemed dipped in sunshine and life should be simple. Yet, for Annie, it was not without a tinge of melancholy, like the first sight of brown on the edges of the leaves, and she found her thoughts turning to the unresolved problems that haunted her.

There was a time, she remembered, when Banks had just come out of the hospital, that there was so much she wanted to say to him, to explain, to apologize for being such a fool, but he wouldn’t let her get close, so she gave up. In the end, they simply carried on working together as if nothing of any consequence had happened between them.

But something had happened. Phil Keane, Annie’s boyfriend, had tried to kill Banks, had drugged him and set fire to his cottage. Annie and Winsome had dragged him out in time to save his life, and Phil had disappeared.

Officially, it wasn’t Annie’s fault. No blame. How could she have known? But she should have known, she kept telling herself. She should have recognized the signs. Banks had even hinted, but she had put it down to jealousy. She had never been so wrong about anything or anyone before. She’d screwed up relationships, of course, but that sort of thing happened to everyone. Nothing like this. Complete and utter humiliation. And it made her angry. She was a detective, for Christ’s sake; she was supposed to have an instinct for people like Phil Keane; she should have sussed him out herself.

In some ways what had happened to her was worse than the rape she had endured over three years ago. This was total emotional rape, and it stained her soul. Because she had loved Phil Keane, though she loathed to admit it to herself. Now the very thought of him running his hands over her body, pleasuring her, penetrating her made her feel sick. How could she have seen no deeper than the charm, the good looks, the keen intelligence, that all-embracing energy and enthusiasm for life that made her – and everyone else in his presence – feel special, singled out for grace?

Well, she knew now that beneath the charm was an immeasurable and impenetrable darkness – the lack of conscience of a psychopath fused with the motivating greed of a common thief. And a love of the game, an enjoyment of deceit and causing humiliation for their own sakes. But was his charm merely on the surface? The more Annie thought about it, the more she came to believe that Phil’s charm was not simply a matter of surface veneer, that it was deeply rooted in the rest of his being, a tumor inseparable from the evil at his core. You couldn’t just scratch the surface and see the terrible truth beneath; the surface was as true as anything else about him.

Such speculations shouldn’t be allowed on a fine day like this, Annie told herself, battening down the anger that rose like bile in her throat whenever she thought about Phil and what had happened last winter. But ever since then, she had been searching for a hint as to where he might have gone. She read all the boring police circulars and memos she used to ignore, pored over newspapers and watched TV news, looking for a clue – an unexplained fire somewhere, a businessman conned out of his fortune, a woman used and cast aside – anything that fit the profile she had compiled in her mind. But after nearly six months, all she had was one false lead, a fire in Devizes that turned out to have been caused by careless smoking. She knew he was around somewhere, though, and when he made his move, as he surely would, then she would have him.

A young boy in short trousers, shirt hanging out, sat on the bank of Gratly Beck fishing. He’d be lucky to catch anything in such fast-flowing water, Annie thought. He waved when he saw her watching him. Annie waved back and hurried on to the Steadman house.

After checking out both Bank’s flat and his cottage, she would have to hurry to Darlington to catch a train to London. The three twenty-five would get her into King’s Cross just after six, all being well. It would be quicker than driving, and she didn’t fancy negotiating her way through the central London traffic all the way south of the river to Kennington. She would leave her car at Darlington station.

Annie passed the tiny Sandemanian chapel and overgrown graveyard and walked down the path to the holiday flats. Two houses had been knocked into one, the insides refinished, to make four spacious, self-contained flats, two up, two down. She knew Banks had one window that looked out on the graveyard, because he had mentioned how apt that seemed, but she hadn’t been inside. He hadn’t invited her.

Though she knew it was futile, Annie rang Banks’s doorbell. A tired-looking young woman holding a baby to her breast opened the door to the downstairs flat, having no doubt noticed Annie walking up the garden path.

“It’s no use,” she said. “He’s out.”

“When did he leave?” Annie asked.

“Who wants to know?”

Annie pulled her warrant card from her handbag. “I’m a colleague of his,” she explained. “There’s something important I need to talk to him about.”

The woman looked at her card, but she obviously wasn’t impressed. “Well, he’s out,” she said again.

“When did he leave?” Annie repeated.

“About eight o’clock this morning. Just drove off.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Not to me. And I wouldn’t expect him to.”

“Do you own these flats?”

“Me and my husband. We live in this one and rent out the others. Why?”

“I was wondering if I might have a look around. I assume you have a spare key?”

“You can’t do that. It’s private.” The baby stirred, made a few tentative burps. She rubbed its back and it fell silent again.

“Look,” said Annie, “this really is important. I don’t want to keep you here. I can see you have the baby to deal with, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me have a quick look in DCI Banks’s flat. It would be so much less trouble than if I had to go and get a search warrant.”

“Search warrant? Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Oh, all right, I suppose,” she said. “It’s no skin off my nose, is it? Just a minute.”

She went inside and returned with two keys, which she handed to Annie. “I’ll be wanting them back, mind,” she said.

“Of course,” said Annie. “I won’t be long.”

She felt the woman’s eyes boring into her back as she opened the door to the upper level and walked up the staircase to the upper flat. At the top, she opened Banks’s door and found herself in a small hallway with pegs for jackets and raincoats and a small cupboard for shoes and heavier clothing. A pile of junk mail sat on a table under a gilt-edged mirror.

The first door she opened led to the bedroom. Annie felt strange poking around Banks’s flat with him not there, especially his bedroom, but she told herself it couldn’t be helped. Somehow or other, he had become connected to a murder investigation, and he was nowhere to be found. There was nothing in the bedroom anyway except a double bed, hastily made, a few clothes in the dresser drawers and wardrobe, and a cushioned window seat that looked out over the graveyard. Must be quite a pickup line, Annie thought, if you fancied sharing your bed with someone. “Come sleep with me beside the graveyard.” It had a sort of ring to it. Then she took her mind off images of shared beds and went into the living room.

On the low table in front of the sofa sat a mobile phone and a portable CD player with headphones. So wherever Banks had gone, he had left these behind, Annie thought, and wondered why. Banks loved his music, and he liked to keep in touch. At least, he used to. Looking around the room, she noticed there were no books and no CDs except the copy of Don Giovanni, a gift from the lads that she had brought him in the hospital. The cellophane wrapper was still on it. There wasn’t even a stereo, only a small TV set, which probably came with the flat. Annie began to feel inexplicably depressed. She tried Banks’s answering service, but there were no messages.

The kitchen was tiny and narrow, the fridge full of the usual items: milk, eggs, beer, cheese, a selection of vegetables, bacon, tomatoes, a bottle of sauvignon blanc and some sliced ham – all of it looking fairly fresh. Well, at least he was still eating. A couple of cardboard boxes under the small dining table were filled with empty wine bottles ready for the bottle bank.

Annie glanced briefly in the toilet and bathroom, a quick look through the cabinets revealing only what she would have expected: razor, shaving cream, toothpaste and toothbrush were missing, so he must have taken them with him. Amid the usual over-the-counter medication there was one small bottle of strong prescription painkillers dated three months ago. Wherever Banks had gone, he clearly hadn’t thought he needed them.

She stood in the center of the hall wondering if she could possibly have missed something, then realized there was nothing to miss. This was the flat of a faceless man, a man with no interests, no passions, no friends, no life. There weren’t even any family photos. It wasn’t Banks’s flat, couldn’t be. Not the Banks she knew.

Annie remembered Newhope Cottage and its living room with the blue walls and ceiling the color of melting Brie, remembered the warm shaded orange light and the evenings she had spent there with Banks. In winter, a peat fire had usually burned in the hearth, its tang harmonizing with the Islay malt she sometimes sipped with him. In summer they would often go outside after dark to sit on the parapet above Gratly Beck, looking at the stars and listening to the water. And there would always be music: Bill Evans, Lucinda Williams, Van Morrison, and string quartets she didn’t recognize.

Annie felt tears in her eyes and she brushed them away roughly and headed downstairs. She handed back the keys without a word and hurried down the path.

Banks sat in a pub on Old Brompton Road playing with Roy’s mobile, learning what the functions were and how to use them. He found a call list which gave him the last thirty incoming, outgoing and missed calls. Some were just first names, some numbers, and quite a few of the incoming calls were “unknown.” The last call had been made at 3:57 on Friday afternoon to “James.” Banks pressed the “call” button and listened to a phone ring. Finally someone picked it up and uttered a frazzled “Yeah?” Banks could hear David Bowie in the background singing “Moonage Daydream.”

“Can I speak to James?” he said.

“Speaking.”

“My brother, Roy Banks, rang you yesterday. I was wondering what it was about.”

“That’s right,” said James. “He was ringing to make an appointment for next Wednesday, I believe. Yeah, here it is, Wednesday at half past two.”

“Appointment for what?”

“A haircut. I’m Roy’s hairdresser. Why? Is everything okay?”

Banks rang off without answering. At least Roy had been certain enough at 3:57 on Friday afternoon of being around next Wednesday to make an appointment with his hairdresser. Banks had never done such a thing in his life. He went to a barber’s and waited his turn like everyone else, reading old magazines.

Banks washed down the last of his curry of the day with a pint of Pride, lit a cigarette and looked around. It was odd being in London again. He had visited many times since he had left, mostly in connection with cases he was working on, but with each visit he came to feel increasingly like a stranger, a tourist, though he had once lived there for over fifteen years.

Still, that had been quite a while ago, and things changed. Down-at-heel neighborhoods became desirable residences and once-chic areas went downhill. Villains’ pubs became locals for the trendy young crowd and up-market pubs started to go to seed. He had no idea what was “in” these days. London was a vast sprawling metropolis, and Banks had never, even when he was living there, been familiar with it beyond Notting Hill and Kennington, places where he had lived, and the West End, where he had worked. South Kensington might have been another city as far as he was concerned.

He turned his mind to Roy’s disappearance, oblivious to the ebb and flow of conversation around him. He would run through the rest of the call list later, back at the house. He also wanted to check out the data CD. There were plenty of Internet cafés around, and some of them would even allow him to read a CD and print out material, but they were far too public, and anything he did would leave traces. He had violated his brother’s privacy, but he felt he had good reason, whereas there was no reason at all to risk making any of Roy’s secrets known to strangers.

He realized he didn’t know anyone in London who owned a computer. Most of the people he had known there, criminals and coppers alike, had either moved, retired or died. Except Sandra, his ex-wife, who had moved from Eastvale to Camden Town when she left him. Sandra would probably have a computer. But his last meeting with her had been disastrous, and she had hardly been a constant visitor in his days of need. In fact, she hadn’t visited at all, merely sent her condolences through Tracy. Then there was the husband, Sean, and the new baby, Sinéad. No, he didn’t think he would be paying any visits to Sandra in the foreseeable future.

He also couldn’t go official with what he’d got for the same reason he couldn’t use an Internet café: in case the disk held something incriminating against Roy. If Roy had been up to something dodgy, Banks wasn’t going to shop him, not his own brother. He might give him a damned good bollocking and read him the riot act when he found him, but he wasn’t going to help put him in jail.

There was one avenue he could explore first, someone who would probably be as interested in protecting Roy’s reputation as he was. Banks stubbed out his cigarette and reached into his pocket for the mobile. He scrolled through the list of names and numbers in the phone book until he found Corinne. That was Roy’s fiancée’s name, he remembered now, copying the number down into his notebook. Then he put the mobile back in his pocket, finished his drink and walked out to the street.

London was hot and sticky. Of all the places to be during a heat wave, this was not one he would have chosen. People were wilting on the pavements, and the air was redolent with the smell of exhaust fumes and worse, like rotting meat or cabbage.

Banks didn’t want to tie up the mobile again in case Roy got his message back at the house and phoned, so he sought out a public phone box and dug out an old phone card from his wallet. He felt as if he were walking into the tin hut where the Japanese locked Alec Guinness in The Bridge on the River Kwai. Sweat trickled down his sides, tickling as it ran, sticking his shirt to his skin. Someone had crushed a bluebottle against the glass, making a long smear of dark blood. He could even smell the warm paper of the telephone directory.

Banks took out his notebook and dialed the number he had copied from Roy’s mobile. Just as he was about to hang up, a breathless voice came on the line.

“Hello?”

“Corinne?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“My name’s Alan Banks. Roy’s brother. You might remember me. We met at my parents’ wedding anniversary party in Peterborough last October.”

“Of course. I remember.”

“Look, I’m down in London and I was wondering if we could get together somewhere and have a chat. Maybe over a drink or something?”

There was a pause, then she said, “Are you asking me out?”

“No. Sorry. I’m getting this all wrong. Please excuse me. Blame the heat. I mean, that’s why I thought a drink might be a good idea. Somewhere cool, if there is such a place.”

“Yes, it is hot, isn’t it. What do you mean, then? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I just need to pick your brains, that’s all.”

“I remember. You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s not why… I mean, it’s nothing official.”

“Well, you’ve certainly got my attention. You could come over to the flat.” She paused. “I’ve got an electric fan in the office.”

“Have you got a computer?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Great,” said Banks. “When would be convenient?”

“Well, I’ve got a meeting with a client this afternoon – I’m afraid free weekends are never a given if you’re an accountant out on your own – but I should be done by early evening. Say five o’clock?”

Banks looked at his watch. It was half past three. “All right,” he said.

“Good. Have you got a pen and paper handy? I’ll give you my address.”

Banks wrote down the address and listened to Corinne’s directions. Just off Earl’s Court Road. Not far from Roy’s at all, then, though another world entirely. He thanked her again, escaped the sweat box and headed back to the pub.

By the time Annie had walked over the bridge and along the lane to Banks’s cottage, she had just about succeeded in regaining her equilibrium. The builders had got as far as restoring the roof. From the outside, the place looked perfectly normal, and one might even think someone lived there if it weren’t for the lack of curtains and the overflowing skip. Because it was Saturday, there were no workmen around, though given how slow they had been, Annie thought, the least they could do was put in a few extra hours to help get Banks back where he belonged. After all, they’d been on the job close to four months now.

It was the first time Annie had been back there since the night of the fire, and just seeing the place evoked painful memories: the feel of the wet blanket she’d wrapped around herself; the fire bursting out as she broke the door open; the smoke in her eyes and throat; Banks’s dead weight as she dragged him toward the door; Winsome’s strength as she helped them over the last few feet, a distance Annie thought she couldn’t make alone; lying there on the muddy ground sputtering, looking at Banks’s still figure and fearing him dead. And, almost worst of all, remembering Phil Keane’s silver BMW disappearing up the hill as Winsome had first turned into Banks’s drive.

She took a moment to bring herself back to the present. Jennifer Clewes had Banks’s address in her back pocket, but it was this address, Annie reminded herself. Why was that? She noticed tire tracks in the dust, but they could have been anyone’s. The builders’, for example. And despite the sign that said Beckside Lane was a cul-de-sac and a private drive, cars often turned into it by mistake. Even so, she made certain not to disturb the tracks.

Annie walked up to the front door of the cottage. Though the building wasn’t finished inside, she guessed that the builders would keep it locked to discourage squatters, and because they might sometimes leave their expensive tools there overnight. Which was why the splintering around the lock immediately caught her attention. She leaned closer and saw that it looked fresh. The door was new and not yet painted, and the splintered wood was clean and sharp.

Annie’s protective gloves were back in the boot of her car, so she used her foot to nudge open the door gently and kept her hands in her pockets. Inside, the place was a mess, but a builder’s mess, not a burglar’s, by the looks of it. The rooms were divided and the ceiling beams in place, and most of the plasterboarding had been finished except the wall between the living room and the kitchen. It felt odd to be standing there smelling sawdust and sheared metal rather than peat smoke, Annie thought. The stairs looked finished, solid enough, and after a tentative step she ventured up. The once-familiar bedroom was a mere skeleton, with builders’ calculations and blueprints scrawled on the walls in pencil. The second bedroom was similarly bare.

Annie went back downstairs and out to the lane. As she walked away, she turned once more and looked back. Someone had broken into the cottage, and recently. She assumed the builders had locked up when they left on Friday, though she would have to check with them to be certain. It could have been thieves, of course, but that seemed too much of a coincidence. Annie realized that she would have to bring in Stefan Nowak and the SOCOs to see if they could establish any links between Jennifer Clewes’s car and Banks’s cottage.

If it was the same person who had killed Jennifer Clewes, Annie reasoned, then he must have got hold of Banks’s address by some other means, because Jennifer Clewes had it in the back pocket of her jeans. Perhaps he already knew where Banks lived and, when he had guessed where she was going, and when they had got to a desolate, isolated stretch of road, he had shot Jennifer and then carried on to Banks’s cottage. To do what? Kill him, too? It would certainly make more sense to handle them one at a time.

But Banks hadn’t been there; he’d been about a quarter of a mile away, in his temporary flat. Had Banks any idea of what was going on? Was that why he had taken off so early in the morning? That was the big question, Annie realized, heading back up the hill to her car. How much did Banks know and how safe was he now? And she knew that she probably wouldn’t find out the answer to either question until she found the man himself.

Corinne lived in the first-floor flat of a four-story building overlooking the narrow street, not more than fifty yards away from Earl’s Court Road. She looked different from the young girl Banks had met at his parents’, he thought as she greeted him at the door and asked him in. Her hair was longer, for a start, almost down to her shoulders, and it was blond with dark roots. The little stud was gone from below her lip, leaving a small flaw in her clear skin, and she looked closer to thirty than to twenty. She also seemed more self-possessed, more mature than Banks remembered her.

“Come into the back,” she said. “That’s where the office is.” An electric fan stood on the table by the open window, slowly turning through about ninety degrees every few seconds, sending out waves of lukewarm air. It was better than nothing.

“Everyone seems to work at home these days,” Banks said, sitting in a winged armchair. Corinne sat at an angle to him, cross-legged, the way some women seem to prefer, and he guessed that this was the space she used to discuss business when clients called at the house. A jug of water thick with ice cubes sat on the table between them, along with two tumblers. Corinne managed to stretch her upper body forward and pour them both a glass while remaining cross-legged. Quite a feat, Banks thought, considering he couldn’t even sit in that position comfortably in the first place. But Corinne seemed to move with a dancer’s grace and economy that spoke of Pilates and yoga.

“They say tea’s refreshing in hot weather,” she said, “but the thought of drinking anything hot doesn’t have much appeal at the moment.”

“This is fine,” said Banks. “Thank you.”

Corinne was wearing a plain orange T-shirt tucked into her jeans, and she wore a Celtic cross on a silver chain around her neck. She was barefoot, Banks noticed, and her toenails were unpainted. Occasionally, as she talked or listened, her heart-shaped face would tilt to one side, she would bite her lower lip and her fingers would stray to the cross. Sunlight gilded the leaves outside the window and their shadows danced pavanes over the pale blue walls, stirred by the lightest of breezes.

“Well,” she said, “I must say you had me all intrigued on the telephone. I’m sorry if I-”

“My fault entirely. I wasn’t being clear. I hope you don’t take me for the kind of man who goes chasing his brother’s fiancée?”

She gave a brief, tight little smile that indicated to Banks that perhaps all was not as it should be in the fiancée department, but he let it go for the time being. She would get to it in her own time, if she wanted.

“Anyway,” he went on, “it’s Roy I want to talk to you about.”

“What about him?”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

“What do you mean?”

Banks explained about the phone call, Roy’s absence and that the door had been left unlocked.

“That’s not like him,” she said, frowning. “None of it is. I can see why you’d be worried. Anyway, to answer your question, no, I don’t know where he is. Do you think you should go to the police? I mean, I know you are the police, but…”

“I know what you mean,” said Banks. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet, at any rate. I don’t think they’d be very interested. Roy’s a grown-up. There could still be a simple explanation. Do you know any of his friends?”

“Not really. There was another couple we used to go out with occasionally, Rupert and Natalie, but I don’t think Roy has a lot of close friends.”

Banks didn’t miss the “used to,” but he let it go for the moment. There was a Rupert in Roy’s mobile phone book. Banks would ring him eventually, along with the rest of the names. “Do you know a burly man with curly gray or fair hair?” he asked. “He drives a big, light-colored car, an expensive model?”

Corinne thought for a moment, then she said, “No. Sorry. Rupert drives a slate-gray Beemer and Natalie’s got a little Beetle runaround.” She turned up her nose. “A yellow one.”

“When did you last see Roy?”

“A week last Thursday.” She fingered the cross. “Look, I might as well tell you, things haven’t been going all that well for us lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Any particular reason?”

“I think he’s been seeing someone else.” She gave a little shrug. “It doesn’t matter, really. I mean, it’s not as if it was serious. We’ve only been going out about a year. We’re not living together or anything.”

“But I thought you were supposed to be engaged?”

“I think that was part of the problem, really. I mean, I’d brought it up, and Roy’s impulsive. Neither of us is ready for marriage yet. We called it off, went back to the way we were. That was when the trouble started. I don’t suppose you can take a big step back like that and expect a relationship to continue the way it was, can you?”

So the engagement had been postponed, or demoted to going steady, and the relationship had cooled, like Banks and Michelle’s. Little brother up to his usual tricks. At least Corinne was to be spared the indignity of being wife number four. “Even so,” Banks said, “it must still hurt. I’m sorry. Have you any idea who he’s seeing?”

“No. I don’t even know if I’m right for sure. It’s just a feeling. You know, little things.”

Well, Banks thought, there were a few possible names and numbers in Roy’s mobile phone book and call list. “How recently?” he asked.

“Just these past few weeks.”

“And before that?”

“Things were fine. At least I thought they were.”

“Was there anything bothering him when you saw him last?”

“Nothing that I could see. He seemed much the same as ever. Except…”

“Yes?”

“Well, as I said, little things, things a woman notices. Forgetfulness, distance, distraction. That wasn’t like him.”

“But he wasn’t depressed or worried about anything?”

“Not that you’d know. I just thought he had someone else on his mind and he’d rather be with her.”

“What about drugs?” Banks asked.

“What about them?”

“Come off it. Don’t tell me you and Roy never snorted a line, smoked a spliff.”

“So what if we did?”

“Apart from its being illegal, which we’ll ignore for the moment, when you get into the drug world you get to meet some nasty people. Did Roy owe his dealer money, for example?”

“Look, it wasn’t much. Just recreational. A gram on the weekends, that sort of thing. Nothing more than he can easily afford.”

“All right,” said Banks. “How much do you know about his business dealings?”

“A fair bit.”

“You’re his accountant, right?”

“Roy takes care of his own books.”

“Oh. I thought that was how you met?”

“Well, yes,” said Corinne. “He got audited and a friend recommended me to him.” She twirled her Celtic cross. “Most of my clients are in the entertainment business – writers, musicians, artists – nobody really big-league, but a few decent, steady earners. Roy was a bit different, to say the least, but I needed the money. And before you ask, everything was aboveboard.” She narrowed her eyes. “Roy once told me he was sure you thought he was a crook.”

“I don’t think he’s a crook,” Banks said, not being entirely truthful. “I think maybe he stretches the law a bit, finds the odd loophole, that’s all. Plenty of businessmen do. What I’m wondering, though, is whether he had any reason to run off. Was his business in trouble? Had he lost a lot of money, made some errors in judgment?”

“No. Roy’s books were good enough for me and the tax man.”

“Look, I’ve seen his house,” said Banks. “The Porsche, the plasma TV, the gadgets. Roy obviously makes quite a lot of money somehow. You said he makes it legitimately. Have you any idea how?”

“He’s a financier. He still plays the stock market to some extent, but mostly he finances business ventures.”

“What kinds?”

“All kinds. Lately he’s been specializing in technology and private health care.”

“Here?”

“All over the place. Sometimes he gets involved in French or German operations. He has connections in Brussels, the EU, and in Zurich and Geneva. He also spends a lot of time and energy in America. He loves New York. Roy’s no fool. He knows better than to put all his eggs in one basket. That’s one reason he’s been so successful.” She paused. “You don’t know your brother at all, do you?” Before Banks could answer, she went on, “He’s a remarkable man in many ways, a financier who can quote Kierkegaard or Schopenhauer at dinner. But he never forgets where he came from. The crushing poverty. He dragged himself out of it, made something of himself, and it’s what drives him. He never wants to end up like that again.”

What kind of a line had Roy been spinning Corinne? Banks wondered. Their childhood hadn’t been that bad. Admittedly, she had only seen the relatively decent house his parents lived in now, and not the back-to-back terrace behind the brickworks where they had lived until Banks was eleven and Roy six. But even then, “crushing poverty” was pushing it a bit. They had always been fed and clothed and never lacked for love. Banks’s father had always been in work until the eighties. What did it matter that the toilet had been outside, down the street, and the whole family had had to share a tin bathtub that they filled with kettles of water boiled on the gas cooker? They were no different from thousands of other working-class families in the fifties and sixties.

“It’s true we were never very close,” Banks admitted, slapping a fly from the knee of his trousers. “What can I say? It just happens that way sometimes. We haven’t got that much in common.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” said Corinne. “I can’t stand my younger sister. She’s a snob and a misery-guts.”

“I don’t hate Roy. I just don’t know him very well, and I’m worried he’s in some sort of trouble.” Banks remembered the CD he had found in Roy’s Blue Lamps jewel case and slipped it out of his pocket. “I found this at Roy’s,” he said. “I wonder if you could help me with it?”

“Of course.”

It didn’t take Corinne long to put the CD in her computer and bring up the list of contents. The icons were JPEGs: 1232 of them in all. Some were merely numbered, others had names like Natasha, Kiki and Kayla. Corinne opened her image viewer and set a slide show going.

Banks was looking over her shoulder, hand resting on the back of the chair, when the images started coming up on the screen. The first showed a naked woman with a man’s erect penis in her mouth, sperm dribbling down her chin, a stoned look in her eyes; the next showed the same man entering the woman from behind, an obviously feigned look of ecstasy on her face. After that came several photos of an extremely attractive blond teenager in various stages of undress and revealing positions.

That was enough.

Corinne abruptly ended the slide show and ejected the disk. “I suppose that just goes to show that Roy isn’t much different from most men, when you get right down to it,” she said, moving away from the computer. Banks could see that her face was red. She handed the disk back to him. “Maybe you’d like to keep this?”

“Is that all that’s on it?” he asked.

“Short of looking at all 1,232 files to make sure, I’d say that’s a pretty good guess. Of course, you’re welcome to check them all out, but not here, if you don’t mind. I find that sort of thing a bit demeaning. Not to mention insulting.”

Well, Banks thought, it had been worth a try. Though he had nothing at all against images of naked women, either alone or with partners, Banks had seen enough of the sordid side of the porn business to know how bad it could get, especially if children were involved. From what he had seen, though, Roy’s collection looked ordinary, the girls of age, if a little on the young side. In a way, it made him feel a bit closer to Roy to find out that he was human after all, the dirty devil. If only their mother knew. But then his policeman’s mind kicked in. If Roy had taken these images himself, on a digital camera, say, rather than simply downloaded them from the Internet, then he could be involved in a sleazy business.

“Did Roy have anything to do with Internet porn?” he asked Corinne, forgetting that she might not be the best person to ask.

“Always ready to think the worst of him, aren’t you?” she said.

“I can’t see why you’re always so quick to leap to his defense after what he’s done to you.”

Corinne flushed with anger.

“Believe it or not, I’m trying to help,” said Banks.

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.” She looked toward the CD and made a face. “Anyway, there’s your evidence, for what it’s worth.”

Banks took the CD. At some point he would examine it more closely, study each of the 1232 images, just to make sure. Hotel rooms and outdoor locations had been identified from background features in Internet porn. One victim of child pornography in America had been identified from a blurred-out school logo on her T-shirt. If Roy had taken any of these pictures, there was a chance of finding out where he had taken them, and who the models were, should it come to that. But not here, not now.

He had just about run out of questions to ask Corinne, and he could see that she had become edgy, anxious for him to leave. Whether it was the effect of the images on the CD or something else, he definitely felt that he had outstayed his welcome. But he remembered the penlike object he had found in Roy’s office drawer. Maybe Corinne knew what it was. He took it out of his shirt pocket and held it out to her. “Any idea what this is?”

Corinne took the object from Banks, eyed it closely and removed the cap. “It’s a portable mini-USB drive. For storing information.”

“Like that CD?”

“Same idea, but not quite as much space. This one’s only got 256 megs, not 700. Handy, though. You can clip it in your inside pocket just like a pen.”

“Can we see what’s on it?”

Corinne clearly wasn’t comfortable delving into Roy’s private affairs, especially after what she had just seen on the CD. Banks had been at his job for so long that he had got used to digging deep into a person’s private life. As far as the police were concerned, there are no secrets, especially in a murder investigation. He often didn’t like what he found, but he’d developed a tolerance for people’s little quirks over the years.

Most people, when you get past their facade of normality, have some sort of guilty secret, something they’ve tried to keep from the rest of the world, and Banks had come across most of them in his time, from the harmless hoarders of newspapers and magazines, whose homes were like labyrinths of tottering columns of print, to the secret cross-dressers and lonely fetishists. Of course, they were all grief- and horror-stricken, humiliated that someone had found out their little secrets, but to Banks it was nothing special.

Corinne’s reaction made him realize for the first time in a while that what he did was unnatural and invasive. In the short time he had been with her, he had as good as implied that her ex-fiancé, his brother, was involved in drugs, illicit sex and fraud. All in a day’s work for him, perhaps, but not for a basically nice person like Corinne. Had the job made him insensitive? Banks thought of Penny Cartwright again, and her violent reaction to his suggestion of dinner last night. Was it something to do with what he did for a living, the way he looked at the world, at people? She was a free spirit, after all, so did that make him the enemy?

Corinne plugged the USB drive into her computer. “Here we go,” she said, and Banks looked over her shoulder at the monitor.