Strange Affair

CHAPTER SIX

The thunderstorm that swept across the southern half on the country during the night drove out the muggy weather, and Sunday dawned clear and sunny, the streets rinsed and sparkling after the rain. The temperature was still in the mid-twenties, but with the humidity all but gone, it was a comfortable heat.

Annie woke late after a refreshing sleep, though her hotel room had been too hot and she had had to lie in her underwear on top of the sheets. She had turned the control on the wall to cold, but after nothing happened, she concluded it was only for show. Perhaps if you believed it really worked, then you would start to feel cooler, but she didn’t have that much faith.

After a lukewarm shower and a room-service continental breakfast, again scouring the Sunday papers for any traces of Phil Keane’s handiwork and finding none, Annie checked her mobile in case she’d missed a message from Roy Banks, but there was nothing. She rang the number again, and again she got the answering service. This time she left an even more terse message. She tried the mobile number, but had no luck there, either. She didn’t bother leaving a message.

Next she rang Melanie Scott to make sure she would be at home, then she checked in with Gristhorpe at his home and found out that Jennifer Clewes’s parents were being brought to Eastvale that morning to identify their daughter. Then Annie set off for the tube.

First she had to take the Northern Line to Leicester Square, then change to the Piccadilly Line, which ran all the way out to Heathrow. Given the more clement weather and the relative emptiness of the train, her journey out to Hounslow passed pleasantly enough, some of it aboveground, and she gazed on the rows of redbrick terraced houses, playing fields, concrete-and-glass office blocks.

She found Melanie Scott’s house with the help of her A to Z, only about five minutes’ walk away from the Hounslow West tube station. Cars filled every available parking spot on both sides of the street, sun glinting on their windscreens, so she was glad yet again that she wasn’t driving.

The woman who answered the door looked to be in her late twenties, the same age as Jennifer Clewes. She was one of those excessively thin yet nicely shaped women, with small breasts, coat-hanger hips and a narrow waist. She was wearing denim shorts, which showed off her long tapered legs to advantage. Jet-black hair hung straight down to her shoulders and framed a pale oval face with large brown eyes, button nose and full mouth. The red lipstick stood out in contrast against the paleness of her skin. Annie hadn’t told her much over the telephone, but she must have suspected something was wrong, and she seemed nervous, anxious to hear the worst.

“You said it’s about Jenn,” she said as she pointed Annie toward an armchair in the cramped living room. The front window was open and they could hear snatches of conversation and laughter as people drifted by. Melanie sat on the edge of her chair and clasped her hands between her knees. “Is something wrong? What is it?”

“I’m afraid Jennifer Clewes is dead, Ms. Scott. I’m sorry I can’t think of any easier way to put it.”

Melanie just stared into a far corner of the room and her eyes filled with tears. Then she put her fist to her mouth and bit. Annie went over to her, but Melanie waved her away. “No, I’m all right. Really. It’s just the shock.” She rubbed her eyes and smudged mascara over her cheeks, then took a tissue from a box on the mantelpiece. “You’re a policewoman, so there must be something suspicious about it, right? How did it happen?”

No flies on Melanie, thought Annie, sitting down again. “She was shot,” she said.

“Oh my God. It’s the woman they found in the car in Yorkshire, isn’t it? The one in the papers and on TV. You said you were from Yorkshire.”

“North Yorkshire, yes.”

“They wouldn’t give her name out on the TV.”

“No,” said Annie. “We have to be certain. Her parents haven’t identified the body yet.” She thought of showing Melanie the photograph, but there was no point in further distressing her. Kate Nesbit had already identified Jennifer, and soon Jennifer’s parents would confirm this.

“I can’t believe it,” Melanie said. “Who’d want to kill Jenn? Was it some pervert? Was she…?”

“There was no sexual assault,” Annie said. “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?”

“Me? No, I can’t think of anyone.”

“When did you last talk to Jennifer?”

“A few days ago – Wednesday, I think – on the phone. I haven’t actually seen her for two or three weeks. Both too busy. We were going to the pictures next weekend. Chick-flick night. I can’t believe it.” She dabbed at her eyes again.

“Do you know if there was anything bothering her, anything on her mind?”

“She did seem a bit preoccupied the last time I talked to her. But I must admit, Jenn goes on about work a bit too much sometimes, and I sort of tune out.”

“She was worried about work?”

“Not specifically. It was just someone she mentioned. One of the late girls, she said. She worked at a family-planning center.”

“I know,” said Annie. “Late girls? What are they?”

“I’ve no idea. That’s just what she said.”

“A workmate? Late shift?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think they worked in shifts. It’s not a twenty-four-hour center. But sometimes she has contact with the clients, through paperwork and billing and what have you, or if there’s a problem or something. There was some woman…”

That was how Jennifer met Kate Nesbit, Annie remembered, through the center. “Can you remember her name?”

“I’m trying. Give me a moment. She spoke it very quickly, so I can’t be absolutely sure, but it was a rather odd name.” Melanie paused and gazed out of the bay window. A white delivery truck passed by, blocking the sun for a moment. “Carmen, I think.”

“That was her first name?”

“Yes. Carmen. I remember thinking at the time that it sounded like an actress’s name, but that’s Cameron, isn’t it? Cameron Diaz. Hers was Carmen, like the opera. Her last name was Petri, or something like that. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.” Annie made a note of the name and put a question mark by “late girl.” “Did Jennifer she say what she was worried about?”

“No. I’m sorry. Just that it was something this Carmen said.”

“Was Carmen at the center to arrange for an abortion?”

“I assumed so,” said Melanie, “but Jenn didn’t say. I mean, that’s why people go there; or for advice, you know, if they’re undecided, they don’t know what to do.”

“Did Jennifer have any particular stand on abortion?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think she’d advise clients against it, suggest they keep the child and put it up for adoption instead?”

“Oh, I see. No, not really. Jenn believed it was a woman’s choice. It’s just that some of the women were… you know… scared, especially if they were young. Some of them just didn’t know what to do. But Jenn wasn’t an adviser or counselor. There are other people to take care of that.”

“But she did have contact with the girls?”

“Sometimes. Yes.”

“But you’ve no idea why Jennifer was concerned about this Carmen?”

“Jenn just had a habit of getting involved in other people’s problems, that’s all. It can be a bit of a drawback in her line of work. Most of the time she doesn’t have any contact with the clients, but sometimes… like I said. She’s got too sympathetic a nature, and she can’t always be objective about things. Or people. Mind you, it’s one of the qualities that makes her so special. Sorry. Made. My God.”

“Did Jenn ever receive any threats because of her work?”

“You mean because she dealt with abortions?”

“Yes. There are a number of groups actively against it, some of them violent.”

“She never mentioned it to me. I mean, I think there was a small demonstration once, but nothing came of it. Certainly no violence, anyway. Groups like that would tend to ignore the center itself because abortions aren’t actually performed there, and many of the clients go on to have their babies and give them up for adoption, so I don’t think that’s a very real possibility.”

Annie realized that Jenn’s workmates at the center would probably be better informed on this topic. She moved on. “It might be a good idea if you gave me a bit of background. I understand you knew Jennifer a long time?”

“Ever since primary school. We only lived two streets away from one another. And we have the same birthday. Her poor mum and dad…” Melanie picked up a packet of cigarettes from the arm of her chair and lit one. “Sorry, you don’t mind, do you?” she asked, blowing out the smoke.

“It’s your house,” said Annie. And your lungs, she thought to herself. “What about later? University?”

“We both did our postgraduate degrees at Birmingham. I took international business, and Jenn studied management.”

“What about your undergraduate degrees?”

“Jenn studied economics at Kent and I went to Essex. Modern languages.”

“You kept in touch?”

“Of course. We were practically inseparable in the hols.”

“I understand that just last summer the two of you went on holiday together to Sicily?”

“Yes.” Melanie frowned. “Look, may I ask just what you’re getting at? Are you suggesting there was anything… unusual… about our friendship, because if you are-”

Annie waved her hand. “No, nothing like that. None of my business, anyway.” Unless it contributed to Jennifer’s murder. “No, it’s just that her flatmate Kate didn’t seem to know an awful lot about Jennifer’s life, didn’t really seem to know much about her at all.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” said Melanie. “Jenn’s a very private person in a lot of ways. She shared the flat because she had to – London’s so expensive – but it didn’t mean she had to share her life. Besides…”

“What?”

“Well, I got the impression from Jenn that this Kate was a bit of a Nosy Parker, always asking questions, a busybody, wanting to know where she’d been and who she was with. Jenn said sometimes it was worse than being at home with her parents.”

Annie had had a flatmate like that once in Exeter, a girl called Caroline, who had even gone so far as to question her on what sort of birth control she used, and on what exactly went on those nights Annie didn’t return to the flat. And some of Caroline’s forays into Annie’s sex life smacked of digging for vicarious thrills; she never seemed to have a boyfriend of her own, and Annie guessed that was how she got her jollies. Not that Annie gave much away, or had even been up to anything, most of the time.

“Why didn’t she share with you?”

“Hounslow’s too far out for her, and I need to be here because of my work. I’d hate to have to drive to Heathrow and back every day from the city.”

“They didn’t get along, Kate and Jennifer?”

“I don’t mean that. You can get along with someone who’s not the same as you, can’t you, in general, even if some of their habits annoy you, as long as you keep a bit of distance?”

“True,” said Annie. “Sometimes it’s better that way.”

“That’s what they were like. They got along well enough. Kate kept the place clean and tidy, didn’t leave food to go rotten in the fridge, remembered to lock the door when she went out, didn’t make a lot of noise. That sort of thing. The things that are important when two people are sharing a common living space. They never had rows or anything. It’s just that Kate’s a bit bossy as well as nosy. Likes things just so. And she’s got a bee in her bonnet about smoking. I won’t even go to the house. It’s her prerogative, of course, but even so, you’d think people could be a bit accommodating once in a while, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so,” said Annie. “What about boyfriends?”

“What about them?”

“Any problems there?”

Melanie pushed her hair back. “I think Kate got sort of put off men. She had a scare a while back. Thought she was pregnant, so Jenn told me. Anyway, I know nothing about her love life, or lack of it.”

“And Jennifer?” Annie remembered what Kate Nesbit had told her about Jennifer’s ex-boyfriend Victor, and she wanted to find out what Melanie knew about him.

Kate paused, seemed to come to a decision, then went on. “Jenn’s the serious type when it comes to love,” she said. “Last year, just before we went on holiday, she split up with someone she’d been seeing for three years and it devastated her. I could have told her it would happen, but you can’t do that, can you? I mean, Jenn was pushing him toward commitment, living together, maybe marriage, babies, and it was obvious in the end that she’d scare him off.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Yes.” Melanie laughed. “The holiday was supposed to be a cure. Get him out of her system. Get rat-arsed and shag lots of good-looking blokes.”

“Is that how it worked out?”

“No. Does it ever? Jenn read a lot of books, and I practiced my Italian on the waiters, who were all over fifty. There wasn’t one decent-looking bloke in the whole place. Most evenings we spent commiserating with one another over a couple of bottles of cheap Sicilian wine and most mornings we woke up with splitting headaches. Oh, and Jenn got sunburn on the second day. All in all, I’d say it was a bit of a farce.”

“And afterward?”

“She got over him.”

“And he her?”

“Not quite,” said Melanie with a frown. “Jenn told me that he’d pestered her once or twice, said he’d made a big mistake and asked her to give him another chance, that sort of thing. And he kept trying to phone her.”

“At work or at home?”

“Both.”

“When you say ‘pestered’ her, do you mean stalked her, threatened her, what?”

“She just said he pestered her.”

“Can you remember his name and address?”

“Not his address, no, but I’ve got it written down somewhere. Remind me before you go. I do remember he lives out Chalk Farm way. His name is Victor Parsons.”

“Was Jennifer involved with anyone else, after Victor?”

“I think so. Very recently.”

“Past few weeks?”

“Yes. Couple of months at the most. She was moving very cautiously. Anyway, I got the impression that she liked him a lot.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Sorry, she didn’t say. I mean, she didn’t really say very much about it at all; she was being very cagey. It’s just that I’ve known her for so long, you get to sort recognize the signs, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you think he might be married?”

“Married? Good God, I hope not. I mean, Jenn wouldn’t go with a married man, not knowingly. I told you. She was serious about love. Believed in meeting Mr. Right and settling down together forever. She wasn’t casual about that sort of thing.”

Annie wondered if Kate Nesbit’s suspicions were at all justified or were simply the result of Jennifer’s natural reticence when it came to affairs of the heart. “Do you know where they met?”

“At work, I should think. She hardly goes anywhere else, except with me.”

“Look, I know this is probably a bit of cliché,” Annie said, “but we do have to ask. Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm Jennifer? Has anyone at all ever made any threats against her?”

Melanie didn’t hesitate. “No,” she said, her eyes filling with tears again. “Jenn was a good soul, one of the truly good people.”

“You don’t know of any enemies she might have had?”

“She didn’t make enemies. If you ask me, this was one of those random attacks you hear about on the news, maybe a serial killer, someone who didn’t know her. Like that other girl, in the spring.”

“What about at work? Was everything all right there?”

“You’d have to ask them, but she never said anything to me about any problems. She liked her job.” She started to cry again. “I’m sorry. I just can’t get my head around it.”

Annie could think of no more questions anyway. She consoled Melanie as best she could and suggested she call a friend to come and stay. Melanie didn’t want to, said she’d be fine by herself, and despite the tears Annie sensed that she was probably tougher than Kate Nesbit. Besides, her parents still lived in Shrewsbury, so they could hardly get down to London quickly. Annie left her card with her mobile number, telling Melanie she could ring at any time for any reason, and walked back to the tube wondering why someone so sensitive, serious and special as Jennifer Clewes could have ended up a murder victim.

When Banks woke on Sunday morning to the sound of birdsong, his head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and he had the distinct memory of something very odd having happened during the night.

He stumbled to the bathroom, drank two glasses of water and took three aspirin tablets, then returned to the entertainment room, where he had slept on the sofa. He picked up Roy’s mobile and found that the image was still there, and that it made no more sense in the light of day than it had during the middle of the night. He found the incoming call on the call list. It was listed only as “unknown.”

Banks examined the photo more closely. The foreground was out of focus, the figure blurred. Behind the slumped figure was what looked like a wall and Banks thought he could see the fuzzy outlines of letters written on it. There were no actual words he could read, but an expert might be able to glean something from it.

Was the man in the chair Roy? He could be, Banks supposed; the features weren’t clear, but the hair looked about right. If it was Roy, was this some sort of oblique way of informing Banks that someone had taken – had kidnapped – his brother? Would a ransom demand come soon?

The man in the photo could still be anyone, though, Banks decided in the end. Perhaps Roy himself had sent the photo. It could be a message of some kind, or a warning. On the other hand, it had been sent to Roy’s mobile, so was it intended for Roy, or did someone know that Banks had the phone? The latter thought didn’t do much to quell Banks’s fears for his brother. If someone already knew he was staying at Roy’s house and had Roy’s mobile, then he had better keep his eyes open and his wits about him.

Banks put the mobile aside and went back to the bathroom, where he removed his rumpled clothes and climbed into Roy’s luxury Power Shower, turning it on full. The jets of hot water pummeled his body back into some semblance of humanity.

As he dried himself on a thick soft towel, Banks realized that he had left his overnight bag in the boot of his car, which was parked outside. He didn’t want to dash out and fetch it right now, so he brushed his teeth with Roy’s electric toothbrush, which almost ripped his gums to shreds, and borrowed a clean short-sleeved shirt and socks from his brother’s wardrobe. He had to wear his own jeans because Roy’s were too long for him and too big around the waist.

After he had found Roy’s stash of coffee in one of the kitchen cupboards and made himself a decent pot, Banks took it with him upstairs and returned to the entertainment room and the mobile. The phone call and digital image should be traceable, Banks knew, given the police’s technical resources. You could also learn an awful lot from a mobile phone’s sim card. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the resources at the moment. How important was it? he wondered.

Banks still couldn’t let go of the idea that his brother might have been involved in something illegal and that that was why he’d vanished. Things had threatened to catch up with him and he’d had to run away fast and hide out. If that was the case and Banks brought in the local police, then he risked getting Roy into serious trouble. If something terrible came out – drugs or pornography, for example – and Roy went to jail, it could kill their parents.

On the other hand, there wasn’t much more he could do alone except work on the leads he already had: the names from Roy’s call list and mobile phone book, and from the files Corinne had printed for him. He knew what his duty was, what he would advise anyone else in his position to do, but still he hesitated. At least he had the laptop computer now, so he could spend a bit more time on the CD and USB drive, and there was one person he could turn to for help.

First he went into Roy’s office. There was another telephone message, he noticed. It must have come in while he was taking his shower. Again it was from Annie Cabbot, and she simply asked Roy to ring her as soon as possible. Banks had forgotten all about last night’s message. He still wasn’t sure that he wanted Annie involved – she would definitely want him to make Roy’s disappearance an official police matter – but he was curious enough to dial her mobile number and find out what she was after. He got no signal. Making a mental note to try again later, he picked up the telephone and rang Corinne, just to make sure. He breathed a sigh of relief when she said she was fine. She sounded sleepy. He apologized for waking her, said he’d be in touch and rang off.

Finally he dialed a number he had committed to memory. As requested, he left a message and fifteen minutes later the phone rang. He snatched up the handset.

“Banks here.”

“What’s so urgent you have to disturb a hardworking copper on his only day off?” asked Detective Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess.

“I need to see you,” said Banks. “Urgently.”

Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks weighed heavily on Superintendent Gristhorpe’s mind, and not only because if Banks were around, Gristhorpe might be able to spend a bit more time on his drystone wall rather than having to drive into Western Area Headquarters so early on a Sunday morning. No doubt there would be a crowd of reporters to deal with, as the issue of guns always touched a nerve. Despite having some of the strictest gun control laws in the world, enacted in the wake of the Dunblane massacre, the country seemed to be flooded with cheap illegal guns from Ireland and eastern Europe.

As it was, he still had a little time in hand, so he took his mug of strong tea out to the back garden and rested it on his chair while he studied various stones from the pile to see which one fit best. The wall went nowhere and fenced nothing in, but for Gristhorpe it had become almost as necessary as breathing. He would never finish it – how could you finish something that went nowhere? – but if he ever did, he would pick it apart and start again. Wall-building was almost a lost art in the modern Dales, and while Gristhorpe had no pretensions to being an expert, of doing the work professionally, it was both his homage and his therapy.

As he weighed his options, Gristhorpe was pleasantly aware of the sun on his face and the light breeze that ruffled through his unruly thatch of hair, delicate as a woman’s fingers. He thought of his wife, Mary, and her feather-light touch, and realized it was over twelve years now since the cancer had taken her. He still missed her as he would miss a part of himself, and not a day went by when he didn’t think of her, remember some detail of her face, an expression, her gentle voice, her sense of humor, a certain gesture.

The air, he noticed, smelled of wild garlic, with a hint of tar from the hot road surface. Gristhorpe sipped some tea and decided upon a stone. The one he chose fit perfectly. Then he dragged his thoughts back to the matter in hand: Banks.

Over the years, Banks had been more than just a junior officer to Gristhorpe. He could remember his first impressions of an edgy, nervous chain-smoking detective on the verge of career burnout and he had wondered if he had made a mistake in approving the transfer. But Banks had made a journey back to some sort of equilibrium, aided in part by the Yorkshire countryside he had now adopted as his home.

In some ways, Gristhorpe knew that he had been a kind of mentor to the new Banks, not so much in terms of doing the job, but in human terms. Banks was a complex sort, and Gristhorpe wondered if he ever would find the peace and harmony he seemed to be looking for. After the divorce from Sandra, which Gristhorpe knew still hurt Banks deeply, and the messy relationship with Annie Cabbot, Banks seemed to have found a measure of happiness in his isolated cottage, but even that had come to an abrupt and violent end. Where next? Gristhorpe hadn’t a clue, and he didn’t think Banks had, either.

Gristhorpe drank more tea and looked for another stone. He wanted to know what Banks’s connection with the dead woman was before word of it leaked out. At the moment, it was simply a matter of trying to track Banks down through his family, but if that didn’t work, then the next step would have to be an official one, and that could harm Banks’s career. It would mean using the media. They would have to put his photo in the newspapers, request anyone who thought they had seen him to call the police. And every copper in the country would be on the lookout for him, too. It wasn’t only that Gristhorpe wanted to know why the dead woman had Banks’s address in her back pocket – the wrong address – but that Annie had said the cottage had been broken into, and the builders swore they had locked up as usual after their day’s work and left no valuable equipment behind.

Gristhorpe finished his tea and put the stone in place. Too big. He chucked it back on the pile and went indoors. Time to go to work.

Banks had a couple of hours to kill before his meeting with Burgess. First he called Julian Harwood and was surprised to get an appointment to meet at Starbucks on Old Brompton Road at two o’clock that afternoon. Harwood sounded like the kind of person who thought giving you the time of day was doing you a big favor, but the mention that Banks was Roy’s brother got his interest.

After that, he had made a written note of the names and numbers in Roy’s call list and mobile phone book, just in case. In his experience, electronic gadgets tended to behave erratically just when you most needed them to do what they were designed for.

Many of the names on the list matched those in the book, and he found Julian, Rupert and Corinne among them. Others were businesses mentioned in the files Corinne had copied, and then there were services, such as hairdresser, tailor, bank manager, dentist and doctor. None of it told him very much. He rang a few of the numbers, including Rupert’s, but nobody knew where Roy was – at least no one admitted to knowing where he was.

A woman called Jenn figured quite prominently in the last thirty calls – at least ten of them were to or from her – and Banks guessed she was Corinne’s replacement. He tried ringing the number but it was unavailable. He wondered if there was any other way he could get in touch with her. The odds were that if she had nothing to do with Roy’s disappearance, she would ring his mobile before too long.

As Banks glanced through the stack of memos and accounts, looked at all the company logos and names, he felt frustration set in. None of them meant anything to him, and he didn’t have the time or the resources to check them all out. He had no access to the Police National Computer, for a start. He could be looking at the names of dozens of criminals and not even know it. Burgess might help, but he would only tell Banks what he wanted him to know.

Banks spent half an hour having another look around the house and found nothing more of interest. Then he settled down to examine the JPEG files on the CD he had found yesterday. He sat his new laptop computer on the kitchen table, brewed himself some coffee and managed to follow the instructions and get the machine going. He slipped in the CD and found Windows Explorer tucked away at the bottom of the Accessories menu.

His computer automatically displayed the 1,232 JPEG files as thumbnails. Banks scrolled through these, all images of naked women with file names like Maya, Teresa, April, Mia and Kimmie, or of men and women engaged in sex acts. If he rested his cursor on one of them, information about file dimension, type and size would appear in a little box. Most of the JPEG images were between 25 and 75 kilobytes in size.

When he got to the 980th image, however, Banks noticed that it and the next two were different; all three were numbered with the prefix “DSC” and showed two men sitting together at what looked to be an outdoor café. When he let his cursor rest on one of them, he found that, at 650 kilobytes, it was considerably larger than the earlier images, and that it was taken on Tuesday, the eighth of June, at 3:15 P.M. by a camera identified as E4300. Roy’s Nikon was a 4300 model. According to the “details” view, the other images were all downloaded the next day, so it looked as if Roy had dragged them in from another folder.

Intrigued, Banks double-clicked on the first image of the two men. He didn’t recognize either of them. They were leaning toward each other, in earnest conversation. Both wore white open-necked shirts and light, casual trousers. One was bulkier with curly graying hair, the other younger and thinner with spiky black hair, a goatee and a hunted, watchful expression on his face, as if he was worried about being spied upon.

The following two images were of the same scene, taken in rapid succession. Banks scrolled to the end of the folder, but all he found was more Larissas, Natashas, Nadias and Mitzis.

On Tuesday afternoon, then, Roy had taken three candid photographs of two men in conversation at an outdoor café, and on Wednesday he had burned them on a CD, hidden among hundreds of erotic images. He had then placed the CD in the Blue Lamps jewel case, which stood out like a sore thumb in his music collection.

So who were the men and what, if anything, did they have to do with Roy’s disappearance? Banks picked up the laptop and took it upstairs. It was time to learn how to use Roy’s printer.

DC Kevin Templeton thought he’d died and gone to heaven when he reported to Gristhorpe that morning and the boss said to take Winsome with him and pay Mr. Roger Cropley an early visit. The credit card companies were not exactly forthcoming when it came to providing information, even to the police, but the service center’s CCTV cameras showed a number plate beginning with YF, which was the Leeds licensing office. The Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency offices were closed on Sundays, so Templeton had had to resort to the local telephone directories and electoral rolls. As luck would have it, the name eventually yielded a north Eastvale address, which also meant that Mr. Cropley would, in all likelihood, have taken the same road off the A1 as Jennifer Clewes.

Templeton let Winsome drive the short distance to Cropley’s, sneaking a surreptitious glance at the taut black fabric stretched over her thighs whenever she changed gear. Christ, they could kill a man, he thought with wonder. Then he realized he was so randy that morning because he hadn’t shagged the redheaded clerk last night, the way he had intended. She had given him a nasty look, too, when he got to work that morning, one of those looks that said, “You’ve had your chance, mate, now on your bike.” Still, he knew he could break down her resistance again given the opportunity. He was also tired, he realized, not having slept for more than an hour or so, but that he could deal with.

As the empty Sunday-morning streets flashed by, he put his head in detective gear and planned out his interview. He liked Cropley for the killing. There were one or two small glitches, but nothing he couldn’t reason his way past: No sexual interference, for a start, which was a bit of a puzzle, and no struggle, either. Then there was Banks’s address in the victim’s pocket. But Templeton was sure Cropley had pulled her over and tried it on and something had gone disastrously wrong.

“How was your Saturday night?” he asked Winsome.

She gave him a sideways glance. “Fine. And yours?”

“You already know about mine, spent sampling the delights of motorway cuisine. What did you get up to, then?”

“Up to? Nothing special. Club social.”

“Club?”

“Yeah, the potholing club.”

Templeton knew that Winsome liked to climb down holes in the ground and explore underground caverns. He couldn’t think of anything more boring, or, for that matter, more terrifying, given that he suffered from claustrophobia. “Where d’you hold it?” he asked. “Gaping Gill?”

“Very funny,” said Winsome. “Actually we met in the Cock and Bull. You should come along sometime.”

Was she asking him out? “The Cock and Bull?”

“No, idiot. Potholing.”

“No way,” said Templeton. “You’ll not get me down one of those black holes.”

“Coward,” she said. “Here we are.”

She pulled up in front of a neat Georgian semi, an unremarkable house with mullioned windows and beige stone-cladding. The street was on a low rise and offered a magnificent view out west to lower Swainsdale. There was a small limestone church with a square Norman tower at the end of the street and people were already filing in for the morning service.

Templeton jabbed at the doorbell, Winsome beside him. Despite, or perhaps because of, his lack of sleep, Templeton felt pepped up, excited, like the one time he had taken Ecstasy at a club. Winsome seemed cheerful enough in that cool and graceful way she had, and if she had noticed him glancing at her thighs in the car, she hadn’t said anything.

The man who answered the door didn’t look particularly like a pervert as far as Templeton could tell, except that he was wearing sandals with white socks, but he did match the description Ali had given him at Watford Gap. About forty, with thinning sandy hair, slim but with a beer belly sagging over his worn brown corduroy trousers, he had a long face with pouchlike cheeks and a rather hangdog expression. He reminded Templeton a bit of that actor who seemed to be in all the old sitcom repeats on telly with Judi Dench and Penelope Keith.

“Mr. Cropley?” said Templeton, showing his warrant card. “We’re police officers. We’d like a word, if we may.”

Cropley looked puzzled the way they all did when the police came calling. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said, moving aside. “Please, come in. My wife’s just…” He let the sentence trail, and Templeton and Winsome followed him into a living room that smelled of cinnamon and apples, where Mrs. Cropley was putting the finishing touches to a colorful flower arrangement. She was taller than her husband, and bony, with strong, almost masculine, features. She looked a bit severe to Templeton, and he could well imagine her cracking out the leathers and whip for an evening S and M session. The thought made him shudder inside. And maybe it drove Mr. Cropley to other things.

“It’s your husband we want to talk to,” Templeton said, smiling. “First off, at any rate.”

Mrs. Cropley stood there for a moment before the penny dropped. When it did, she gave her husband a look, then turned and left the room without a word.

Templeton tried to read significance into that look. There was something there, no doubt about it. One of Cropley’s dirty little secrets had come back to haunt him, and his wife knew what it was, was letting him know that she knew, and he was on his own.

“We were just going to get ready for church,” said Cropley.

“I’m afraid the vicar will have to manage without you this morning,” said Templeton.

“What’s it about?”

“I think you know. First of all, were you driving up the M1 and the A1 late Friday evening?”

“Yes. Why?”

“What make of car do you drive?”

“A Honda.”

“Color?”

“Dark green.”

“Did you stop at the Watford Gap services?”

“Yes. Look, I-”

“While you were there, did you notice a young woman alone?”

“There were a lot of people there. I…”

Templeton caught Winsome flashing him a glance. She knew. Cropley was evading the question, the first sign of guilt.

“I’ll ask you again,” Templeton went on. “Did you see a young woman there in the café alone? Nice figure, hennaed hair. She’d be hard to miss.”

“I can’t remember.”

Templeton made a show of consulting his notebook. “Thing is,” he went on, “the bloke behind the counter remembers you sitting opposite the girl, and the petrol station attendant remembers you filling up at the same time this young woman was there. That’s how we found out your name, from the credit card slip. So we know you were there. Do you remember seeing a young woman at the garage? She was driving a light blue Peugeot 106. Think about it. Take your time.”

“Why? What-”

“Do you remember her?”

“Perhaps,” said Cropley. “Vaguely. But I can’t say I was paying much attention.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Then you heard wrong.”

“Come off it,” said Templeton. “You were leering at her, weren’t you? The attendant said you looked as if you wanted to stick your nozzle in her tank. You fancied her, didn’t you? Wanted a piece.” He was aware of Winsome looking askance at him, but sometimes a direct shock to the system worked better than any amount of gentle questioning.

Cropley reddened. “That’s not how it happened at all.”

“Not how what happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened. The situation, that’s all. I might have noticed her, but I wasn’t ‘leering,’ as you put it. I’m a married man, a God-fearing man.”

“That doesn’t always stop people.”

“Besides, since when has leering been against the law?”

“So you were leering at her.”

“Don’t put words into my mouth.”

“What were you doing on the road so late?”

“Coming home. That’s not a crime, either, is it? I work in London. I usually spend the week there.”

“A commuter, then. What do you do?”

“Computers. Software development.”

“Are you usually that late coming home?”

“It varies. As a rule, I try to get away by mid-afternoon on a Friday to beat the traffic, or early evening at the latest.”

“What was different about last Friday?”

“There was a meeting. We had a deadline to meet on an important project.”

“And if I called your company they’d verify this?”

“Of course. Why would I lie?”

“For all I know,” said Templeton, “you drive up and down the motorway looking for young girls to rape and kill.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Do you read the papers? Watch the news?”

“I try to keep abreast of current affairs.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, I don’t suppose you’ve been following the story about the young woman murdered on the road from the A1 to Eastvale, have you? The same road you took. You were following her, weren’t you? Waiting for your opportunity. A dark country lane. You cut her off. What happened next? Wasn’t she your type after all? Did she struggle? Why did you shoot her?”

Cropley got to his feet. “This is absurd. I don’t even own a gun. I’m going to call my solicitor.”

“Where’s the gun, Roger? Did you throw it away?”

“I told you. I don’t own a gun.”

Templeton looked around the room. “We can get a search warrant. Make a mess.”

“Then get one.”

“It’ll be better if you tell us all about it,” said Winsome in a soothing voice. “We know these things happen, people lose control. Please sit down again, sir.”

“Nothing of the sort happened,” said Cropley, straightening his tie and glaring at Templeton. He sat down slowly.

“Come on, Mr. Cropley,” said Winsome. “Get it off your chest. There were two of them, weren’t there?”

“Two what?”

“Two girls. Claire Potter and Jennifer Clewes. What were you doing on the twenty-third of April?”

“I can’t remember that far back.”

“Try,” said Templeton. “It was a Friday. You’d be on your way back from London. Get away late that day, too, did you?”

“How do you expect me to remember one Friday out of all the rest?”

“Always stop at Watford Gap services, do you? Like the food there? Or do you stop at other places? Newport Pagnell? Leicester Forest? Trowell?”

“I stop when I feel the need.”

“What need?”

“It’s a long drive. I usually take a break when I feel like it. Just the one. Use the toilets. Have a cup of tea. Maybe a sausage roll, a chocolate biscuit.”

“And look at the girls?”

“There’s no crime in looking.”

“So you admit you do look?”

“You’re doing it again. I simply said there’s no crime in looking. Don’t twist my words.”

“Were you at Trowell services on the twenty-third of April?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t think so. I usually stop before then.”

“But you have been there on occasion?”

“On occasion. Yes.”

“And maybe you were there on the twenty-third of April?”

“I’ve told you. I doubt it very much. I don’t recall being there at all so far this year.”

“Very convenient.”

“It happens to be the truth.”

Templeton could feel his frustration level rising. Cropley was a cool one and he seemed to have mastered the art of not giving anything away. Why would he need to do that unless he did have a secret?

“Look, Roger,” said Winsome, “we know you did it. The rest is just a matter of time. We can do it the easy way, like this, in the comfort of your own home, or we can take you down to the station. It’s your choice. And believe me, every choice you make now will come back to haunt you down the line.”

“What would you do?” Cropley said to her. “If you were innocent and someone was trying to say you’d done something terrible. What would you do?”

“I’d tell the truth.”

“Well, I am telling the bloody truth, but a fat lot of good it’s doing me, isn’t it?”

“Watch your language,” Templeton cut in. “There’s a lady present.”

“I’m sure she’s heard worse than that.”

“And you a God-fearing man.”

“I didn’t say I was a saint. Or a pushover.”

“Right, let’s get back to that, shall we. Your unsaintly acts. We might not be able to prove you killed Claire Potter, but we’ve got a damn good chance of proving you killed Jennifer Clewes.”

“Then you don’t need anything from me, do you?”

“Don’t you understand?” Winsome said. “It would make things easier for you later on if you told us now.”

“And what would it do for me? Knock a year off my sentence? Two years? Three years? If I survived that long.”

“That’s good, Roger,” Templeton said. “You’re talking about doing time, now. Jail. Shows you’re moving in the right direction. What it might mean is the difference in the quality of care once you’re inside. See, people like you are on about the same level as child molesters as far as the general prison population is concerned, and the court has some discretion as to whether you’re to be isolated or not.”

“That’s bollocks,” said Cropley. “There are strict prison guidelines and it doesn’t matter a damn whether I confess or not. Besides, you’re both missing the point completely. Read my lips: I didn’t do it. I have never, not once in my life, raped or killed anyone. Is that clear enough for you?”

Templeton glanced at Winsome. “So be it,” he said. “Like I told you, we’ll be able to make out a good case from evidence and witness statements.”

“Circumstantial. It means nothing.”

“People have been convicted on a lot less.”

Cropley said nothing.

“What time did you start out on Friday?”

“About half ten.”

“What time did you get home?”

“About five.”

Templeton paused. There was something wrong here. “Come off it. It doesn’t take that long to drive from London to Eastvale, even with a stop or two. Unless you couldn’t go straight home after you’d killed the girl. What did you do? Drive around until you calmed down, felt able to face your wife?”

“As a matter of fact, my car broke down.”

“Pull the other one.”

“It’s true. I had a breakdown just a short distance past Nottingham.”

“That’s very convenient.”

“It wasn’t convenient at all. I had to wait over a bloody hour for the AA to come. They said it was a busy night.”

“The AA?”

“That’s right. I’m a member. Want to see my card?”

Templeton felt his forehead getting hot. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Can you prove this, about the breakdown?” he asked.

“Of course I can. Ask the AA. They’ll verify what happened. I was stuck on the hard shoulder from about one o’clock till half past two. Wait a minute-”

“What was the problem?”

“Fan belt. That’s put a spoke in your wheels, hasn’t it? You never told me what time this girl was killed. It was while I was waiting for the AA, wasn’t it?” Cropley smirked.

Templeton suppressed a sudden urge to break Cropley’s nose. He felt himself running out of steam. If Cropley had been stuck on the M1 until well after two o’clock, he could hardly have killed Jennifer Clewes. “Your mobile phone records will bear this out?”

“Should do. Will that be all?”

“Not quite,” said Templeton, loath to let the bastard gloat for too long. “Who left the garage first, you or Jennifer Clewes?”

“She did.”

“And you followed her?”

“No. I was just behind her, but another car cut in front of me. Came right out of the shadows. I overtook them both shortly after and I never saw her again. She must have passed me later, when I was stuck by the roadside, but I didn’t notice.”

“What about this other car? Why didn’t you tell us about it before?”

“Because you were too busy trying to accuse me of rape and murder. You never asked.”

“Well, I’m asking now. What make was it?”

“A Mondeo. Dark color. Maybe navy blue.”

“How many people in it?”

“Two. One in the front, one in the back.”

“Like a taxi?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a taxi. I mean, it didn’t look like one. There was no light on top, for a start.”

“Chauffeured car, then?”

“Maybe. Look, I hate to tell you how to do your job, especially as you’ve been doing it so well, but why don’t you ask me something useful, like do I remember the number?”

“I was getting to that,” Templeton said. “Do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Well, some of it, anyway. I suppose I noticed because he pulled out a bit sharply and I had to brake.”

“What was it?”

“LA51.”

Templeton couldn’t remember offhand what Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency office and local memory tag the first two letters represented, but he knew that “ 51” meant the car had been registered between September 2001 and February 2002. The rest he could look up. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing.

“What did the occupants look like?”

“I didn’t get a good look,” said Cropley. “But I think they were both men. I really didn’t think anything of it at the time, except that I had to brake rather sharply.”

“Try to remember.”

Copley thought for a moment. “The one in the back turned and looked at me after they pulled out. I suppose I tooted the horn at them. Just instinct.”

“And?”

“Well, as I said, I didn’t get a good look. It was dark and his face was in shadow. But I think he had dark hair, tied back in a ponytail, and I doubt it was a friendly glance he gave me. I remember just feeling rather glad they didn’t stop and beat me up. You hear so much about road rage these days.”

“What you get for going around tooting your horn,” said Templeton.

“They cut me off.”

“Popular girl, Ms. Clewes,” mused Templeton. “First you’ve got your eye on her, then another couple of blokes come cutting in and spoil all your fun. How did that make you feel?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cropley said. “Can you hear yourself speak? You sound like a cheap television psychologist. Look, you already know I didn’t do it, and I’ve had just about enough of this, so why don’t you both sod off and check with the AA.”

Templeton reddened and Winsome gave him a sign that they should leave before he did something he might regret. He paused a moment, locking eyes with Cropley, then did as she suggested.

“Nice one, Kev,” she said, when they got outside. “You handled that really well.”

He could tell she was still laughing at him when she got in the driver’s seat and the anger prickled at his skin from the inside like hot needles.