Strange Affair (16 page)

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 kiddy-diddlers 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 doff 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 spanner in your wheel, 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 colour. 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.”

“Private hire-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 DVLA 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.”

Cropley 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.

7

T
he pub Burgess chose was flanked by a halal butcher and an Indian take-away on a narrow street between Liverpool Street Station and Spitalfields Market. Banks took the tube and checked constantly to see if he was being followed. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t. After receiving the image on the mobile, though, he didn’t feel like taking any chances.

Though it was lunchtime and most pubs in the area were offering the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, at this place the choice was between nachos with sour cream and spicy chicken wings with BBQ dip. Banks didn’t fancy either, so he stuck with a pint of Pride and a packet of cheese and onion crisps while Burgess attacked the nachos and washed them down with cheap lager.

There wasn’t exactly any sawdust on the floor, but looking at the state of the place, Banks thought perhaps there ought to be. Most of the lunchtime drinkers were older Bangladeshis, Indians and Pakistanis – clearly not devoutly Muslim. A group of them was watching a cricket game on the television, a tourist match in which Essex was playing Pakistan, commenting loudly now and then on a particularly good off-spinner or square cut.

Burgess looked much the same as he had when Banks last saw him in January, except today he was informally dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt that dazzled Banks. But the shaved head and slight paunch were still there, and the cynical, world-weary look had returned to his eyes. All that was new was his tan. After many rises and falls in fortune, Burgess had landed on his feet after 9/11, when the service required men who got things done, no questions asked. Banks wasn’t sure what outfit he worked for now, but he assumed it was something to do with Special Branch.

“Nice place you picked,” said Banks.

“It’s anonymous,” Burgess said. “Everyone here just minds their own business. Besides, most of the buggers can barely understand English.” Outside the window, the sky had darkened and a few splashes of rain ran down the grimy glass. Burgess looked at Banks closely. “You look like a worried man. Care to tell your Uncle Dicky what’s wrong?”

Banks looked around, saw that no one was paying them any attention, then he brought up the image on the mobile and slid it over the table. Burgess picked it up, examined it closely and raised his eyebrows. “It could be anyone,” he said, handing it back to Banks. “Some drunk asleep at a party.”

“I know that. But what if it’s not?”

“Who do you think it is?”

“It might be my brother.”

“Roy?”

“How do you know his name?”

Burgess paused. “It was a long time ago.”

“When?”

“About five or six years. Last century, at any rate. No reason to bother you with it at the time.”

“So what brought brother Roy under scrutiny?”

“Arms dealing.”

Banks swallowed. “What?”

“You heard me. Arms dealing. Don’t look so surprised. Your brother helped broker a deal between a UK arms manufacturer and some rich Arab sheikh. Greased the wheels, handled the baksheesh, attended galas at the consulate and so on.”

“Roy did that?”

“Roy would do anything to make a bit of extra cash. He has an extraordinary range of contacts and connections, and the bugger of it is that he doesn’t even know who half of them really are.”

“Naive was never a description I’d have used to describe Roy,” said Banks.

“Maybe not,” Burgess argued, “but he took too many people at face value. Maybe he didn’t want to dig any deeper. Maybe it was safer that way and easier on his conscience. Pocket the money and turn your back.”

Banks had to admit that sounded like the Roy he knew. More likely than naïveté was lack of imagination. When they were kids, Banks remembered, they had had to share a bedroom for a few days for some reason. Banks was ten, Roy about five. Banks had tried to torment his younger brother by telling him gruesome ghost stories at bedtime, about headless corpses and misshapen ogres, hoping to scare him well into the night. But Roy had fallen asleep during Banks’s gory version of
Dracula
and it was Banks who was left unable to sleep, flinching at every gust of wind and creak in the woodwork, victim of his own imagination. Perhaps Roy had taken his colleagues and their claims at face value, perhaps he hadn’t wanted to dig any deeper, or perhaps he just lacked the imagination to extrapolate on the bare facts. Banks reached for a Silk Cut.

“Didn’t think you’d last long,” said Burgess, lighting one of his own Tom Thumb cigars and offering the flame to Banks, who took it.

“It’s only temporary,” Banks said.

“Of course. Another pint?”

“Why not?”

Burgess went to the bar and Banks watched the cricket game while he was gone. Nothing exciting happened. A second pint of Pride on the table before him, he asked Burgess exactly what he knew about Roy.

“You’ve got to understand,” Burgess said, “that your brother did nothing illegal in the strict sense. People manufacture the damn things and people sell them. Back then you could sell anything to anyone, anywhere: missiles, land mines, submarines, tanks, jet fighters, you name it. The problem is that they had a habit of ending up in the hands of the wrong people, despite all the red tape. Sometimes they got used on the very people who sold them in the first place.”

“So where did these particular shipments go?”

“They were destined for a friendly country in the Middle East but they ended up in the hands of a terrorist splinter-group.”

“And Roy’s part?”

“He had no idea. Obviously. He couldn’t see the big picture, didn’t want to, no more than the arms manufacturers did. They didn’t care. All they wanted was a nice fat profit.”

“What happened?”

“It was the bloke who recruited Roy for the job, an old crony of his called Gareth Lambert, who we had our eyes on. He’s history now. Left the country.”

Banks didn’t recognize the name from Roy’s call list or phone book. He could have missed it, as there were so many, or Lambert could be one of the “unknown” numbers. On the
other hand if, as Burgess said, Gareth Lambert was history, there was no reason for Roy to have his phone number. “And Roy?” he asked.

“One of our lads had a friendly word in his shell-like.”

“And after that?”

“Not even a blip on our radar,” said Burgess. “So whatever this means, if it means anything at all, it’s got nothing to do with us. All of this was over and done with a long time ago.”

“That’s comforting to know,” said Banks.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Banks told him, from the strange phone call to the arrival of the digital photograph in the middle of the night. Burgess puffed on his cigar as he listened, eyes narrowed to slits. When Banks had finished, he let the silence hang for a while. Someone scored a six and the cricket-watchers cheered.

“Could be a prank. Kids,” Burgess said finally.

“I’ve thought of that.”

“Could be someone trying to scare you off. I mean, if you’re supposed to think it’s your brother and he’s been hurt in some way.”

“I’ve managed to work that out for myself, too.”

“You’re not scared?”

“Of course I bloody am. But I want to know what’s happened to Roy. What do you expect me to doff Give up and go home.”

Burgess laughed. “You? I should cocoa. What about kidnapping? Have you considered that? A prelude to a ransom demand?”

“Yes,” said Banks, “but I’ve received no demand so far.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I thought you might be able to help.”

“How?”

“The mobile,” Banks said. “A forensic examination might give us all sorts to go on. It might even tell us where the image was sent from, maybe even where it was taken. I’m not exactly up on the technology but I know the computer experts can get a lot out of these things.”

“True enough,” said Burgess. “What with DNA, computers, the Internet, mobiles and CCTV there’s hardly any need for the humble detective any more. We’re dinosaurs, Banksy, or fast going that way.”

“A sobering thought. Can you help?”

“Sorry,” said Burgess. “But this is a lot different from looking up a name or accessing a database. My department doesn’t actually have a great deal of contact with the technical support people. We’re closer to the intelligence services, information-gathering. It would look bloody odd if I suddenly turned up at the lab and dropped this on their desk without any explanation. They’d be all over me like a dirty shirt. Sorry, Banksy, but no can do. My advice is to take it to the local cop shop. Let them deal with it.”

Banks stared at the phone. Burgess’s response was what he had half expected but, even so, he felt disappointed, lost. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t go to the local police. It wasn’t only that he was worried Roy might be involved in something criminal, but there was no way he would be given any part in an official investigation into the disappearance of his own brother, and he didn’t think he could bear standing on the sidelines with his hands in his pockets, whistling. “Okay,” he said. “And you’re sure you’ve got absolutely no idea why any of this is happening?”

“Swear on my mother’s grave. Your brother fell off our map many years ago and we’ve had no reason to put him back on since.”

“You’ve been watching him?”

“Not recently. We kept an eye on him for a while. Like I said, he’s got some interesting contacts. But as for Roy himself, we soon lost interest. It’s not guns or terrorism. Believe me, I’d know.”

“And you’d tell me if it was?”

Burgess smiled. “Maybe.”

Banks took out the envelope he’d brought and slipped out one of the digital photos for Burgess to examine. “Do you know who these people are?” he asked.

Burgess picked up the photo and examined it closely. “Well, bugger me,” he said. “It can’t be. Where did you get this?”

Banks told him.

“When was it taken?”

“According to the computer details it was taken on Tuesday the eighth of June at 3:15 p.m.”

“But that’s last Tuesday.”

“Who is it?”

“Gareth Lambert.”

“You said he was history.”

“That’s what I thought. But look.” Burgess placed the photo in front of Banks and pointed to the grey-haired man. “He’s put on a bit of weight and his hair’s turned grey, but it’s him all right.”

“Is he bent?”

“Definitely.”

“What was his line?”

“Import-export. At least it used to be. Fancy word for smuggling, if you ask me. Knows the Balkan route like the back of his hand.”

“Smuggling what?”

“You name it.” Burgess ran his hand over his shaved head.
“Look, you might as well know. In his time, Gareth Lambert was a very nasty piece of work, indeed. I don’t mean tough, but nasty, sly. Maybe he’s mellowed with old age, though I doubt it.”

“What did he do?”

“It wasn’t always so much what he did as who he knew. He rubbed shoulders with some of the nastiest bastards in Europe. Smuggled arms, drugs, people, anything. He had connections with the military down in the Balkans – Kosovo, Bosnia – knew all the generals. He smuggled medical supplies – morphine, antibiotics – sometimes diluted. Bit of a Harry Lime, when you come to think about it, and almost as elusive. Likes to keep on the move, one step ahead. He’s a slippery bastard. If he’s back, you can be certain he’s up to his eyeballs in something dodgy, and if your brother Roy…well…”

That didn’t make Banks feel any easier about the situation at all. “Who’s that with him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t recognize him. Lambert and his crew aren’t really my brief any more. Can I hang on to this? I’ve still got a few contacts where it counts, and I’ll make a few inquiries. There’ll be quite a lot of old-timers around the Yard interested to know Gareth Lambert’s back in business, if they don’t know already.”

“Of course,” said Banks. “I’ve got copies. And the mobile?”

“Hang on to it for the moment. You might need it. If that picture was intended for you, then more messages might follow.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Banks, pocketing the mobile. Maybe Annie would be able to hook him up with a computer expert to enhance the image. That way he wouldn’t have to relinquish the phone.

“Right,” said Burgess, “I’d better be off now.”

Banks wondered if he’d done the right thing in telling all and handing over the photo of the two men to Burgess. Now that he’d made Roy’s disappearance semi-official there could be no turning back, whatever happened. He had already gone too far to avoid some sort of disciplinary proceedings by not reporting the first phone call and by living in Roy’s house and accessing his computer data. He thought he could rely on Burgess’s discretion, but there was a limit to everything.

At least this way he could continue his own investigation. He had already made a list of names and numbers, almost a hundred, and he still couldn’t remember seeing any Gareth Lambert. He would have to check again, of course, but if Lambert was back in the picture, maybe there was a reason why neither he nor Roy wanted any records of their communications.

“Look,” he said to Burgess, “I appreciate your help, but if Roy’s in the clear and there’s nothing really to link him with any serious criminal business…”