Strange Affair (17 page)

“You want me to keep your brother out of it?

“If you can.”

“No guarantees,” said Burgess. “Gareth Lambert turning up like this out of the blue changes everything. But I promise I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll keep me informed? I’d like to know where to find this Lambert, for a start.”

“Like I said, I’ll do my best. I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I’d ask you to bugger off back to Yorkshire and stay out of the way if I thought it would do any good, but at least try to avoid getting under my feet.”

“I’ll think about it,” Banks said. He gave Burgess Roy’s telephone numbers and glanced towards the window. “It’s almost stopped raining. I’d better go, too.”

Burgess gave him a stern look. “Be careful, Banksy,” he
said. “Remember, I know you. And this conversation never took place.”

Banks walked out. His car was still parked near Corinne’s flat, so he made his way to Liverpool Street, where he could take the District Line back to Earl’s Court and pick up his car before meeting Julian Harwood.

While he was on the concourse of the mainline station, he wandered over to look at the Kindertransport Memorial. A sculpture to commemorate the rescue mission that helped over 10,000 children escape Nazi persecution in Europe during 1938 and 1939, it consisted of a glass case shaped like a large suitcase, which held a selection of objects the children had brought with them and, standing beside it, a bronze sculpture of a young girl.

Through the rain-beaded glass, amongst other things, Banks could see school exercise books, pages filled with mannered German writing, letters, articles of clothing, dog-eared family photographs, a pair of old boots with clip-on ice skates, a hand-puppet of a kitten, a book of piano music, a battered suitcase and three coat hangers. On one was written “Für das Kind,” on the second “Fürs liebe Kind” and on the third “Dem braven Kinde.” It made Banks think of Mahler’s beautiful “Kindertotenlieder,” “Songs for the Deaths of Children,” though these children hadn’t died; they had been saved. He wondered if Roy had the Mahler in his collection; he hadn’t noticed it.

Looking at the children’s personal belongings arrayed like this before him, Banks thought of all the mementoes he had lost forever when his cottage burned down: the family photographs and videos – wedding, holidays, kids growing up – letters, keepsakes, the poems he had written as a teenager, old diaries and notebooks, school report cards, the records of a life.

But he couldn’t feel self-pity in the face of this memorial. He hadn’t lost nearly as much as these children, who’d lost their homelands and, in many cases, their whole families. Perhaps they had gained something, too, though. They had at least escaped the concentration camps, been taken in by good, caring families, and had grown up to live their lives in relative freedom.

Banks looked at the bronze statue of the girl in her skirt and jacket. The raindrops looked like tears flowing down her face. He turned away and headed for the underground.

Annie was glad DI Brooke had suggested a quick lunch together in her hotel that afternoon. She had heard nothing from Roy Banks and she was beginning to wonder if the two brothers had made up their differences and run away together just to make her job difficult.

Brooke was in his Sunday best, red-faced, collar too tight around his neck, looking like a farmer just come from church. Annie, in jeans and a black V-neck jumper, felt underdressed. Neither was terribly hungry, so they ordered coffee and cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, which came cut into quarters, neatly arranged in baskets.

“Well, Dave,” said Annie, “I must say you cut a dashing figure.”

Brooke blushed. “The suit? I’ve got a christening to go to this afternoon.” He sat down and pulled at his collar, finally undoing the button. “There, that’s better. Plenty of time to choke myself to death in church later.”

Annie laughed.

“I don’t have a lot to report,” Brooke said, “but I had a couple of lads ask around the victim’s neighbourhood. I’ve also had a
word with the uniform who walks the beat there, PC Latham.”

“What does he say?” Annie asked.

“Quiet sort of area. No trouble lately.”

“What about the inquiries your lads made?”

“A bit more interesting. A bloke down the street was looking for a parking spot about ten o’clock on Friday night. Seems he usually managed to park right outside his house, but this time he couldn’t because someone was already there. Said it had happened before a couple of evenings that same week. He was a bit miffed, but there was nothing he could do. After all, it was a free spot. Anyway, he remembered there were two men in the car, one in the front and one in the back. He thought they might be leaving so he hung back for a couple of minutes but they ignored him.”

“What happened?”

“He found another spot nearby and that was that.”

“Does he remember anything else about the car?”

“Only that it was dark blue.”

“No number plate?”

“The car was parked. He couldn’t see the front or back.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“When he went out to walk the dog at eleven, it was gone.”

“Could he describe the men?”

“Not very well. Only that the one in the back had something around his neck, like a thick gold chain. He said they looked a bit thuggish. At least their appearance worried him enough that he didn’t approach them and ask if they were going to move.”

“Interesting,” said Annie. “I’ve just been on the phone with my SIO and one of our DCs has got a similar description from a man called Roger Cropley. Apparently, this Cropley saw Jennifer Clewes at the Watford Gap service station at about half
past twelve Friday night and a car like the one you just described, with one man in the front and one in the back, cut in front of him and went after her.”

“Then it sounds as if someone was waiting for her outside her flat.”

“It does, indeed,” said Annie. “If it’s the same car. I’ve thought there were two of them right from the start, one who could get out of the car quickly and do the shooting, the other a driver.” Annie consulted her notebook. “Have you ever heard of a woman called Carmen Petri?”

Brooke frowned. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”

“It’s just a name one of Jennifer Clewes’s friends mentioned. One of the ‘late girls,’ she called her. Jennifer was worried about her, about something she said.”

“Late girls?”

“Yes. Why? Do you know what that means?”

“Haven’t a clue,” said Brooke.

Given the context – a family planning centre – Annie had come up with a couple of possibilities: either “late girls” were late with their periods, which was sort of self-evident when you were dealing with pregnancy, or they were late in their pregnancies, beyond the time when terminations could be performed, which according to the law was the twenty-fourth week.

“I’ll check our files for you, see if we’ve any record of this Carmen, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“No reason why it should. But thanks, anyway. And, Dave? Check mispers and recent deaths, too, if you can.” If someone had been performing late terminations and something had gone wrong, Annie thought, then Jennifer Clewes might have stumbled across something very nasty indeed.

“I haven’t seen Roy in over a month,” said Julian Harwood, “so I don’t see how I can help you.”

“You never know,” said Banks. “It’s good of you to spare me the time.”

“Nonsense. Roy’s a good friend. Has been for years, even if we don’t see enough of one another these days. Anything I can do, I’m only too willing.”

Harwood didn’t seem out to impress, as far as Banks could tell. He didn’t need to; he was a powerful, wealthy businessman, used to getting his own way. Corinne’s impression had been different, but then perhaps Harwood behaved differently around women. Many men do. Also, she was Roy’s girlfriend, an extremely attractive young woman, and he might have felt the need to compete, to impress her.

The sun was out again and they were sitting outside at Starbucks drinking grande lattes. Before meeting Harwood, Banks had shown a copy of the digital photo to Malcolm Farrow, Roy’s neighbour across the street. Farrow had said that the bulky man with the grey curly hair might just have been the one Roy left with at nine-thirty on Friday, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain.

Banks could smell Chinese food from somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t see a Chinese restaurant. The street was crowded with shoppers, a mix of tourists and locals out for a drink and a stroll. Two pretty young girls in shorts and tank tops were sitting at the next table talking French and smoking Gauloises.

Harwood was younger than Banks had expected, mid-forties most likely, about Roy’s age, and completely bald apart from a couple of thick strips of black above his ears. He had a healthy tan and the lean physique of a regular tennis or squash player. His clothes were casual but expensive: a blue denim
shirt, open at the collar, and khaki chinos with a razor crease. Only the Nike trainers looked a bit out of character, but they weren’t cheap, either.

Banks lit a cigarette – one of the advantages of sitting outside – and said, “I don’t suppose you know where he is?”

“What do you mean?”

Banks explained about Roy’s phone call and the unlocked house. Harwood’s brow furrowed as he listened, and when Banks had finished, he said, “Roy could be anywhere. He travels quite a bit, you know. Have you thought of that?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “But his message was
urgent
, and it seems odd that he hasn’t told anyone where he was going. No one I’ve spoken with so far has any idea where he might be. Is he usually that secretive about his movements?”

“Not usually,” said Harwood. “It depends. I mean, if there’s some sensitive overseas deal in the offing…”

“Is that likely?”

“I’m saying it’s possible, that’s all.”

“Anyway, you’re a business associate. You might know if he had any trips scheduled.”

“He didn’t as far as I know,” said Harwood. “But I’m not his personal assistant. Roy has plenty of irons in the fire that have nothing to do with me.”

“Do you think he might have done a runner?”

Harwood thought for a moment. “Possible, I suppose, if things got too much for him. Tax, debts, that sort of thing. But surely he’d lock his house and take his mobile?”

“Maybe he wanted it to look as if it had happened some other way. I wouldn’t put it past him. I don’t know,” said Banks. “I’m just clutching at straws.”

Harwood cleared his throat. “Roy told me you’re a policeman,” he said. “Have you reported this?”

“No,” said Banks. “I’m conducting my own investigation so far.”

Harwood nodded. “Probably wise, given Roy’s penchant for – how shall I put it? – sailing a little close to the wind.”

“How long have you known him?” Banks asked.

“Years. We met at university.”

“Have you been involved in business ventures together ever since then?”

“On and off.”

“What about arms deals?”

“What arms deals?”

“Roy was involved in one a few years back. I was wondering if you knew anything about it, as a close friend.”

“I’m afraid that’s not my area of expertise,” Harwood said in a tight voice. “Roy would have known better than to come to me about it, if indeed he was involved.”

“Oh, he was involved, all right. What about insider trading?”

“What about it?”

“It’s something else my brother was involved in. I just wondered if you played a part.”

Harwood shrugged. “There was a time…it wasn’t uncommon.”

“So you did?”

“I’m not admitting that.”

“But you knew Roy did?”

Harwood scraped his chair back and made to get up. “Is this meant to be some sort of interrogation? Because if it is, I’m going right now.”

“I have some questions to ask you,” said Banks. “Does that constitute an interrogation?”

“Depends on what they are and how you go about it.”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can be if you’ll be as frank as you can.”

Harwood moved his chair back to the table. “Then I’m here to help,” he said. “But let’s leave insider trading behind us, shall we? I’m not saying it doesn’t still go on – you only have to read the papers to know that – but if Roy or I had any involvement, we left it behind us along with the nineties. You can take my word on that.”