Strange Affair (34 page)

“No.”

“So where did all the blood come from?”

Banks noticed Brooke exchange a glance with Annie.

“Come on,” said Banks. “I’m not a fool.”

“The pathologist found some evidence that he was beaten,” Brooke admitted.

“So they tortured him, the bastards.”

Brooke stared down at his shoes. “It looks that way. But we don’t know for certain that your brother was even here yet. You can’t really tell who it is from the photograph.”

“And just who else do you think it would be?” Banks said. “Anyway, now you’ve got all the blood samples you could possibly need to make a match.”

“I suppose we have,” said Brooke.

“But why torture him?” Banks asked.

“We don’t know,” Annie said. “Obviously to make him tell them something. Or to find out how much he knew about something or how much he’d already told.”

“I don’t think it would have taken long to get Roy to talk,” Banks said. The image of the boy bullying Roy flashed though his mind, Roy crying and holding his stomach in pain. Banks’s intervention. But this time he hadn’t been able to come to the rescue. He hadn’t been there for him. And this time Roy had been killed. Banks could only hope that his parents never found out about the torture. He didn’t blame Annie and Brooke for trying to keep it from him – he’d probably have done the same if it was one of their relatives – but now he had the job of protecting his own mother and father from the truth.

“They didn’t bother tidying up after themselves,” said Annie, pointing to a single shell casing on the floor close to the chair.

“Probably thought no one would ever find the place,” said Brooke.

“Some kids would have found it eventually,” Banks said. “Kids love places like this.”

Pigeons flew in and out through the holes in the roof and walls, perching on the rafters and ruffling their feathers. Their white droppings speckled sections of floor, and even the chair itself. Despite its partial openness to the elements, the factory smelled of small dead animals and stale grease.

“I’ll see if I can get some uniforms to canvass the neighbourhood,” Brooke said. “Who knows? Someone might have noticed unusual activity around the place.”

The wind made a mournful sound as it blew through the broken windows, harmonizing strangely with the cooing pigeons. Banks gave a little shiver, despite the warmth of the day. He’d seen all he wanted, the godforsaken place where Roy had spent his last few hours being tortured, then shot. No matter how long he lived, he knew he would never get the image out of his mind. For now, though, he had other things to do. He told Brooke and Annie he was leaving, and neither asked him where he was going. As he was getting in his car, the technical support van turned into the factory yard. They would scrutinize the place where Roy had died, scrape blood, search for fingerprints, fibres, hair, skin, any traces that the murderers left behind. With any luck, they would turn up enough to secure a conviction, should the police ever find a viable suspect. Banks left them to it.

15

A
fter dropping his car off outside Roy’s – he didn’t fancy spending the day driving in London traffic, trying to find parking spots, and the tube was much faster – Banks tried Lambert’s travel operation on Edgeware Road but was told that Mr. Lambert was unavailable. Next he went back to the Chelsea flat, not far from Sloane Square, and found Gareth Lambert just on his way out of the front door.

“Going somewhere, Gareth?” he said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Lambert tried to push past him.

Banks stood his ground. “My name’s Banks. Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks.”

“You’re Roy’s brother.” Lambert stood back and eyed Banks up and down. “Well, fuck a duck. The old killjoy himself.”

“Can we go back inside?”

“I’m busy. I’ve got to get to the office.”

“It won’t take long.” Banks stared Lambert down. Finally Lambert shrugged and led Banks upstairs to a first-floor flat. The interior was functional enough but lacked the personal touch, as if Lambert’s real life lay elsewhere. The man himself looked just the same as he did in Roy’s photo: bearish, a bit
overweight with a red complexion – part sun and part hypertension, Banks guessed – and a thick head of curly grey hair. He was dressed in ice-blue jeans and an oversized, baggy white shirt. Burgess had made a comparison with Harry Lime, but as far as Banks could remember, Lime was suave and charming on the surface, more like Phil Keane. Lambert was rougher around the edges and clearly didn’t seem to rely on charm to get by. They sat down opposite one another like a pair of chess players, and Lambert regarded Banks with a vaguely amused look in his eyes.

“So you’re Roy’s big brother, the detective.”

“That’s right. I understand the two of you go back a long way?”

“Indeed we do. I met Roy just after he’d graduated from university. We were a bit wet behind the ears back then. 1978. As I remember it, all the kids were wearing torn T-shirts and safety pins in their ears, listening to the Sex Pistols and The Clash, and there we were in our business suits sitting in some square hotel bar planning our next venture. Which was probably marketing torn jeans and safety pins to the kids.” He laughed. “They were good days. I was very sorry to hear about what happened to Roy, by the way.”

“Were you?”

“Of course. Look, I really am a busy man. If you’re just going to sit there and –”

“Because you really don’t seem to be grieving very deeply for someone you’d known for so long.”

“How do you know how much I’m grieving?”

“Fair enough. Did your ventures together involve arms dealing?”

Lambert’s eyes narrowed. “Why bring that up?” he said. “It’s ancient history. Yes, we were involved in what we thought was
a perfectly legitimate weapons sale, but we were hoodwinked and the shipment was misdirected. Well, that was enough for me. What do they say? Once bitten, twice shy.”

“So you stuck with less risky ventures after that?”

“I wouldn’t say any of our ventures were without risk, but let’s just say the risk was of a more monetary kind, not the sort of risk where you could end up in jail if you weren’t careful.”

“Or dead.”

“Quite.”

“Insider trading can carry a hefty penalty.”

“Hah! Everybody was doing it. Still are. Have you never had a hot tip from the horse’s mouth and made a few bob on it?”

“No,” said Banks.

“So if I said right now such and such a company is making an important merger next week and their share prices will double, you can honestly say you wouldn’t run right out and buy as many shares as you could get your hands on?”

Banks had to think about that one. It sounded easy, and perhaps just a little bit naughty, put that way. Hardly criminal. But he didn’t understand the stock market, and that was why he didn’t play it. Besides, he never felt that he had the money to spare for such gambles. “I might splurge on a couple,” he said in the end.

Lambert clapped his hands. “There you are!” he said. “I thought so.” It sounded as if he were welcoming Banks to a club he had no desire to join.

“I’ve also heard rumours that you have been involved in smuggling,” Banks said.

“That’s interesting. Where did you hear these?”

“Are they true?”

“Of course not. The word has such negative connotations, don’t you think?
Smuggling
. It’s so emotive. I regard what I’ve
done more as a matter of practical geography. I move things from one place to another. With great efficiency, I might add.”

“I’m glad you’ve got no time for false modesty. What things?”

“Just things.”

“Arms? Drugs? People? I hear you know the Balkan route.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow. “You do have your ear to the ground, don’t you? Roy never told me how sharp you were. The Balkan route? Well, I might have known it once, but these days…those borders change faster than you can draw them. And you’d better stop accusing me of breaking the law right now or I’ll have my solicitor on you, Roy’s brother or no. I’ve never been convicted of anything in my life.”

“So you’ve been lucky. Still lots of opportunities for entrepreneurs in the Balkans, though. Or the ex–Soviet states.”

“Much too dangerous. I’m afraid I’m too old for all that. I’m semi-retired. I have a wife I happen to love very much and a travel agency to run.”

“When did you last see Roy?”

“Friday night.”

Banks tried not to let his excitement show. “What time?”

“About half past twelve or one o’clock in the morning. Why?”

“Are you sure it was Friday night?”

“Of course I am.”

Lambert was playing with him, Banks sensed. He could see it in the man’s restless, teasing eyes. Lambert knew that the neighbour had seen him getting into his car with Roy, and that Banks had no doubt talked to the neighbour and got his description. But that was at half past nine. What were they doing until half past twelve or one o’clock?

Lambert picked up a box of cigars from the table and offered one to Banks. “Cuban?”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Lambert fiddled with a cutter and matches and finally got the thing lit. He looked at Banks through the smoke. “You seem surprised that I said I saw Roy on Friday evening. Why’s that?”

“I think you know why,” said Banks.

“Indulge me.”

“Because that’s when he went missing. He hasn’t been seen alive since half past nine on Friday.”

“I can most sincerely assure you that he has. By me and countless other members of the Albion Club.”

“The Albion Club?”

“On the Strand. It’s a rather exclusive club. Membership by invitation only.”

Banks remembered that Corinne had told him Roy went to a club on the Strand with Lambert a few weeks ago. “What goes on there?”

Lambert laughed. “Nothing illegal, if that’s what you’re thinking. The club has a gaming license. It also has a top-class restaurant and an exceedingly comfortable bar. Roy and I are both members. Have been for years. Even when I was living abroad I’d drop by if I happened to be in the city.” He puffed on his cigar, eyes narrowed to calculating slits, as if daring Banks to challenge him.

“Let’s backtrack, then,” said Banks.

“Of course.”

“What time did you first see Roy on Friday night?”

“About half past nine,” said Lambert. “I dropped by his place and picked him up.”

“Was this a regular arrangement?”

“I wouldn’t say regular, but we’d done it before, yes. Roy prefers to leave the car when he goes out drinking, and I hardly
touch the stuff these days, so I don’t mind driving. It’s not far out of my way.”

“And you’d arranged to pick him up and take him to the Albion Club on Friday?”

“Yes.” The cigar had gone out. Lambert lit it again. Banks got the impression that it was more of a prop than anything else.

“What happened when you got there?”

Lambert shrugged. “The usual. We went into the bar and got a couple of stiff brandies and chatted for a while. No, I tell a lie. I had a brandy – my only drink of the night – and Roy had wine. The club does a decent house claret.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“A few of the other members.”

“Names?”

“Look, these are important people. Influential people. They won’t take too kindly to being harassed by the police, nor to knowing it was me who set you on them.”

“Maybe you haven’t quite grasped the seriousness of this,” Banks said. “A man has been murdered. My brother. Your friend. You were one of the last people to see him alive. We need to trace his movements and activities on the evening he disappeared.”

“This puts me in a difficult position.”

“I don’t bloody care what position it puts you in. I want names.” Banks locked eyes with him. Eventually Lambert reeled off a string of names and Banks wrote them down. He didn’t recognize any of them.

“How did Roy seem?” Banks asked. “Was he depressed, worried, on edge?”

“He seemed fine to me.”

“Did he confide in you about any problems or anything?”

“No.”

“What did he talk about?”

“Business, golf, cricket, wine, women. You know, the usual man talk.”

“Did he mention me?”

Lambert gave a tight little smile. “I’m afraid he didn’t, no.”

Banks found that hard to believe, given that Roy had just phoned him out of the blue with an urgent problem, a “matter of life and death,” but he let it go for the time being. “Did Roy ever mention a girl called Carmen Petri?”

It was over in a second, but it was definitely there, the shock, the slight hesitation before answering, a refusal to look Banks in the eye. “No,” Lambert said.

“Have you ever heard the name before?”

“There’s an actress, Carmen Electra, but I doubt that it’s her you’re thinking of.”

“No,” said Banks. “There’s also an opera called
Carmen
but it’s not her, either.” Casually, he slipped a copy of the photograph he had printed from Roy’s CD out of his briefcase and set it on the low table. “Who’s the other man sitting with you in this photo?” he asked.

Lambert peered closely at the photograph then looked at Banks sideways. “Where did you get this?” He gestured at the photo with his cigar.

“Roy took it.”

Lambert sat back in his chair. “How strange. He never told me.”

“I assume you do know who the man you’re sitting with is?”

“Of course I do. It’s Max. Max Broda. He’s a business colleague. I can’t imagine why Roy would want to take a photo of us together.”

“What business would that be?”

“Travel. Max puts tours together, recruits guides, works out itineraries, hotels, suggests destinations of interest.”

“Where?”

“Mostly around the Adriatic and Mediterranean.”

“Including the Balkan countries?”

“Some, yes. If and when they’re safe to visit.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” said Banks.

Lambert scrutinized the end of his cigar and took another puff before answering. “I’m afraid that will be rather difficult,” he said. “He’s gone home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Prague.”

“Do you have an address?”

“Are you thinking of going there? It’s a beautiful city. I know someone who can fix you up with the best guided tour.”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “I would like his address, though.”

“I might have it somewhere.” Lambert scrolled through the files on his PDA and finally spelled out an address for Banks, who copied it down. “What time did you leave the club?” he asked.

“Roy left sometime between half past twelve and one o’clock.”

“You weren’t still together at that time?”

“No. We weren’t joined at the hip, you know. Roy likes to play the roulette tables. I prefer poker, myself.”

“Did he leave alone?”

“As far as I know.”

“Where did he go?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“What time did you leave?”

“About three. I was knackered by then. Not to mention broke.”

“Where did you go?”

“Back here.”

“Not home to your wife?”

Lambert leaned forward, face thrust forward, and stabbed the air with his cigar. “You leave her out of this.”

“Very understanding, is she?”

“I told you. Leave her out of it.” Lambert relit his cigar and his tone softened. “Look,” he said, running his free hand through his curly grey hair, “I was tired, I came back here. I don’t know what you suspect me of, but Roy was a good friend and a colleague of many years standing. I didn’t kill him. Why would I? What possible motive could I have?”

“Are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?”

“No. I assumed he was going home.”

“Was he drunk?”

Lambert tipped his head to one side and thought for a moment. “He’d had a few,” he said. “Mostly wine. But he wasn’t staggering or slurring his speech. Not fit to drive, I’d say, but fit enough to get a taxi.”

“Is that what he did?”

“I’ve no idea what happened once he got outside.”

“And you didn’t see him again?”

“No.”

“Okay,” said Banks, standing to leave. “I suppose we could always ask around the taxi drivers.”

“One thing,” said Lambert, as he walked Banks to the door. “You already know about the arms deal years back. You mentioned it earlier.”