Strange Affair (7 page)

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

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

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

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

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

After checking out both Banks’s flat and his cottage, she would have to hurry to Darlington to catch a train to London. The 3:25 would get her into King’s Cross just after six, all being well. It would be quicker than driving, and she didn’t fancy negotiating her way through the central London traffic all the way south of the river to Kennington. She would leave her car at Darlington station.

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

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

“It’s no use,” she said. “He’s out.”

“When did he leave?” Annie asked.

“Who wants to know?”

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

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

“When did he leave?” Annie repeated.

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

“Did he say where he was going?”

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

“Do you own these flats?”

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

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

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

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

“Search warrant? Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I speak to James?” he said.

“Speaking.”

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

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

“Appointment for what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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