Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  “You still dream about her?”

  Annie nodded. “Sometimes.”

  “What’s so different about this time, about Zelda?”

  “I don’t know what it is. Partly because they’re here, of course, and not in Cornwall. Also maybe it’s because it so obviously is the ‘real thing’ this time, whatever that is. For Ray, at any rate. And maybe it’s because I’m getting old, and I don’t have anything like that myself, or anyone in my life, for that matter. I could analyze myself till the cows come home and still not find an answer. Maybe I’d like to be adored. I mean, I couldn’t even keep Nick bloody Fleming, and he’s not exactly the catch of the day.”

  “Simple jealousy?”

  “Jealousy’s rarely simple.”

  “It’s still a dog-in-the-manger attitude.”

  “Sort of. Maybe. I don’t know. Watching them just put me in a bad mood, that’s all. Not being able to drink didn’t help much, either.”

  “Next time we’ll take a taxi.”

  “Lord knows what I’d say or do if I got drunk with them.”

  Banks laughed again. “Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as you think.”

  Annie gave him a sideways glance and cockeyed smile. “Ever the optimist.”

  “Do you really hate Zelda?”

  “I think I do, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s young and beautiful and she’s going to break my father’s heart.”

  “You can’t know that. What makes you say that?”

  “Come on, Alan. Open your eyes. You can’t tell me a beautiful woman like Zelda is going to stay with Ray on a permanent basis. She’ll be off with the first handsome pizza delivery man who comes along, and guess who’ll be left to clean up the mess.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Annie. And I think it’s a harsh thing to say.”

  “I’m talking about my feelings now. Aren’t I allowed to talk about my feelings?”

  “Calm down. I didn’t say that.”

  “You certainly implied it.”

  Banks paused and sipped some coffee. Just right. The espresso machine hissed and gurgled in the background. “For what it’s worth,” Banks said, “I think they’ve got a chance. No, hear me out. I don’t know why, but there’s a powerful chemistry about them, and that may be what makes you feel the way you do. Maybe Zelda needs a father figure. What’s so bad about that? I get the impression that she’s had some tough experiences in her life. In fact, I think she was probably trafficked herself. It would be one way of explaining how she first saw those faces her organization wants her to recognize again. Remember, she recognized the man with Keane and said he was evil, that he liked to hurt the girls. If that’s so, can you imagine what her experiences must have made her feel about men, about sex?”

  “Yuck. I don’t even want to think about their sex life. Besides, how do you know what her life was like? You’re only guessing.”

  “Perhaps. But maybe she feels safe with Ray. Have you thought about that? That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “It means he’s a good man, Annie, a kind man, a gentle man. Maybe that’s what she sees in him. Maybe that’s what she needs. Maybe that’s why she loves him. Not all women are hung up on six-packs and pecs.”

  “You’re so bloody naive sometimes, Alan Banks. Most of us aren’t really interested in six-packs or pecs at all. We’re far more interested in the person inside than in the packaging. That’s why you men can let yourselves go, eat what you want, get fat and grow man breasts and still end up in the sack with a stunner like Zelda. Look at you. What about that Italian babe you had, Ophelia, or whatever her name was, and the lovely Sonia? They were both young enough to be your daughters.”

  “Surely you’re not saying I’m fat or have man breasts?” Banks said. “And besides, it’s Oriana and Sophia.”

  Annie stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, then she burst out laughing. One or two people at the nearby table gave her funny looks. “No, Alan,” she said. “That wasn’t my point at all. As a matter of fact, you’re in pretty good shape for a bloke your age. No tits at all.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Banks paused. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Sorry you feel that way. If you ever want to talk about it again . . .”

  “I’ll know where not to go. Just joking. Strangely enough, I do feel a bit better, thanks. At least you’ve given me a good laugh.”

  “Give them a chance.”

  “Promise you’ll help clean up the mess if she bolts? A shoulder to cry on?”

  “Promise. I like Ray. I’ll be there for him. I consider him a good friend.”

  Annie nodded. “I know you do. You and your bloody sixties music.”

  Banks shrugged. “I feel sorry for you, having to grow up in the eighties.”

  “It wasn’t so bad. At least we had Michael Jackson. Anyway, what are we going to do about Phil Keane? Do you believe that, too? Little Miss Super-brain?”

  “Super-recognizer,” said Banks. “I’ve heard of that. Again, why would she lie? And it makes sense. Keane would hardly go back to his routines in the art world after what happened. He’s probably persona non grata in every art institution in Europe. His skill was in altering the past and forging official documents, making them appear real, as if they’ve been around for years. He’s like the Donald Pleasence character in The Great Escape, only he’s not going blind. He’s also a psychopath. What better line of work for him?”

  “I suppose you’re right. Should we have a chat with Charlie, then?”

  Charlie Fox was their contact on the Met. He was a specialist who dealt in art fraud and theft, consulting with the various squads both at home and around the continent when they needed his expertise. “We should,” said Banks. “But I don’t think he’ll be able to help us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think about it. Keane has moved on. What’s the odds he no longer has anything to do with the art world? What’s the odds he hasn’t changed his name?”

  “People make mistakes. You know that as well as I do, Alan. Criminals sometimes make the most basic mistakes because they can’t give up a certain routine or line of operation. They have habits, like everyone else, and habits are often unconscious.”

  “True. Modus operandi. But Keane is smart, remember. And he tried to kill a police officer. Me. He’d know it makes sense to move on, adapt his skills to another criminal venture. It sounds like this is it.”

  “Can’t we contact the people Zelda works with ourselves?”

  “It doesn’t appear as if she’s likely to help us with that. You heard her. I suppose we can’t really blame her. It’s obviously a relationship that nobody wants broadcasting. We could go through other channels, I suppose. Dirty Dick Burgess, for a start. But I don’t want to bring trouble or danger down on Zelda.”

  “God forbid.”

  “Annie!”

  “Sorry. So where do we go next? Do we just wait for Super Zelda to come up with something?”

  “There’s not much else we can do,” said Banks. He glanced at his watch. “In the meantime, I’d better go and pick up my car from the garage, or they’ll be charging me parking for it.”

  WINSOME KNEW the campus of Eastvale College fairly well. A couple of cases over the years had taken her there, and she found the racial mix of the area most refreshing after the almost total whiteness of the rest of town, and of the Dales in general. Not that she felt uncomfortable with where she lived or what she did, just that she felt a bit more at home when she walked down a street crowded with young Asian, Chinese and black students as well as white ones. Besides, she liked the tree-lined streets of tall Victorian houses, divided into student flats, with the steep front steps and iron railings and brightly colored doors, the outside stairs leading down to basement bedsits, the aromas of curry, Thai and Chinese spices that infused the air. It was another world. You could almost imagine yourself in a thriving city rather than a quiet country town.


  But that feeling lasted only as far as the campus itself. Its buildings were spread over a large area, mostly ugly and functional squat concrete and glass blocks with fields and woods beyond. There were a few listed buildings, remnants of the original agricultural college, but mostly it was an architectural mess. Winsome paused and consulted her map, then headed for the science buildings, which formed a quadrangle with a central square of grass surrounded by benches. When the weather was fine enough, Winsome knew, students would sit out there chatting or working on essays. They would stretch out on the grass, the young lovers side by side. But not in November.

  Professor Luke Stoller had agreed to talk to her about Adrienne Munro in his office. She entered the building through the double glass doors, and a security guard at a semicircular reception desk told her where the office was on the first floor. The steps were concrete, the rough walls lined with corkboards on which were pinned ads for concerts, “ladies’ night” at The Cellar Club, any lecture changes or cancellations, departmental communications and the meetings of the various clubs and societies. There seemed to be so much going on, Winsome almost wished she were a student again. Almost. The problem was that if she went back these days, she would leave not only with a degree but with the albatross of debt around her neck for many years to come. The Munros were right: it was no way to start a working life.

  Professor Stoller answered her knock with a chirpy “Come in” and stood up to shake Winsome’s hand as she entered. He was a paunchy man in his early fifties, she guessed, curly grey hair and matching beard. Even his suit was grey. His tie was the only colorful thing about him, and that looked as if a drunken student had done the Technicolor yawn all over it. He wore it loose at the top, the way Banks always did whenever he had to wear a tie. The bookcases were stuffed with textbooks, and piles of papers sat on top of his filing cabinets and desk, but though the office was cluttered, it was tidy. A large poster showing the human circulation system hung on his wall.

  “Please excuse the mess,” Stoller said. “Work tends to pile up.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Winsome, sitting down in the hardback chair.

  “It’s about Adrienne, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. When did you last see her?”

  “Wednesday, just over a week ago, when she came for her weekly tutorial.” He shook his head slowly. “This is a terrible business. I simply can’t take it all in yet.”

  “It came as a shock?”

  “A huge one.”

  “Did you know Adrienne well?”

  “As well as one gets to know a student. We met in tutorials, of course, and I also supervised some of her lab work.”

  “Was she a good student?”

  “Excellent. She was very intelligent. Quiet and thoughtful. Adrienne took her work seriously. She wasn’t flighty or lazy, like some of her classmates. She was a hard worker. She was usually on time with her projects, and her examination results last year were exemplary. She had a clear, logical mind. Not only was she good academically, but she had a real feel for the work. She would have made an excellent agricultural scientist.”

  “Not a farmer, then?”

  “Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that impression?”

  “Agricultural sciences.”

  “A bit misleading, I’m afraid. It’s a catchall discipline, but we’re not a training school for farmers. The students study methods of farming, true enough, but we tend to see the larger picture: crop management, land use and efficiency, environmental issues, food needs, animal husbandry. It’s a very broad field, including courses in statistics and earth sciences, climate, geology and geography, even a bit of chemistry, and biology, which is my area of speciality. Interdisciplinary, if you like.”

  “And Adrienne?”

  “Adrienne was especially interested in conservation and wildlife issues, responsible land use, growth cycles, environmental factors such as climate change, alternative energy sources, GMOs, that sort of thing.”

  “GMOs?”

  “Sorry. Genetically modified organisms. Adrienne wasn’t sure whether she was for them or against.”

  “Where would she have been likely to end up working after she’d finished?”

  “A government department? Or a consortium? Perhaps even one of the many private consulting firms.” He smiled. “Who knows, she might even have ended up teaching somewhere like this. What she really wanted to do was to go to Africa and work in farming, energy and land use. She was very forward-looking. She always said there’s no practical reason at all for anyone in today’s world to be starving. And she’s right, of course.”

  “If it weren’t for politics,” Winsome said.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you say Adrienne was a conscientious student?”

  “Yes, I’d say she was.”

  “What do you think went wrong? Was something eating away at her?”

  Stoller shook his head slowly. “I can’t for the life of me think what it was. The newspaper seemed to imply that she was a drug-taker, which I found hard to believe, but you said on the phone that she committed suicide?”

  “I said it appeared that she took an overdose of sleeping pills. Had she been depressed lately, upset about anything?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Her work . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, this year her work wasn’t quite up to the standards she set herself in her first year, but that’s not uncommon in second-year students. They all seem to hit a patch where other things seem more important than university work. I suppose it means they’ve finally settled in. Besides, it’s early days yet. Start-of-term struggle.”

  “What other things?”

  “Who knows? Almost anything can get in the way, really. Social life. Boyfriends. Shopping.”

  “Did Adrienne have a boyfriend?”

  “Not that I knew of. But then, I wouldn’t be in the best position to know. It’s not a good idea to discuss such private matters with students, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  Winsome nodded. “The times we live in. But was she still doing well enough academically?”

  “Oh, yes. So far. She just missed a few lectures, a couple of tutorials, was late with an essay once. Seemed distracted in lectures. That sort of thing. In most students you wouldn’t even notice, it’s par for the course, but with Adrienne . . . well, I suppose she’d set herself too high a standard last year.”

  “Do you think the course work was too hard for her? Did it lead to stress?”

  “There’s always a certain amount of stress involved if you want to do a good job, but I’d say Adrienne could handle it. I can’t imagine it being too hard for her.”

  “Do you know if she had something else on her mind, what it was that might have been distracting her?”

  “No. If she did have any serious problems, she didn’t tell me about them.”

  “Was she worried about anything? Anxious?”

  “On occasion, I thought so. Like I said, distracted, distant, as if her mind were elsewhere.”

  “But you’ve no idea about what? You’ve no idea where?”

  “No. Sorry. Maybe it was money. A lot of the students have money problems these days.”

  “What about the scholarship?”

  Stoller frowned. “What scholarship?”

  “According to her parents, Adrienne was awarded a scholarship at the beginning of this year.”

  “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “Would you be likely to know?”

  “There are all kinds of scholarships around. I can’t say I always pay as much attention as I should to departmental memos and the like, even if they sent me one. I can’t say it surprises me though. As I said, she was a bright student.” He paused. “But I like to think she would have told me about something like that. If she’d been her old self she would have been excited, and I’m sure she would have told me.”

  “Could being free of money worries have affected her work?”

&
nbsp; “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Made her feel she had to give more in return? Or the opposite—feel that she could kick back and relax a bit. Have fun. She’d have more money to go drinking or clubbing, shopping, do other things. Things that might distract her from her studies.”

  “I suppose it’s a possibility. But, as I said, I know nothing of this scholarship, or what she did in her own time. You’ll have to check with the bursar’s office about the money.”

  “Do you know of anyone Adrienne might have confided in?”

  “Neela, perhaps. Neela Mitchell. They were very close. Best friends.”

  It was one of the names Winsome had already picked up from the phone calls and emails. “Do you know her address?”

  “Yes. She was in the same tutorial group as Adrienne. I needed her details in case I had to get in touch.” Stoller walked over to his filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. “Should I be giving you this information?” he said. “I mean, isn’t there some sort of confidentiality rule?”

  “Professor Stoller,” said Winsome, “a suspicious death usually trumps confidentiality, but if you insist, I can go and get a court order.”

  “No, no. I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to be difficult. I gave your colleague Adrienne’s address. I just don’t want to get into trouble.”

  “Believe me, you’d be in much more trouble if you didn’t tell me what I want to know. Besides, we have this Neela’s phone number and email address already. You’ll just be saving me a little time. If you wouldn’t mind, sir?”

  “You said ‘suspicious death,’ ” Stoller said. “I thought she’d committed suicide? Are you saying now that you suspect foul play, that someone might have done this to her? Do you think Adrienne was murdered?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything of the kind, and I’d be very grateful if you wouldn’t go around repeating that to anyone else. Suspicious means there are unanswered questions, that’s all. We like to dot our i’s and cross our t’s, just like you academics.”

  Stoller gave her Neela Mitchell’s address. “I don’t know if she’s still there, though,” he said. “She was very upset when she heard the news about Adrienne. She came to see me, and I recommended counseling. We have an excellent center here on campus. She may even have gone home to her parents.”