Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  “That’s right,” said Annie.

  “What if she was recruiting? Or filling orders?”

  “For Hadfield?”

  “And others. Remember, someone bought ten burners from Argos.”

  “What’s in it for Mia?”

  “Money, same as for Adrienne and Sarah. Finder’s fee. She wouldn’t do it for nothing. An introduction service. Private, reliable. Remember, both girls were a lot more flush this term, and they lied about why. I’ve checked into Sarah’s insurance and inheritance situation, by the way, and there’s nothing there. She got a small insurance payment shortly after her father died, but that was it.”

  “And where does Randall fit in?”

  “Sarah Chen.” Winsome held her hand up. “All right. I know we’ve got no evidence. I know all that. But . . . I don’t know . . . call it a hunch . . .”

  “Symmetry,” said Gerry.

  “Pardon?” Winsome said.

  Gerry tapped the diagram. “Symmetry,” she said again. “It completes the diagram, Randall being involved with one of the girls. And if Adrienne was at Hadfield’s place . . . Maybe they had something already arranged, a get together of some sort, a party, or maybe they were arranging something?”

  “Let’s also not forget,” Banks added, “that Randall is a doctor. Doctors can have all kinds of uses, especially in situations where something goes wrong and people need to keep quiet.”

  “Between eight o’clock and eleven?” Annie said.

  “If Adrienne took an overdose of Mandrax, for whatever reason, wherever she got them, and if she was at Hadfield’s house, his bathroom, say, where she lost a charm from her bracelet, even in the bath, as Dr. Glendenning mentioned she had been in contact with water . . . Well, he’d hardly want the whole world to know, would he? What better than a friendly medic to sort things out? Phone a friend. Especially one who was also involved in the same sort of dodgy business with the girls as he was. That way Randall could be guaranteed not to talk.”

  “And Sarah?” asked Annie. “Where exactly does she fit in?”

  “I don’t know,” said Banks. “I don’t profess to have it all worked out. We know she had that slip of paper with Adrienne’s name and throwaway number on. At least we assume that’s what it was. Maybe Sarah was with Randall? Maybe she saw too much?”

  “And Randall didn’t save the day,” said Annie.

  “Exactly.” Gerry brought another sheet of paper from her briefcase. Banks could see it was a map with markings in red pen. “I didn’t think much of it until Winsome just spoke out,” she said, “but if you look at the map you can see two things.” She pointed to the lines on the sheet. “In the first place, the Tetchley Moor parking area is just beside the direct road between Hadfield’s house and Belderfell Pass.”

  They all looked, then moved on to the next line. “And,” said Banks, “the shack where Sarah Chen’s body was found is directly on the route south between Hadfield’s house and Bramhope, where Randall lives, which is just along Otley Road from Hyde Park, where Sarah lived.”

  They all paused to let the ideas sink in. Banks finished his beer and noticed that Manfred Mann were doing “Pretty Flamingo.” “We’d better not get too carried away,” he said. “Most of this is still pure speculation.”

  “Isn’t that what our job is most of the time, anyway, guv?” said Winsome.

  “I’m not disagreeing. Just saying that we can’t go to the CPS with what we’ve got. Or even to Chief Superintendent Gervaise. We need evidence. We’ve got to keep moving along the lines we’ve already established—more pressure on Randall and finding Mia. We can conduct more interviews with Sarah’s and Adrienne’s friends. Show them Ray’s sketch. See if anyone else talked with Mia. See if anyone can place Randall with Sarah Chen. I don’t think that whatever happened that day was in any way planned, so if Hadfield and Adrienne and Randall and Sarah were connected in some way, they’d have no reason to avoid going out, maybe to fancy restaurants.”

  “Except if they wanted to keep their relationships secret.”

  “I doubt they’d shout it from the rooftops,” said Banks, “but as far as they were concerned, they didn’t think they were doing anything wrong. But I don’t think it would go down well with Randall’s medical council.”

  “Well, we have a few more glimmers now, don’t we, guv,” said Winsome.

  Banks smiled. “We do, indeed.”

  “And while we’re speculating,” said Annie, “there’s something else we might care to consider.”

  “What’s that?” asked Banks.

  “If we’re right, and if Mia was recruiting or grooming young students for predators like Hadfield and Randall, and maybe even Liversedge, for all we know, then how did Hadfield and Randall get her to do that? Where did they find her? She was a bridge between the two groups, the men who wanted to pay for a young girl’s company, and the girls who needed the money for their education. She was the matchmaker who put student with old codger. What if it was Mia who bought the phones and handed them out? What if she was the one who got rid of them after whatever happened that Saturday? Shut down the network, so to speak. That way all communication between her, the men and the girls would be restricted to burners.” She gave Banks a sarcastic look. “Sorry.”

  Banks smiled. “And where are the phones now?”

  “If it was Mia who collected them and got rid of them after everything went sideways,” said Annie, “they could be anywhere now. If I were her, I’d put them in a bag full of rocks and chuck them in a river or reservoir.”

  “Good point,” said Banks. “But we can’t drag all the reservoirs and rivers in Yorkshire, even the one near Hadfield’s.”

  “We don’t have to if we find Mia,” said Gerry.

  “So we’re back to that,” said Banks. “We’re going round in circles here.”

  “No we’re not,” said Gerry sharply. “Sorry, guv. But I just had a thought. If what DI Cabbot says is right about Mia being the one who brought the men and the girls together, then she needed access to both. It was easy enough for her to hang about student pubs and chat with the girls. And when you think about it, second-year students would be feeling the pinch. They’d be a bit more desperate, having found out how tough it was to get through the first year financially. Lord knows, I might not have said no to a sugar daddy myself in my second year.” She reddened. “No. I take that back. But do you see my point?”

  “I do,” said Banks. “And it makes a lot of sense. Mia obviously looked enough like a student to blend in at the student hangouts.”

  “Yes,” said Gerry. “But what about the men? How did she make contact with Hadfield, Randall, maybe Liversedge, and the others? How did she get access to them? What did they have in common? They wouldn’t normally move in the same circles. I’m thinking a posh local pub where she worked behind the bar, perhaps? Or an upmarket shop where they bought their cigars or brandy or whatever? Got chatting, got the measure of them, found out they were lonely and randy, said maybe she could help?”

  “I like your first idea best,” said Annie. “It’d need to be a place where people could be casual, relax, chat, with the barriers down. A posh pub would be ideal.”

  “Or a club,” said Banks.

  IT WAS late, and everyone else had gone home, but Annie went back to the station and sat alone in the dimly lit squad room listening to the sounds from deep in the building. A laugh. A voice raised. The clanking of the heat pipes. A drunk complaining loudly about being arrested. This business about Keane reappearing had got her on edge, no doubt about it. Perhaps Banks was the one he had tried to kill, but she was the one he had deceived, used, humiliated and betrayed. Over the past few years she had often dreamed of revenge until, like everything else, it had ceased to trouble her day-to-day mind to a large extent, though it still occupied her dreams and those moments when, for whatever reason, her guard was lowered.

  She sighed and picked up the phone. It was hard to know what would be the best time t
o phone Poppy Hadfield. Morning was obviously out, as she was definitely a nightbird, but there was no telling how smashed she would be now, at eleven o’clock. Annie decided to risk it anyway.

  Poppy answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah, this is Poppy Hadfield, honey, what do you want?”

  “It’s DI Cabbot here. Annie.”

  “Annie! I was going to ring you, but I lost . . . you know . . . that thing you gave me.”

  “My number?”

  “That’s it.”

  She was at least partially out of it. Better move fast. “Poppy, do you know anything about Mandrax?”

  “Mandies? Ludes? Not my thing, honey. Now Mad Dog, Mad Dog used to lo-o-o-o-ove his mandies. Crazy bastard would pop a couple and want to fuck all night.”

  “Where did he get them? I thought they’d been discontinued years ago.”

  “Yeah, they were. But this was Mad Dog, honey. He could get whatever kind of drugs he wanted to. God, I do miss the bastard sometimes. Why are you asking me about mandies, anyway?”

  “Remember that girl I was telling you about? Adrienne?”

  “The one who died? Yeah.”

  “Well she died because of an overdose of methaqualone.”

  “Poor chick.”

  “And we don’t know where she got it from.”

  “And you thought I could help?”

  Annie heard the sound of a cigarette being lit, smoke breathed in and out. “Something like that,” she said.

  “Cool. That you think I would know, I mean. But it’s not my scene.”

  “You like Valium, don’t you?”

  “Like it? No way? It’s just to take the edge off. Anyway, it’s a different thing entirely.”

  “Edge off what?”

  “You know. Life.”

  “So you know nothing about Mandrax, Quaaludes?”

  “Nah.”

  “You didn’t supply them to your father?”

  “The old man?” She cackled over the line. “Was the old man doing ludes? Well, fuck me.”

  “We don’t know,” said Annie. “I’m asking you.”

  “Nah. Besides, I’m not a dealer. People give me the stuff. That’s how it usually works.”

  “OK,” said Annie. “Just thought I’d check. You doing all right?”

  “So-so,” said Poppy. “I’m just, you know, chilling right now. Ronald called earlier. Wanted me to handle the details of Daddy’s estate. He seemed pissed off you had him go all the way up to Yorkshire.”

  “Yes. He didn’t seem very happy at the time.”

  “He’s a charmer, isn’t he?”

  “Sure is. Why did you want to call me?”

  “Call you?”

  “Yes, you said you wanted to, but you lost my number.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I remember. It’s, like, nothing really. Just that you asked me to tell you if I remembered anything odd, and there was this one time I was up at Rivendell for a visit about a month ago, and Daddy’s phone went off, only it wasn’t his phone.”

  “What do you mean, Poppy?”

  “Well, you know all those different sounds they make, right?”

  “Ringtones?”

  “That’s the things. His always sounded like church bells. But this was like a tikitikitiki sound, a cricket or something.”

  “Couldn’t he have changed it?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Just for the sake of it. People do. That’s why there are so many different ringtones.”

  “Whatever. But no.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I saw the phone, too. It wasn’t anything like his. He’s always got the latest most expensive iPhone or Samsung or whatever, but this was one of those really old types, like just a phone. Probably didn’t even get email.”

  “Do you know what kind it was?”

  “Nah. Just that it wasn’t his.”

  “Who was ringing?”

  “I don’t know. He went away to have his conversation. Excused himself. Seemed a bit embarrassed.”

  “Why would he be like that?”

  “It was a woman.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard her voice. At first, when she said his name. Just over the line. I could tell it was a woman’s voice even though I couldn’t hear what she said.”

  “You didn’t catch her name?”

  Annie heard a buzzing in the background. “No. Sorry. Look, gotta go, sweetie. Someone’s at the door. Party time! Catch you later.”

  And the line went dead.

  BANKS’S HEAD was still spinning when he got home that evening, and he was keen to forget the whole wretched business for the rest of the night. Over the years, he had found that it often helped to stand back and clear his mind, let the unconscious do its work. It sounded like gobbledygook, and he had never awoken the following morning with the solution glaringly obvious to him, but there did come a point when overthinking only complicated the issues.

  His recipe for escape was much the same as his recipe for mulling over a puzzle. Music and wine. Sometimes a movie or television and wine worked better if he wanted to let his mind roam freely over a tough problem. There was something about watching TV that numbed a part of the brain and let the thinking bit do its work almost unhindered by having to pay attention. Of course, Banks wasn’t thinking about Bergman or Kurosawa here, not even David Lean, but something more like a mindless action film—Bond or Bourne—or a silly comedy—old Norman Wisdom or a Carry On. But it was escape from thought he wanted tonight, not working on a problem, so it would have to be wine and music.

  The wine was easy. All he had left on his rack was a bottle of Languedoc he’d bought on sale at M&S the previous week. He opened it, poured a generous glass, and went into the conservatory. Music was a little more difficult than wine, and in the end he chose one of his favorite oldies: Debussy’s Orchestral Music by Haitink and the Royal Concertgebouw. He turned up the volume, then settled back and let “Prélude à l’après midi d’un faune” work its magic.

  It did. Soon he was drifting far away from Adrienne Munro, Sarah Chen, Laurence Hadfield and Anthony Randall, passing through thoughts and images of Emily Hargreaves, his parents, his ex-wife Sandra, his son away touring in America, Tracy, pursuing her academic career in Newcastle, and of all the choices and accidents that had brought him here, to this place at this time. Alone.

  He had nothing to complain about; he knew that. He had chosen his path, and on the whole it had worked out well for him. He was good at his job, had been a reasonably good, though too frequently absent, father, a not-so-good husband, and hopeless at sustaining, or even igniting, relationships since his marriage had fallen apart. But that was just life, wasn’t it? If Sandra hadn’t left him, he would never have been romantically involved with Annie, Sophia or Oriana. And no matter how much grief those relationships had caused him in the end, he wouldn’t have done without any of them.

  On the other hand, if he had remained with Emily in London, if she hadn’t chucked him, perhaps she would have persuaded him to forgo the police for some other path, and who knew where that would have led him? But then neither Brian nor Tracy would have been born, and that didn’t bear thinking about. Even if it wasn’t all for the best in the best of all possible worlds, it would have to do, and there was no point indulging in these speculative pasts and futures. He didn’t feel sad, just lonely sometimes. But it was true that much of the time he enjoyed being alone. Like now.

  He thought of Ray and Zelda and their new lease on life. Old Ray couldn’t believe his luck. Even that old goat Picasso hadn’t done as well as he had in the female department. And after everything Zelda had been through, to be loved so much and to have the freedom to live a creative and fulfilling life had to be good for her. Banks wondered if she wanted children. That would be a bit of a problem with the prospective father being already over seventy. But who could say? Ray might live to be ninety or a hundred and see his children grow up.

 
; Banks refilled his wine glass and put on a recent disc called Voyages, various settings of Baudelaire’s poems by such composers as Debussy, Duparc and Fauré, sung beautifully by Mary Bevan. Banks had talked with Linda Palmer about Baudelaire at one of their sessions, and he had bought Anthony Mortimer’s dual-text translation so he could follow along with the words. His school French wasn’t good enough, and besides, no matter how clearly the singer enunciated, it was hard to translate from simply hearing the poems sung in French.

  He had set his mobile down on the table beside him, just in case anything came up, and no sooner had “L’invitation au voyage” begun than it rang. Curious, he picked it up and felt his chest tighten when he saw the picture of Phil Keane downloading. It was him, no doubt about it, accompanied by a simple message:

  “Best I could do. For now.

  XX

  Z”

  Keane’s hair was a little longer and refreshed by applications of Grecian Formula, by the looks of it. But it was him, all right, and it seemed very much as if he was standing on the embankment somewhere near Tower Bridge talking to someone out of the picture.

  As Banks studied Keane’s familiar face, he thought again of that near fatal evening in his cottage, at least what he could remember of it. The taste of the whisky—which had put him off Laphroaig for years—the sudden drowsiness, the distant smell of smoke, crackling sounds, then voices, cool air, darkness. And as he looked again at the face of the man who had caused all that, he felt a desire for revenge burn inside him. If he did find Keane, if this picture led him to the man, then he didn’t know whether he could trust himself not to cross the line.

  He texted a thank you back to Zelda, refilled his glass and listened to Mary Bevan sing “Chante d’Automne.”

  13

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, A DRIZZLING THURSDAY, Banks sat in his office reading through witness statements, HOLMES printouts, interviews and forensic reports, trying once again to make sense of recent events. There had been plenty of activity, it seemed, but very little progress.