Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  “Will she make it?” Banks asked.

  “It all depends on how much damage was already done,” said the doctor. “Opioid overdoses can be tricky things. They can cause brain damage, for a start, or coma. We’ll have to do an EKG and monitor her vital signs. Luckily, we know the exact dose she was given from the phial and syringe we found in the bag you brought. That was good thinking. And if you’d been maybe even ten minutes later . . . All I can tell you is that we’ll know more in the morning. My colleagues are still with her. Don’t worry, she’s in good hands.”

  “We’ll be putting a man outside her room,” said Banks. “That OK?”

  “She won’t have a room for a while yet, not while she’s being treated by the team, but if you tell your man to ask for me, that’s Dr. Elaine Logan, then I’ll make sure he’s in the right place when we send her up to intensive care.” She paused and frowned. “There was also a blow to the back of her head. Nothing serious, but probably enough to stun her and give her a slight concussion. Did somebody do this to her? Is she in danger from anyone? Is there something more we should know about?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Banks. “Yes, someone did this to her, but he’s in custody.”

  Dr. Logan started to turn away, gave another low-wattage smile and said, “Just let me know if he escapes, then. OK?”

  ANTHONY RANDALL had been stewing in an interview room for over two hours before Banks and Blackstone got around to talking to him while Annie watched from the next room through the two-way mirror. Liversedge made the usual noises about abuse of upstanding members of the public. Banks and Blackstone ignored him and focused their attention on Randall. As the building was fairly new, the interview room didn’t have the same atmosphere or smell as the ones at Eastvale. It could almost have been a doctor’s waiting room.

  “It must be your lucky day, Tony,” said Banks. “You got a Detective Superintendent and a DCI interviewing you. I doubt that’s happened since Dick’s day, if it ever did happen. Hope it makes you feel important.”

  Randall scowled. “I want to go home.”

  “Don’t we all?” said Banks, as Blackstone set up the video and recording equipment. “But I’m afraid it’s going to be a long night. That’s unless you want to confess right up front?”

  “Confess to what? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Banks sighed and turned to Blackstone. “Like I said, Ken. Long night.”

  Blackstone nodded.

  “You can’t interview my client without a break for any longer than—”

  “We know his rights, Mr. Liversedge. If you’d keep your interruptions to a minimum we’ll get through this a lot faster, and then we’ll be able to move on to your part in all this.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. No matter. It’ll dawn on you eventually if you pay attention. You ready, Mr. Randall?”

  Randall nodded without looking at them. Blackstone turned on the machines and went through the formalities of the caution. Their advantage with Randall, Banks realized, was that he wasn’t a habitual criminal. He hadn’t been through this sort of process before, hadn’t become inured to it. He’d never been in jail, and the odds were that the thought terrified him, as it did most people. That might make him lie to avoid prison at all costs, but it might also make him hope that, somehow, if he could explain himself, they would understand and come to realize that he wasn’t the sort of person who belonged in a jail cell. Or so Banks hoped. It had happened before, and it beat the usual “No comment” interviews you got from hardened criminals. But he wouldn’t let himself forget that Randall was intelligent and shrewd. And, in all likelihood, a murderer.

  “Funny you didn’t ask how Mia was doing,” Banks said.

  Randall shrugged. “I did my best to help her.”

  “Bollocks,” said Banks. “To get rid of her, more like. You’ve already admitted you gave her a shot of morphine. According to the doctor at the hospital, she’d been hit on the back of the head before being injected. Did you really believe you could get away with it?”

  “I told you. I found her like that. I was trying to help her.”

  “Is that why you ripped her blouse open?”

  “Don’t you understand, man? She was hardly breathing, and the heartbeat was dangerously slow. Her heart’s right here.” He banged the center of his chest.

  “Sounds hollow to me,” said Banks.

  Liversedge gave him a stern look but said nothing.

  “How were you going to arrange things? Make it appear as if she injected herself and hit her head on the side of the table when she fell?”

  “That’s what must have happened.”

  “You do realize, don’t you, Mr. Randall,” said Ken Blackstone, “that our forensic team will be carefully studying the scene and the clothing you were wearing when you were brought here. There’ll be traces.”

  “Well, of course there will,” said Randall. “I was trying to save the poor girl’s life.”

  “What were you doing in Mariela Carney’s flat?” Banks asked.

  “I just went to talk to her.”

  “A woman you told us you’d never met before, never heard of?” said Banks. “Whom you suddenly went to visit after thinking over our previous little chat with you? Lucky for her you didn’t know we’d already found her.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do, Mr. Randall,” said Banks. “Mia Carney was the only person left linking you to Sarah Chen. And don’t try to tell us you don’t know who she was. Think carefully about what you say.”

  “All right, so I knew Sarah Chen. I lied about that. I didn’t want to get involved. She was over the age of consent. We were both adults. Nobody was forced into anything. I know my rights. It wasn’t illegal.”

  “You paid for her company.”

  “So what? I never made her do anything she didn’t want to do.”

  “Gave you a thrill to have a pretty young woman in your bed, did it? Made you feel young again? Vibrant? Virile?”

  “Say what you like. It doesn’t mean I killed her.”

  “What happened that night in the shack, Tony?” Banks asked. “What made you smash Sarah over the head with a rock?”

  “You’re talking rubbish.”

  “But you were with her, weren’t you?”

  “I didn’t see her that night. Obviously, she went out with some other bloke. Tramp like that, you can hardly expect her to stick with just one man. Perhaps he was the maniac you should be after.”

  “Any idea who he might be?”

  “Me? No.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t exist. Come off it, Tony. Once more, I’d suggest you stop lying and tell us the truth. Our CSI teams and scientific support are very good indeed. There’ll be evidence to connect you with the scene in Mia’s flat, and we’ll find it. There’ll be evidence in the shack to connect you with Sarah’s murder, and we’ll find that, too. It may take a while, but we’ll find it. We may have to take that shack apart stone by stone but, by God, we’ll do it. Perhaps you had a good reason for what you did? Was it self-defense? Was she blackmailing you? I don’t think your Medical Ethics Committee would have been too thrilled to hear about what you were up to, would it? Come on, tell the truth.”

  Randall folded his arms. “I don’t have to say anything.”

  “No, you don’t. But you heard DCI Blackstone issue the warning. Anything you don’t say now but rely on later in court will go against you.”

  “What makes you think I’ll end up in court?”

  “Mia Carney.”

  “Is she . . . I mean . . . ?”

  “Whether Mia lives or dies, the scientific evidence won’t lie, nor will Annie or me. It’ll be your fingerprints we find on the syringe and phial, not Mia’s. You didn’t have time to arrange the scene the way you wanted it to look. We’ll be taking a sample from you, too, for DNA testing.”

  “A
nd if I refuse?”

  “Well, that’s your prerogative. We’ll get it, anyway, one way or another. But it sounds better to a jury if you give it voluntarily.”

  “Are you saying that if I’ve got nothing to hide, then I have no reason not to submit an intimate sample?”

  “That’s about it. But you don’t have to get too intimate. Saliva will do.”

  “But what if I just happen to value my privacy? What if I don’t want to end up in some police database?”

  “Again, I can’t imagine why it would bother you if you haven’t done anything illegal, and don’t intend to. Besides, all samples are destroyed if you’re not convicted of anything. Come on, we’re already searching your house.”

  Randall jerked forward from his chair. “You’re doing what?”

  “Searching your house. Calm down. It’s quite legal. We have a warrant.” Banks glanced at his watch. “The lads should be giving it a good going over right at this very moment.”

  Randall half stood and spread his palms on the table. “You’ve no right! Do you hear me? You’ve no right. I’m an upstanding pillar of the community. Tell them, Brian.”

  Liversedge just swallowed and turned pale.

  “Oh, spare me the theatrics,” said Banks. “You’re a lecherous, murderous bastard. No doubt you expected something like this, so I imagine you’ve tidied up pretty well at home. Got rid of the clothing and shoes stained with Sarah’s blood. Right? Use the washing machine, did you? Well, as I said, our experts are very good, and if it’s there, even in minute quantities, they’ll find it.”

  Randall raked his fingers through his curly grey hair. “I’ve admitted to knowing Sarah. She’s been at my house on occasion. No doubt she might have had her period, or a nosebleed or something, while she was there, which would explain any traces of blood your experts might find.”

  “Why did you phone Laurence Hadfield three times a week ago last Saturday, around the time Adrienne Munro, Sarah Chen and Hadfield himself died?”

  “I told you. To arrange a round of golf for the following day.”

  “Did Laurence Hadfield call you before eight o’clock to tell you Adrienne Munro had taken an overdose of Mandrax in his bathroom? Did he ask you to come over and see if there was anything you could do? Did you take Sarah with you and ring him on the way? What happened then?”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Why did you call back at half past eleven? Did you want to find out how things were, whether he’d got rid of the body?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Or did you want to tell him that you’d killed Sarah and needed his help? Does Mia know what happened that night? Is that why you tried to kill her?”

  “I was trying to save her. Can’t you understand?”

  “My client is tired, Superintendent,” said Liversedge. “I suggest we take a short break now, perhaps some refreshments?”

  Banks drummed his fingers on the table. He was tired, too. And he didn’t feel they would get any further with Randall tonight. Perhaps a night in the cells would change his perspective.

  “OK,” Banks said. “Interview suspended at eleven thirty-five.”

  Blackstone turned off the video and audio. Without looking at Randall or Liversedge, Banks said to him, “Ken, will you arrange for Mr. Randall to be taken to the custody suite. I hear they’re quite nice and modern. Have him fingerprinted and take saliva samples for DNA analysis.” He glanced quickly at Randall, who was turning pale. “Only if he consents, of course. Oh, and give the poor bugger a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. Two sugars, I’d say.”

  IT WAS beyond late when Banks got home, and most of the lights were out in Helmthorpe when he drove through the village on his way up the hill to Gratly. Despite the lateness of the hour and the prospect of another busy day tomorrow, he was glad to be back at Newhope Cottage for the night and not in some hotel. Tired as he was, he felt too wired and on edge to go straight to bed. He’d been listening to The Doors Live at the Isle of Wight to help him stay awake on the drive home, and Jim Morrison’s dark lyric wanderings still haunted his imagination, but once in his conservatory with a glass of wine, he felt like some jazz, so he put on Miles and Coltrane live in Stockholm, from 1960, and settled back in his chair.

  It had been an exhausting day, both physically and emotionally, and Banks was feeling his age. His bones ached, mostly from standing out in the damp chilly weather, and the evening’s vindaloo sat uneasily in his stomach. He was relying on Zantac more and more these days, and he realized he might have to think about changing his diet. He would talk to his doctor about it on his next visit; then he remembered he hadn’t scheduled a visit in a couple of years. He was probably off the list now.

  Which led to thoughts of Anthony Randall. There was no doubt in Banks’s mind that Randall had tried to kill Mia Carney that evening, and he could only hope the attempt hadn’t succeeded. Randall must have thought that Mia had known something incriminatory about his relationship with Sarah Chen in order to attempt her murder. He wanted a clean slate. Only Randall’s arrogance could have led him to believe that he would get away with it, even if Banks and Annie hadn’t arrived on the scene and caught him red-handed.

  He thought about Mia and tried to fathom his complex and contradictory feelings towards her. In the end, he decided that he felt the way he did because of Zelda, who had had no choice about the way she had to live and the way she had been mistreated. Mia had groomed and exploited girls for the pleasure of men, for money, and two of them had died. But the girls had a choice. And Mia had seemed to care about them. A prostitute with a heart of gold? He doubted it. Both she and the girls were probably well paid. It was definitely prostitution, after a fashion, but Adrienne and Sarah hadn’t been raped and exploited by unscrupulous pimps. And although Annie had done it, he nevertheless felt equally guilty that they had planted the idea in Randall’s mind that Mia could be a liability. The moral conundrums of it all were too much for him to handle so late after such a day. He gulped down some wine and let a Coltrane solo carry him away.

  Tying Randall to the attempted murder of Mia Carney would be easy now, but it might be a bit harder to nail him for the murder of Sarah Chen, unless Mia survived and really had something to tell them. They would certainly be able to link Randall and Sarah, and would no doubt find evidence of her presence at his house, in his bed, but whether their evidence would carry enough weight for a murder charge was another matter. The CSIs and scientific support were working as hard as they could. They had already found the stone they thought was used to kill Sarah, part of a pile in the corner, sheltered inside the shack, so spared to some degree from the elements. Scientific support had found blood and a partial fingerprint on it. If the blood was matched with Sarah’s and the print with Randall, they would be on more solid ground, though they doubted there would be enough points of comparison on the prints to use in court. The pathologist at Sarah’s postmortem earlier that day had also found traces of skin under her nails, which could be a match with Randall’s, if he had killed her. Apparently, Sarah had put up quite a fight.

  As “So What?” morphed into “On Green Dolphin Street,” Banks replenished his drink.

  Just before bed, he called the hospital. It was very late, he knew, but they never slept, did they? It took him a long time to persuade the nurse who answered the phone to let him speak with one of the doctors on the Mia Carney team, but in the end he was in luck, and he was put through to Dr. Elaine Logan.

  She sounded as exhausted as he felt. “How’s the patient?” he asked.

  “She’s still unconscious,” said Dr. Logan. “We think we’ve managed to control the morphine, and we’ve got her on a respirator, but her heart rate is still too slow for my liking, and it appears she suffered from a slight arrhythmia. Nothing to worry about normally, but in these circumstances . . . She’s being closely monitored. I’ve asked to be informed of any changes in her condition. I still wouldn’t expect any news until tomorrow, tho
ugh.”

  “Thank you,” said Banks. “It sounds as if you should try to get some sleep, doctor.”

  Banks heard a cross between a laugh and a yawn. “That would be nice. Not yet for a while, though, I don’t think. Is that John Coltrane and Miles Davis I hear in the background?”

  Banks was stunned into silence for a moment. Out of the mouths of babes . . . “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Stockholm, 1960.”

  “Ah, that one. Thought so.”

  “You know Miles and Coltrane?”

  He heard her laugh again. “Don’t sound so surprised. My grandparents loved jazz. I picked it up from them. Good night, Superintendent Banks. Sweet dreams.”

  Some hope of that, Banks thought. Grandparents, indeed. Then before she hung up, he heard the sound of an alarm and an urgent voice over the PA system in the background. “Must run,” said Dr. Logan.

  “Is that Mia?” Banks asked, but the line had gone dead.

  BANKS LAY tossing and turning in his bed, but sleep just wouldn’t come. He found some Beethoven cello sonatas played by Jacqueline Du Pré on his old iPod and put in his earbuds, but even the music didn’t help. His mind kept jump-cutting through the events of the evening juxtaposed with wild dreams about what had happened in the shack and at Hadfield’s house. Eventually he gave up and went downstairs to make a cup of tea and sit in the conservatory. It was almost four in the morning, dark and cold, and it wouldn’t be daylight for hours yet. This had always been his worst time of the night, when all his faculties were at their lowest ebb and the silky tendrils of depression started to slink in and twist around his thoughts and memories, wrapping them in darkness. Again and again his mind went back to the alarm and the urgent voice over the PA. Was it Mia? Was she dead? Had he and Annie brought it on her?

  He considered his options. He could remain as he was, he could phone the hospital again, or he could reach for a bottle of whisky. In the end, he decided on none of these, but quickly got dressed, went out to his car and set off back to Leeds.

  There was very little traffic on the roads. Even the A1 was quiet except for a few long-haul lorries and delivery vans. He passed a couple of patrol cars lurking in lay-bys, the officers either grabbing forty winks or hoping to trap some unfortunate speeder.