“No,” said Banks. “Your standard Japanese hatchback, by the sound of it. And several witnesses have told us that Mrs. Vancalm’s Cabriolet was parked outside Gabriella Mountjoy’s house until after eleven.”
“One woman did tell us that Denise Vancalm had a visitor the day before the murder.”
Banks’s ears pricked up. “A man?”
“No, a woman. During the day.”
“So she wasn’t at work. I wonder why?”
“From the description we got, it sounds very much like Natasha Goldwell.”
“Well,” said Banks, disappointed. “There’s nothing odd about that. They’re good friends. Must have been a coffee morning or something.”
“Afternoon.”
“Coffee afternoon, then. It still takes us back to square one.” Banks finished his drink. Someone else came to play the slot machine and the noise started up again. “Nothing in the way of a motive.”
“Not so far,” said Annie. “Look, I don’t want you to make too much of this, but I thought there was something a bit odd about Natasha Goldwell.”
“Odd?”
“Well, I mean, she was convincing enough. They went to the Old Oak, where Natasha had a gin and tonic and Denise had a Campari and soda, chatted about their husbands briefly—Natasha’s is a civil engineer—talked a bit about some online poker game they play regularly.”
“These women are really keen, then?”
“I got the impression that Natasha was. She’s the main online player. Gabriella strikes me as someone who more likes the idea of it, you know, cracking a male bastion.”
“Better than cracking other male parts.”
“But Natasha was more into the technical talk. It was way over my head. And the impression I got was that one of them is really involved in tournaments and all that stuff. She’s even been to Las Vegas to play.”
“Which one would that be?”
“Evangeline White.”
“Do they play for money?”
“Of course. It’s no fun if you don’t have a little something riding on it, Gabriella told me. I didn’t get the impression that huge fortunes changed hands, but enough to make it interesting.”
“But it was nothing to do with their husbands?”
“No. The men were very much excluded.”
“And what about Denise Vancalm herself?”
“I definitely got the impression that she was keen, a pretty good player, but perhaps in it more for the social aspects. You know, a chance to get together without the menfolk, have a few drinks and talk girl talk, and perhaps even do a bit of business. I mean, they’re all top echelon. Almost all. Natasha runs a computer software solutions company, online security and whatnot, Evangeline White owns an upmarket travel agency—Sahara Desert holidays and roughing it in Woolawoola—and Heather Murchison…well, you know her.”
Banks did. Heather Murchison was a familiar face and personality on the local television news, and her blond looks, buxom figure, and husky Morningside accent caused many a red-blooded male to be much more informed about local matters than previously.
“And Denise Vancalm herself is a fund-raiser and organizer of charity events,” Annie went on. “She does a lot of work for hospitals and children’s charities in particular.”
“Five successful, attractive women,” said Banks, “all in their late thirties or early forties. All, or most of them, married to or hooked up with successful, attractive men. Sounds like a recipe for disaster. Any hints of clandestine goings-on? You know, musical beds, wife swapping, that sort of thing.”
“Wife swapping?” said Annie, laughing. “You really must leave the sixties behind.”
“I’m sure people still do it. There was that film by Kubrick. Must have been the nineties at least.”
“Eyes Wide Shut,” said Annie. “Even Tom Cruise couldn’t save that one. Yes, it was the nineties, orgies and such like. But wife swapping…swinging…” She shook her head and laughed again.
“Okay, I get your point,” said Banks. “No need to hammer it home. I have about as much knowledge about what goes on in suburban bedrooms as I do about the thoroughly modern woman. But what I’m saying is that there might have been rivalries among these women or their husbands, liaisons—if that’s not too outdated a word—affairs. Jealousy can be a powerful motive.”
“Why look beyond the facts here?” said Annie. “Victor Vancalm came home and surprised a burglar, one who was somehow familiar with the layout of his house, the safe. Perhaps he decided to take the burglar on, and for his efforts he got bashed on the head with a poker. I mean, the side window had been broken from the outside.”
“Yes, but what about the security system?”
“Turned off.”
“So our would-be burglar would have to know how to do that, too?”
“I’m not saying it was kids, or an amateur. Any burglar worth his salt can find his way around a domestic security system.”
“True enough, but when you add it all up, a little inside knowledge goes a long way. Anyway, you said there was something odd about Natasha Goldwell?”
“Yes. It was nothing, really, but there was just something a bit…offhand…about her responses. I mean, I know it was very recent, so she’d hardly have to rack her brains to remember, but it all seemed just a bit too handy, a bit too pat.”
“As if she’d learned it by rote?”
“Maybe. It’s something to bear in mind, at any rate.” Annie reached for her glass. “You know,” she said, “it’s not a bad idea, this ladies’ poker circle. I wouldn’t mind being involved in something like that myself.”
“Start one, then.”
“Maybe I will. Winsome might be interested. Maybe even Superintendent Gervaise. We could get a police ladies’ poker circle together.”
“I can’t see the chief constable approving. You know what he feels about gambling and the road to corruption.”
“Still,” said Annie, “I think it’s sort of cool. Anyway, what next?”
“We’ll have another word with Natasha Goldwell, see what she was doing at Denise Vancalm’s the day before the murder, but first, I think we’ll go and have a little chat with Colin Whitman, Mr. Vancalm’s business partner.”
The offices of the Vancalm-Whitman public relations company were above a wine shop on a side street off the main hill. Banks parked up by The Stray, and he and Annie walked down past Betty’s toward the spa, the wind blowing rain against them. “If the timing’s right,” Banks said, “I’ll take you to Betty’s after the interview.”
“You’re on,” said Annie.
A receptionist greeted them in the first office. The entire floor looked as if it had been renovated recently, the bare brick look with a few contemporary paintings stuck up here and there to liven the monotony. There was also a smell of freshly cut wood. The phone kept ringing, and between calls, the receptionist, who bore the name tag “Megan,” pointed along a corridor and told them Mr. Whitman would see them. They knocked on the door and entered the spacious office, which looked over the street. It wasn’t much of a view. The street was so narrow you could practically shake hands with the bloke sitting at the desk in the window of the building opposite. But if you glanced a bit to the left, you could see beyond the slate roofs to the hint of green countryside beyond.
“I wasn’t sure what to do when I heard the news,” said Whitman after they had all made themselves comfortable. “Open the office, close for the day. In the end I decided this is what Victor would have wanted, so we’re soldiering on.” He managed a grim smile. Gray-haired, perhaps in his late forties, Colin Whitman looked fit and slender, as if he put in plenty of time on the golf course, and perhaps even at the gym. He seemed relaxed at first, his movements precise, not an ounce of effort wasted. He had a red complexion, the kind that gray hair sets so much in relief.
“I understand Mr. Vancalm was away in Berlin on business until yesterday?” Banks began.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Wh
ere were you yesterday evening between the hours of seven and ten?”
“Me?”
“Yes,” said Annie, leaning forward. “We’re just trying to eliminate all the people closest to Mr. Vancalm from our inquiry. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes, of course.” Whitman scratched the side of his nose. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t be much help there. I mean I was at home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I’m not married.”
“What were you doing?” Banks asked.
“Watching television, mostly. I watched Emmerdale, Coronation Street, and A Touch of Frost and warmed up some takeaway Chinese food for dinner. Not very exciting.”
“Drink much?” Banks asked.
Whitman shifted his gaze from Annie to Banks and frowned. “Just a couple of beers, that’s all.”
“Good, was it, A Touch of Frost? I didn’t see it.”
Whitman laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought a real policeman would have been very interested in something like that, but I enjoyed it.”
“What was it about?”
“A hostage taking.”
Anyone could have looked it up in the paper and come up with that vague description, Banks thought, but that was so often what constituted an alibi, and unless someone else had seen Whitman elsewhere, it would be a damned hard one to break, too. Whitman was clearly becoming unnerved by the interview. He had developed a nervous tic above his left eye and he kept tapping on the desk with a chewed yellow pencil. He clearly wanted to get this over with, wanted the box ticked, wanted Banks and Annie to get to the point and leave.
“Did you go out at all?” Annie asked.
“No. I’d no need to. It was miserable out there.”
“So nobody saw you all evening?”
“I’m afraid not. But that’s often the case, isn’t it? How many people see you after you go home?”
“Where do you live?”
“Harewood. Look, are you almost finished? As I’m sure you can imagine, Victor’s death has thrown everything into upheaval. There are a lot of clients I have to inform, and I’m not looking forward to it.”
“I can understand that, sir,” said Annie, “and we won’t keep you much longer. Perhaps you could tell us a little bit about Mr. Vancalm?”
“Victor? Not much to tell, really. He was a good man, good at his job, loved his wife.”
“Was he the kind of man who played around with other women?” Banks asked.
Whitman looked shocked. “Not that I knew of. I shouldn’t think so. I mean, he seemed…”
“Would he have told you if he did?”
“Probably not. Our relationship was purely business. We hardly socialized unless it was with a client.”
“What about Mrs. Vancalm?” Annie asked.
“Denise? What about her?”
“Did she have other men?”
“Now look here, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but the Vancalms’ marriage was perfectly normal.”
“What does that mean?” Banks asked.
“Normal?”
“Yes. You already told us you’re not married yourself and that your relationship with the Vancalms was purely a business one, so how would you know?”
“I’m just going b-by what I saw, what I heard, that’s all. Look, dammit, they were a happily married couple. Can’t you just leave it at that?”
Banks glanced at Annie and gave her the signal to leave. “I suppose we’ll have to,” he said. “For now. Thanks very much for your time, Mr. Whitman.”
Outside in the wet gray air, Banks looked at his watch. “Betty’s? Something sinfully sweet and sticky.”
“Ooh,” said Annie, “you do know how to charm a woman. I can hardly wait.”
It was after eight and pitch-black when Banks got back to his recently renovated Gratly cottage. After the fire had destroyed most of the place a couple of years ago, he had had the interior reconstructed, an extension added down one side and a conservatory built on at the back. He had turned the extension into an entertainment room, with a large plasma TV, comfortable cinema-style armchairs, surround sound and a drinks cabinet. Mostly he sat and watched DVDs or listened to CDs there by himself, but sometimes Annie dropped by, or one of his children, and it was good to have company.
Tonight he was alone, and that didn’t make him much different from Colin Whitman, he realized. He was eating yesterday’s warmed-up chicken vindaloo and drinking Tetley’s bitter from a can, cruising the TV channels with the aptly-named remote, aptly named because he was finding nothing of the remotest interest.
Then Banks remembered that he had set his DVD recorder for A Touch of Frost last night. He always enjoyed spotting the mistakes, but perhaps even more he enjoyed David Jason’s performance. Realistic or not, there was no denying the entertainment value to be got from Frost’s relationship with Mullet and with his various hapless sidekicks.
He put the vindaloo containers in the rubbish bin and settled down for Frost. But it was not to be. What played instead was an old episode of Inspector Morse he had seen before, with Patricia Hodge guest-starring as a very upper-class Oxford wife.
At first Banks wondered if he had set up the recorder wrongly. It wouldn’t have surprised him if he had; technology had never been his strong point. But his son Brian had given him a lesson, and he had been pleased that he had been able to use it a few times without messing up. He didn’t have to worry about setting times or anything, just key in a number.
He played around with the remote, checked the recording date and time, and made sure that this was indeed the program he had set for last night. There was no mistake. Not that he had anything against Morse, but he had been expecting Frost. He couldn’t be bothered getting up to search for something else, so he decided he might as well watch it anyway. When he started to play the DVD again, he found that it began with the end of an explanation and apology from the TV station.
From what Banks could make out, A Touch of Frost had been postponed and replaced by an episode of Inspector Morse because of its controversial subject matter: a kidnapped and murdered police officer. Over the past couple of days, the news had been full of stories of a police officer who had been abducted while trying to prevent a robbery. Only yesterday his body had been found dumped in a bin bag near South-wark. He had been shot. The TV executives clearly thought the Frost story mirrored the real one too much to be disturbing to people, so at the last minute they had pulled it.
Colin Whitman had swore blind that he had watched A Touch of Frost, and it hadn’t been on. Banks phoned the station and asked the duty officer to see that Whitman was brought up from Harewood to Eastvale, then he rang Annie, turned off the DVD and TV and headed for the door.
“Look, it’s late,” said Whitman. “You drag me from my home and make me sit in this disgusting room for ages. What on earth’s going on? What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t a police state yet, you know.”
“Sorry about melodrama,” said Banks. “I can see why you might be a bit upset. I suppose we could have waited till morning. I don’t imagine you were going to make a run for it or anything, were you? Why should you? You probably thought you’d got us all fooled.”
Whitman frowned. “I’m sorry? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Suspicion of murder, Mr. Whitman,” said Banks, then gave him the caution and advised him of his rights. The tape recorders made a faint whirring sound in the background, but other than that it was quiet in interview room three of Western Area Headquarters. Banks and Annie sat at the scarred wooden table opposite Whitman, and a uniformed guard stood by the door. Whitman hadn’t asked for a solicitor yet, so no one else was present.
“I hope you realize this is absurd,” said Whitman. “I haven’t murdered anyone.”
“Mr. Whitman,” Annie said. “When DCI Banks and I talked to you this afternoon, you told us you spent yesterday evening at home watching A Touch of Frost.”
“It’s true. I
did. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all,” said Annie, “except that A Touch of Frost was pulled from the air because of a real live hostage taking. ITV showed an old Inspector Morse instead.”
Whitman’s mouth flapped open and shut like a dying fish’s. “I…they…I…”
“It’s an easy mistake,” Annie went on. “Happens sometimes, but not often. Just unlucky, this time.”
“But I…”
“Yes, Mr. Whitman?” said Banks, leaning toward him. “You want to confess? The murder of Victor Vancalm. What were you looking for? Money? Or did he have something on you? Something incriminating? Or perhaps it was something else entirely? Mrs. Vancalm, for example. Had you been having an affair? Did the two of you plan this together?”
“No!”
“No to which question, Colin?” Annie asked.
“All of them. I told you. I was at home all evening.”
“But you were lying,” said Banks. “At least you were lying about A Touch of Frost, and if you were lying about that…well, there goes your alibi.”
“Look, I didn’t know I’d need an alibi, did I?”
“Not unless you murdered Mr. Vancalm you didn’t.”
“I didn’t murder anybody!”
“You say you didn’t, but yet when we asked you where you were around the time he died, you gave us a pack of lies. Why?”
“I…it just sounded so weak.”
“What did?”
“That I just stopped in by myself.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Banks. “You’re telling us that you thought it sounded weak saying you stopped in by yourself and ate some leftover Chinese takeaway, but it somehow sounded more believable that you did this while watching A Touch of Frost?”
“Well, I must admit, put like that it sounds rather silly, but yes.”
Banks looked at Annie, who rolled her eyes.
“What?” said Whitman.
“I really think we’d better start at the beginning,” said Annie. “And the truth this time.”
“But it was the truth.”
“Apart from A Touch of Frost?”
“Yes. I didn’t watch television.”
The Price of Love and Other Stories Page 14