The Price of Love and Other Stories

by Peter Robinson

  “What did you do?” Banks asked.

  “I just sat there thinking, did a little work. I often have work to take home with me.”

  Banks shook his head. “I still don’t get it. Why lie to us about watching television if all you were doing was work?”

  “Like I said, it sounds silly now, I realize. I don’t want people to think I’m a workaholic. I do have a life.”

  “Watching A Touch of Frost and eating warmed-up takeaway is a life?” Even as he spoke, Banks was aware that that was exactly what he had done, or would have done if he hadn’t caught Whitman in a lie about his alibi. Sad, he told himself. Note to self: must get out more.

  “Well, when you put it like that, as I said, it does sound rather silly.”

  “Not really,” said Banks. “I don’t think it’s silly at all. Do you, Annie?”

  “Not at all,” Annie agreed.

  “I think it was very clever of you,” Banks went on. “You came home, got changed, went out and waited for Mr. Vancalm to return from Berlin, then you killed him. You knew he was away and when he’d be coming back. You also knew the layout of his study, and, I would imagine, the ins and outs of the security system and the wall safe. You didn’t want too elaborate an alibi because you knew we’d be suspicious. Let’s face it, most people, when questioned by the police, don’t have alibis any better than yours was. It makes perfect sense to me. You were just unlucky, that’s all. It only took a simple twist of fate.”

  Annie gave Banks a questioning look.

  “Dylan,” he said.

  Whitman banged both fists on the table. “But I didn’t do it!”

  Banks folded his arms and leaned back. “Sure you weren’t having an affair with Mrs. Vancalm? She’s a very attractive woman.”

  “She’s my partner’s wife, for crying out loud.”

  “That wouldn’t stop most people.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  Banks paused. “No, you’re not, are you, Colin? In fact, I’m not sure what sort of person you are.” He glanced at Annie and smiled back at Whitman. “I can’t see that we’re getting anywhere here, though, and DI Cabbot and I are both tired, so I think we’ll call it a night, if that’s OK with you?”

  Whitman sat up straight and beamed. “OK?” he echoed. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all evening.”

  Banks and Annie stood up. “Right,” said Banks to the officer at the door. “Take Mr. Whitman here down to custody, make sure it’s all done by the book, and find a nice cell for him for the night. A nice cell, mind you, Smithers. Not one of those vomit-filled cages you usually put people in.”

  PC Smithers could hardly keep back the laughter. “Yes, sir,” he said, and took Whitman by the arm.

  “What’s this?” Whitman said. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re detaining you until we’re happy with your story,” said Banks.

  “But…but you can’t do that. I’ve answered your questions. You have to let me go.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Banks, looking at Annie. “You can tell this fellow doesn’t watch his Frost and Morse closely enough, can’t you, DI Cabbot?”

  Annie smiled. “Indeed you can,” she said.

  Banks turned to Whitman. “As a matter of fact, Colin, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder, cautioned and advised of your rights. We can keep you for twenty-four hours without a charge—longer if we wanted to go the terrorist route, but I don’t think we’ll be bothering with that tonight—so that should give you plenty of time to think.” And Smithers dragged Whitman, now demanding to see his solicitor, complaining and protesting all the way, along the corridor and down the stairs to the custody suite.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Mrs. Goldwell,” said Banks. The food court of the Swainsdale Center wasn’t the ideal place for an interview, but it was Wednesday morning, so things were relatively quiet. Whitman was still sulking in his cell waiting for his solicitor, who was proving very difficult to contact, saying nothing, and DCs Jackman and Wilson were trawling through his life.

  “Please,” she said, “call me Natasha. Is that wise?”

  She was looking at Banks’s Egg McMuffin with sausage. “Tastes all right,” said Banks. “I reckon they’re quite manageable if you only eat about five or six a year.”

  Natasha Goldwell smiled. It was a nice smile, pearly teeth behind the red lips. In fact, Natasha was a nice package all the way from her shaggy blond hair and winter tan to her shiny, pointed black shoes. She wrinkled her nose. “If you say so. I suppose it’s hard to eat regularly when you work the hours you do.”

  Banks raised his eyebrows. Some hadn’t seen enough cops on telly; others had seen too many. “Not really,” he said. “Mostly in Major Crimes we work regular hours.” He smiled. “Unless there’s actually a major crime, that is. Which murder definitely is.”

  Natasha put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, yes. I’m sorry. So thoughtless of me.”

  “Not to worry.” Banks sipped some coffee. It was hot and bitter.

  “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” said Banks. “I mean, you vouched for Mrs. Vancalm and that seems to check out OK. It’s just…did you know Mr. Vancalm?”

  “Victor? I’d met him, of course, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. I got together with Denise and the others for the poker circle, of course, but outside of that we didn’t live in one another’s pockets.”

  “It’s an odd hobby, poker, isn’t it?”

  “For a woman, you mean?”

  “Well, that wasn’t what I meant, but I suppose now you come to mention it, yes.”

  “Because you usually associate it with men in cowboy boots and six-guns on their hips?”

  “Well, not these days so much, but certainly not with a group of professional women.”

  “And why not? If we were playing bridge or gin rummy, would it make a difference?”

  “OK, I take your point.”

  Natasha smiled. “Anyway, we enjoy it, and it does no harm. It’s not as if the stakes are beyond anyone’s means.”

  “What about the online playing? The tournaments?”

  “You’ve heard about those? They’re not for everyone. Only Evangeline from our group goes in for them. But the online stuff…” She shrugged. “It’s fun. Better than computer dating or chat rooms. Safer, too.”

  “I suppose so,” said Banks, whose online experience was limited to Amazon and the occasional rock concert clip on YouTube. “What kind of person would you say Victor Vancalm was?”

  “As I told you, I scarcely knew him.” She chewed on her lower lip, then said, “But from what I did know, I’d say he was used to getting his own way, a bit bossy perhaps.”

  “Abusive?”

  “Good God, no! No. Certainly not. As far as I ever knew, Denise was perfectly happy with him.”

  She didn’t look Banks in the eye as she said this, which immediately raised his suspicions. “So she wore the trousers, then?”

  Natasha Goldwell smiled. “Oh, Mr. Banks! What a quaint expression. I’m afraid you really are behind the times. It was an equal partnership.”

  “What were you doing at Denise Vancalm’s house the day before the murder?” he asked.

  A couple of women sat down at the table beside them, paper bags crinkling and crackling, chatting about some rude shopgirl they’d just had to deal with. “And did you see her hair?” one of them asked, aghast. “What sort of color would you call that? And there was enough metal in her face to start a foundry.”

  The interruption gave Natasha the breathing space she seemed to need after Banks’s abrupt change of direction. When she answered his question, she was all poise again. “No reason in particular,” she said. “We often get together for a coffee. Denise happened to be working from home that day and I had a spare hour between clients. One of the perks of running your own business is that you can play truant occasionally.” She wrinkled her nose.

&nbs
p; “What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, this and that,” said Natasha. “You know, girly talk.”

  “She didn’t have any problems, any worries that she shared with you?”

  “Mr. Banks, it was her husband who was murdered, not Denise.”

  “Just trying to find a reason for what happened.”

  “I would have thought that was obvious. He interrupted a burglar.”

  Banks scratched the scar next to his right eye. “Yes, it does rather look that way, doesn’t it? Do you know if either of them had any enemies, any problems that were getting them down. Debts, for example?”

  “Debts?”

  “Well, there was the poker…and Mr. Vancalm’s trips.”

  “Victor made business trips, it’s true, and Denise plays a little online poker, but debts…? I don’t think so. Are you suggesting it was some sort of debt collector come to break his legs or something and it got out of hand? This is Eastvale, Mr. Banks, not Las Vegas.”

  Banks shrugged. “Stranger things have happened at sea. Anything else you can tell me?”

  “About what?”

  “About what happened that night?”

  “I finished work at six thirty. Denise met me at the office. We went to the Old Oak for a drink. Just the one. We are always careful. She drove me to Gabriella’s. We played poker all evening, then she dropped me off on her way home sometime after eleven. That’s all there is to it.”

  She did sound a bit as if she were speaking by rote, Banks thought, remembering what Annie had said, but then she had already been asked to describe the evening several times. “Who won?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “The poker circle. Who won?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Natasha said, “Denise did.”

  “It’s just a minor blip on the radar, really, sir,” said Winsome. She was sitting at her computer, leaning back in the chair, long legs crossed at the ankles, hands linked behind her head.

  “Tell me about it, anyway,” said Banks, grabbing a chair and sitting so that he could rest his arms on the back.

  “Well,” Winsome went on in her Jamaican-tinged Yorkshire, “you know that big operation a few years back, the one that netted Pete Townsend?”

  Banks nodded. Cynical copper though he may be, he had never believed for a moment that Pete Townsend was connected with child pornography in any way other than for research, and he was certainly glad when he heard that the Who’s guitarist was completely vindicated.

  “That’s when Colin Whitman’s name came up,” Winsome said. “The usual. Credit card online.”

  “You’d think people would know better.”

  “They do now, sir,” said Winsome. “The online dealers have got more savvy, and some of the pros have pretty much gone back to hard copy. It’s safer and less likely to be detected, especially the way the borders are throughout Europe these days.”

  “Everyone’s too busy looking for terrorists.”

  “Right, sir. But there’s still a lot of activity over the Internet. Anyway, as I said, it almost went under the radar, just a blip, but there it is.”

  “Did you check Victor Vancalm’s name, too?”

  “Yes. Nothing.”

  “Was Whitman interviewed?”

  “No, sir. They just put his name in a pending file. There were hundreds of them. It was a big operation.”

  “I remember.”

  “It might not mean anything.”

  “But then again,” said Banks, “it might. Think we can use it to get a search warrant?”

  “I don’t see why not, sir. Want me to get on to it?”

  “Immediately.” Banks looked at his watch. “We’ve got the pleasure of Mr. Whitman’s custody until this evening.”

  “About bloody time,” said Colin Whitman when Banks had him brought up to his office at six o’clock that evening. Banks stood with his back to the door, looking out of his window. Outside in the market square all was dark and still except for a few people heading to or from home across the cobbles. “I’ve spoken with my solicitor,” Whitman went on, “and he advised me to cooperate, but I’d like him to be present during any further discussions we may have.”

  “That’s your prerogative,” said Banks, turning. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to go home as soon as possible?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Let’s see if we can get this over with quickly then, shall we? Please, sit.”

  Whitman stared and stood his ground as Banks sat behind his desk. Then he slowly pulled out the hard-back chair and sat opposite. “Is this an apology?”

  “Not exactly,” Banks said. The radio was playing one of Beethoven’s “Razumovsky” quartets softly in the background, so softly you had to know it was there.

  “What, then?”

  “Our men are still at your house, but their preliminary findings have given us enough to hold you for a while longer. Superintendent Gervaise has already authorized the further detention. She takes as dim a view of what you’ve been up to as I do. I don’t think you’re going to find a lot of sympathizers here.”

  Whitman had turned pale, which told Banks he knew exactly what was going on. “I want my solicitor,” he said.

  “Thought you might. You can put another call in, of course, that’s your right. And we’d be quite happy to get a duty solicitor for you if there’s a problem.”

  Whitman reached for the phone and Banks let him call. By the sound of it, he got an answering machine. He left a message and hung up.

  “Probably out at some function or other,” said Banks. “As I said—”

  “I’ll wait for my own man, thank you very much. And I’m not saying a word until he gets here.”

  “Your privilege, sir,” said Banks, “but remember what I said earlier: what you don’t say can mean just as much in court these days as what you do say.”

  Whitman folded his arms. “I’m still not saying anything.”

  “Better let me do the talking, then,” said Banks. “I’ll start by saying that I’m not sure why you did it. Perhaps Victor Vancalm got on to your little game and you had to get rid of him. Or maybe there was some other reason, some business reason. But you did it. Your alibi’s crap and you’ve lied to us through your teeth. You’re also a pervert. It may be the one group that doesn’t have a charter of rights yet, child molesters.”

  “I am not a child molester.”

  “Fine distinction. I know things like that are important to your lot, how you define yourselves. But let’s be honest about it. Maybe you don’t hang about schoolyards and playgrounds waiting for opportunities to come along, but you do diddle little kids and you do like to look at pictures of other people diddling them. In fact you had quite a collection on those DVDs we found under those loose floorboards in the spare room.” “They’re not mine. I was keeping them for someone. I didn’t know what was on them.”

  “Bollocks,” said Banks. There was a tap at the door and a young uniformed officer stuck his head around. “You sent for me, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “Could you rustle up some tea? One as it comes and one…How do you take your tea, Colin? It’s not a trick question.”

  “Milk, two sugars.”

  “Got that, Constable?” said Banks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the constable had gone, Banks turned back to Whitman. “Are you going to tell me what happened, Colin?” he said. “Or are we just going to sit here and drink tea and listen to Beethoven until your brief gets your message and hotfoots it over? Then we can take it down to the interview room again and spend the night at it. I don’t mind. I’ve got no plans. The result will probably be the same in the long run.”

  “I told you. I’m not saying anything until my solicitor gets here.”

  “Right. So we already know you did it. You knew when Victor Vancalm was due to arrive home from Berlin. You probably had a key to the house, but you wanted to make it look like a burglary, so you broke that side window and
got in that way. Did you smash up the room before or after you killed Victor?”

  Whitman said nothing. His jaw was set so tightly that Banks could see the muscles tense, the lips whitening. At this rate he’d have an aneurysm or something before his solicitor arrived.

  “No matter,” Banks went on. “And you’ve no doubt got rid of whatever you stole by now, if you’ve got any sense. I don’t know how long you’d been planning this, but it smells of premeditation to me. At any rate, you won’t be out for a long, long time. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming the most obvious scenario is that Victor Vancalm found out about your odd proclivities and he didn’t like them, threatened to turn you in?”

  “That’s rubbish.”

  “Is it, Colin? Then why don’t you tell us where you really were on the night Victor was murdered? That would go a long way toward convincing me you didn’t do it.”

  Whitman chewed on a fingernail, brow furrowed in thought.

  “Colin?”

  “All right, all right! I was with a…a friend.”

  “A person of your own tastes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was he? Where does he live?”

  It took Whitman a few minutes, but Banks made the gravity of his situation clear again, and Whitman gave up a name and address.

  “We’ll check, of course,” Banks said.

  A curious and most unpleasant smile crept over Whitman’s features. “You think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you?” he said.

  Banks said nothing.

  Whitman leaned forward. “Well, what would you think, Mr. Clever Detective, if I told you those discs your men found were Victor’s?”

  “I’d think you were lying to save your own neck,” said Banks, who wasn’t too sure. He could already hear the faint alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind, sense the disparate observations and inchoate imaginings suddenly taking shape and forming recognizable images.

  Whitman laughed. “All right, you’ve got me. Or you think you’ve got me. We’ll see about that when my solicitor gets here. But don’t assume Victor Vancalm was the innocent in all this. How do you think we met in the first place?”

  “Do you mean what I think you mean?”