The Price of Love and Other Stories

by Peter Robinson

  After a while, he became vaguely aware of someone kicking him, first in the ribs, then a jarring blow to the side of his skull, and another. He fell over on his side. People were shouting now, someone trying to get ahold of him. Micallef had his knees drawn up to his stomach and his hands defensively covering his bleeding face, whimpering on the pavement.

  Banks struggled, but it was no good. The hands holding him were strong and sure. At one point, he thought he heard Albright say, “Forget it, sir, it’s Chinatown.”

  He gasped for breath as Albright helped him to his feet, and the more air he got, the more he calmed down, came out of the red mist and was able to understand what was going on. Benny and Albright had scuffled at first, but in the end they had decided to try and separate Banks and Micallef. Now Banks leaned against a lamppost and felt the side of his face all wet and numb, and the blood was pounding in his head.

  Micallef sagged in a heap on the pavement and held his stomach and groaned. Then he glared up at Banks, features twisted in pain. “You’re dead!” he shouted through blood and broken teeth. “You hear me, Banks? You’re a dead man for this!”

  Maybe I am, Banks thought, and maybe it doesn’t matter. The thing was, he felt like a dead man already.

  “Well, mate, you’ve certainly been in the wars, haven’t you?”

  Banks instinctively put his hand up to the side of his right eye. He could feel the rough, uneven row of stitches. Eight of them. And his ribs still ached where they were taped. “The doc says I might have a scar.”

  Roly Verity brushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll look good on you. I’m told some ladies like a scar.”

  “Not my wife,” said Banks.

  It was ten days after the attack on Micallef and the kerfuffle had more or less settled down. Micallef had declined to press charges, more out of fear of losing face than from any benevolent feelings toward Banks. Nobody had seen anything, anyway. They never did in Soho.

  “You were lucky you didn’t get suspended, you know,” said Verity. “Young Albright did a damn good job of keeping your chestnuts out of the fire.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  He gestured toward Banks’s glass. “Another?”

  “Why not?”

  They were in the Three Greyhounds at the corner of Old Compton Street and Greek Street, and Banks was nursing the last of a pint of bitter. It was just after dark, raining outside, and the place was crowded, noisy and smoky, mostly with a young crowd. The neon signs along the street were blurred through the rain sliding down the pub windows, and from the open door Banks could hear the occasional hiss of a car splashing through a curbside puddle.

  Verity returned with the pints. “What on earth were you thinking about?” he went on.

  “You know damn well what I was thinking about,” said Banks.

  “I know you were frustrated. Aren’t we all? It’s just something we have to live with.”

  “He did it,” said Banks. “Jackie Simmons. Either that or he had it done. And he played a big part in Stafford’s suicide, too.”

  “You know he did it and I know he did, but it’s what we can prove that counts, and we can’t prove a fucking thing. There are no witnesses, and he’s got five people to say he was playing cards with them. No forensics worth a damn. No prints. Blood type shared with 45 percent of the population. Including you, for all I know…. And the victim was just another tom. What’s the point in beating yourself up over it?”

  Banks paused, started his fresh beer and said, “It would hardly be in your interests anyway, would it, Micallef going down for murder?”

  Banks sensed Verity stiffen beside him. His tone hardened as he said, “What do you mean by that?”

  “Proof, Roly, proof. I don’t have any. Not of anything.” Banks tapped the side of his head. “But I think I know what happened. I think I know what’s been going on.”

  “You’re talking in riddles, man.”

  “I just want to know how deep you’re in with them, that’s all.”

  Verity put his drink down hard and some of it spilled over the sides. He scraped his chair back. One or two of the young drinkers gave them the once-over but averted their gaze quickly when they caught Verity’s evil eye. “I don’t have to listen to this crap.”

  “True. You don’t,” said Banks. “But you want to know how much I know, don’t you? Calculate the threat level?”

  Verity picked up his glass again. “One of those hypothetical discussions,” he said, smiling through crooked and stained teeth.

  “You can put it that way, if you like.” Banks lit a cigarette. “The way I see it, though, Roly, is that you’ve been playing both sides against the middle, haven’t you?”

  “Who was it put you on to Micallef in the first place?”

  “I’ve thought about that,” said Banks. “It was you. Right from the start, just down the street from here, after Pamela Morrison’s murder.”

  “And?”

  “You had to, didn’t you? It was a smart move. You knew we’d get on to him eventually, either through the girls, the club or the building, so why not come out with it up front? You’re a cop, after all. You were supposed to be helping us. I can’t say you did a great deal after that, though. Not for us, at any rate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got the impression that Micallef knew we were coming, that he had time to prepare his story. I think you warned him.”

  “Bollocks. He’d have known anyway. A prossie gets killed in Soho? Course he’d expect a visit from the peelers.”

  “Maybe. But it goes a bit deeper than that, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, stop playing the bloody innocent, Roly. I know you blokes at Vice. Sometimes you get so close to your villains you become one yourself, or as good as. A free taste of pussy now and then, the odd bottle of bubbly, a carton of cigarettes. I know how it goes.”

  “Them’s the old days. That’s—”

  “Nothing’s changed that much. Not when it comes down to graft and corruption. I can understand why you want to keep in with him, because he drops a useful crumb of good information your way once in a while. If you protect him, he’ll give up his competitors and any newcomers trying to muscle in. It’s a dangerous game, Roly, and a dodgy one, but I can understand it. I can see why you want to do that, and I applaud you for it, I really do. It’s a fine balancing act. But you’ve gone too far this time.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Norman Stafford.”

  “He was a killer and a pervert. And he committed suicide.”

  “All true, more or less. But I think he committed suicide with a little persuasion from Matthew Micallef. Micallef was seen leaving his house.”

  “Possibly seen. Anyway, so what if he did? Saved us a lot of paperwork.”

  Banks laughed. “That’s true. And he’s no great loss. But the point is that at some point before that, Micallef must have known it was Stafford killing his girls, even if he didn’t personally set up the dates. And if he knew, why didn’t you know? And if you did know, why didn’t we know?”

  “This is all too complicated for me. Nobody told me anything.”

  “So it was a one-way street, was it?”

  “What?”

  “The information. The second time I talked to Micallef, he used the phrase ‘Sellotaped her cunt shut.’ I remembered it because it disgusted me the first time as much as it did the second, and the first time I heard it was from your mouth.”

  Verity raised his hands. “Fine, you don’t like the way I talk. So wash my fucking mouth out with soap.”

  “You’re missing the point, Roly.” Banks counted on his fingers for emphasis. “First off, how did he know the killer used Sellotape on his victims? It wasn’t in the press, or on the telly. We kept it hush-hush. And second, why did he use that exact same phrase? Word for word. Unless he’d heard it somewhere before?”

  Verity sat quietly fo
r a moment, thinking and fidgeting with his drink. Banks smoked and watched him patiently. “I suppose you’re going to tell me?” Verity said finally.

  “Well, there’s only two ways it could have happened,” Banks said. “Either he heard it from one of the team, or he was there at the scene of one, or both, murders. Take your pick.”

  “Micallef didn’t kill those girls.”

  “Which leaves the team. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t Albright, it certainly wasn’t Hatchard, and I doubt very much—”

  “All right, all right, so I told him. Mea culpa. So what? It was tit for tat. I was hoping he might give me a lead, a name, anything.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “He didn’t know anything at that point.”

  “And that’s another thing, Roly. You were awfully quick on the scene at the Maureen Heseltine murder. You weren’t on a call across the street. I checked. How did you get there so fast?”

  “What? I…”

  “Let me tell you how I think it happened. Micallef tipped you off, didn’t he? Either Stafford came unstrung and went crying to him, or he figured it out for himself. Maybe he did arrange the dates, or at least the second one. But he wanted you on the spot. You’re in bed with him, Roly. I just want to know if you go all the way together or not.”

  “That’s rubbish.”

  “Is it? How did you get there so quickly, then?”

  “It’s my job, or maybe you hadn’t noticed?”

  “How?”

  “I got the call, just like you. I got there before you, that’s all.”

  “You ran all the way?”

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “So why did you lie about it?”

  “Is this some sort of interrogation? A trap? Are you wired? Because if you’re trying to fit me up—”

  “Relax, Roly. I’m not wired. Pat me down if you want, though you might raise an eyebrow or two.”

  Verity shifted in his seat “All right,” he grunted. “I believe you. I told you, it was always give-and-take with Micallef. We tolerated each other.”

  “I think it was more a matter of give on your part and take on his. We got nothing out of this, Roly. Nothing. What did you get?”

  “I resent that.”

  “I daresay you do. But you know what really gets me? It’s not Micallef. It’s not even Stafford. You can argue he deserved what he got. It’s the girl.”

  “Which girl?”

  “You know damn well which girl. Jackie Simmons.”

  “Why? Soft on her, were you? I’ve heard tell you—”

  “Enough, Roly, enough,” said Banks. “Jackie Simmons told me about a weird client she’d had, one who went on about restoring her innocence, and she gave me a good description. We got her in and produced a passable photokit. We were getting close to Norman Stafford. But you know all about that, don’t you? Now, whether Micallef didn’t want us talking to him because of their property dealings, or whether he simply wanted him out of way because he’d killed two of his girls, I don’t know. I’d say for a man like that it’s probably as easy to replace an MP as it is a girl, so let’s say he suggested suicide—”

  “You can’t prove any of this. It’s nothing but idle speculation.”

  “Speculation, yes, but not so idle. And the question remains: How did Micallef know that Jackie Simmons gave me a description of Stafford? How did he know she’d talked?”

  “Someone must have seen the two of you together. God knows, you were practically—”

  “You knew, Roly. You were in and out of the office like you belonged. You saw all the case files, had access to all the leads as soon as we got them. What did you do? Make a copy of the photokit and show it to Micallef so he could plug his leaks? Including Jackie Simmons? You told him about her, didn’t you? You signed her death warrant, Roly, and that’s what I can’t forgive you for.”

  Verity stabbed Banks’s chest with his finger. “You’re so fucking holier than thou, aren’t you? Just take a look at yourself, Banks. You’re pissed half the time, hungover the rest. You go off half-cocked at Micallef in the street in broad daylight. You chat up his girls, and everybody knows you’re screwing—”

  “Stop right there,” said Banks. His voice was soft but the level of menace was high, and Verity picked up on it. “Stop right there. You don’t bring me or my personal life into this. Get it? This is between you and me.”

  “Oh, really? Well, I don’t give a fuck. Do you want to know the truth, Banks? Do you want to know what people think around here, what they’re saying behind your back? You don’t fit. I might as well tell you. Word is getting round. You’re a hothead. A throwback. You’re not a team player. This city needs a different kind of detective for these times. One who knows the value of good intelligence. Of not rocking the boat too much.”

  Banks snorted. “And that’s you, Roly? Because if that’s the case, I’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else, for that matter.”

  “Well, why don’t you take the chance if it comes your way? You can’t win the war, you know, only the occasional battle.”

  “Maybe so, but at least I don’t have to be a collaborator.”

  “Are you calling me a rat? Is that what you’re calling me?”

  “Forget it, Roly,” said Banks. “You’re right. We both know Micallef did it. He’s got away with it. One day we’ll get him for something else. Everything comes around.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Karma, Roly, karma.” Banks stood up, gave him a little salute and said, “Be seeing you.”

  And that was it, really. Over twenty years ago. Banks had walked out of the Three Greyhounds that day knowing that he was right, that Roland Verity had passed on information to Micallef that had sealed Jackie’s fate.

  Matthew Micallef was shot by an underage Russian prostitute called Olga Chevenko in the alley beside the Nellie Dean in November 1996. In her defense, she said she was jealous because he had been sleeping with another woman. DCI Roland Verity came under investigation on corruption charges around the same time, something to do with smuggling illegal, and often unwilling, young girls from Eastern Europe for the purposes of prostitution. He took early retirement. Word had it that he was living the life of Riley on the Costa del Sol.

  Over the years, Banks had thought often of Pamela Morrison, Maureen Heseltine and, especially, of Jackie Simmons, but he had put the rest of the business out of his mind and got on with his new life in Yorkshire. He might not have found as much peace as he had hoped for when he took the transfer, but things had been better, for a while. His marriage to Sandra had even blossomed for a while, though it eventually ended in divorce.

  Like everyone else in the know, he had assumed that Pamela’s and Maureen’s killer had delivered his own judgment and carried out his own sentence on himself, with or without a little help, and that Micallef had either killed, or ordered the killing of, Jackie Simmons as a warning to the rest of the girls, though Banks couldn’t prove it.

  And now, as he stood looking out on a new day in Eastvale market square, he held in his hands something that he knew might change everything he had believed. The radio was tuned to some atonal piece on Radio 3, Schoenberg or Berg, but it seemed quite fitting.

  Banks opened the envelope.

  It was from Commander Oswald Albright, of the London Metropolitan Police, and the rather stiff, formal note told him that as a result of a recent “cold case” reinvestigation of the Jackie Simmons murder, which had always remained officially “unsolved,” a warrant had been issued for the arrest of former Detective Chief Inspector Roland Verity, and an extradition request had been sent to the Spanish government. The Spanish authorities had already been extremely cooperative in arranging for a DNA sample and were expected to throw up no barriers to Verity’s eventual extradition.

  What comes around. Karma.

  Banks wondered what Verity looked like now. Sunburned, wearing shorts and a Bermuda shirt, no doubt, probably run to fat. Did h
e still have that ridiculous mop of hair that used to flop over his face like a careless schoolboy’s?

  Curious about a few points, Banks turned off the radio and picked up his phone. After a few minutes, he was put through to Commander Albright.

  “Sir,” said the younger man, now at a higher rank than his old boss.

  “Call me Alan, Ozzy. And shouldn’t I be calling you sir?”

  “I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you? Do you remember a conversation we once had in the Pillars of Hercules many years ago? I was telling you about an article I’d read on DNA, and you—”

  Banks laughed. “All right. All right, Ozzy. You were right. You were ahead of your time, and I was a dinosaur, even then.”

  “Well, it just goes to show, doesn’t it, after all these years?”

  “That’s what I was wondering about,” said Banks. “You’re a bit scant with the details. Why? How?”

  “Well, it wasn’t down to me, if that was what you were thinking. I just got the team’s results and thought you’d want to know. It’s funny the way these cold case things work. Not my department. God knows if it’s alphabetical or by year, or whatever system they use. Anyway, the Jackie Simmons case came up for investigation. You liked her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “I did. She was a beautiful, spirited, intelligent girl, no matter what, and she didn’t deserve what happened to her. She had her problems, but don’t we all?”

  “Too true. Christ, I’ll never forget the day you went for Micallef in Gerrard Street. I thought you were going to kill him.”

  Banks fingered the scar beside his right eye. “I might have done if you and Benny hadn’t stopped me,” said Banks. “Not my finest hour. Back to the cold case investigation.”