Taking a few minutes extra to make himself a cup of instant coffee and swallow more painkillers and a slice of buttered toast, Banks skipped the shave and hurried out to the Porsche. It was a damp, chilly morning, the tops of the hills obscured by clouds, and a mist settled low in the valley, so the tower of Helmthorpe church resembled a ship’s mast in the ocean.
Banks had had neither the time nor the inclination to think very much since his hazy journey back from the Litton house. On his way to the station, he decided on the approach that he thought would cause him the least grief. The coffee worked a little magic during the drive, and when he pulled up at the back of Eastvale Police HQ, he was feeling at least eighty per cent human again. His head still spun and throbbed, though, despite the painkillers he had taken.
AC Gervaise was waiting behind her desk and, as expected, ACC McLaughlin was in his usual comfortable chair. The CC himself wouldn’t come out of his hole even for something of this obvious magnitude. What did rather knock the wind out of Banks, though, was the presence of a grey, nondescript man sitting beside the window.
‘I understand you have already met Mr Browne, DCI Banks?’ said Gervaise.
‘Mr Browne,’ said Banks. ‘With an “e”. Yes, indeed.’
Browne inclined his head briefly in greeting, his expression inscrutable as ever. They had met once before during a particularly politically sensitive case, and all Banks really knew about him was that he was someone big in MI5. He had had a serious run-in with them during that case, and now it appeared that he was due for another. How many run-ins with MI5 could the average police career survive? he wondered.
‘You look awful,’ Gervaise said.
Banks rubbed the back of his head gently. Even that hurt. He winced. ‘I’ve had better days.’
‘And nights, so we’ve heard,’ said McLaughlin. ‘According to the Derbyshire police, that is.’
So the patrol constable had spotted something odd, seen blood or smelled whisky, and made inquiries, Banks thought. Well, good for him; he’d go far. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell us what you think you were doing going off half-cocked, alone, to interview Anthony Litton,’ said Gervaise.
‘I had nothing definite to go on,’ said Banks. ‘Suspicions, a confirmation of sorts from Lady Chalmers that, should she change her mind, wouldn’t be worth the breath it was spoken with. I was also aware of the sensitive nature of the case. The last thing I wanted to do was rush in there with the heavy brigade “half-cocked”, as you put it, and slap the cuffs on Anthony Litton. I wanted to know what was going on before I decided what to do about it.’
‘And you think that’s your place, to make decisions like that?’
‘I was the only one who knew all the details. But I was planning on laying out what I knew in front of you, ma’am.’
‘But first you went and broke all the rules in the book?’ said McLaughlin.
‘One or two, perhaps. Just little ones.’
McLaughlin glowered. ‘The most important of which was interviewing a potential murder suspect alone.’
‘I talk to people a lot by myself,’ said Banks. ‘I find I get more out of them that way.’
‘It’s not a matter of getting more out of them, Alan,’ said Gervaise. ‘It’s a matter of following the correct procedure, of obtaining evidence that can be used in court. Your recent exploits have got us nothing of the kind.’
‘Well, that should suit everyone well enough, shouldn’t it?’
Banks noticed Browne’s mouth curl at one edge in a little smile.
‘What on earth made you dash off to Derbyshire?’ Gervaise asked.
‘Someone had run Lady Chalmers off the road,’ Banks answered. ‘She’d just left her brother-in-law’s house. I thought he might know something. When I arrived, I noticed scratches and dents on the passenger side of his car. I wanted to know how he got them, so I asked him.’
‘And did he tell you?’
‘He said they must have happened when she drove away from his house in a hurry. But he was lying.’
‘You know this for a fact?’
‘It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Besides, unless he’d moved it for some reason after Veronica’s crash, Litton’s car was parked to the right of the house, in front of the garage doors.’
‘So?’
‘Well, I’m assuming that Lady Chalmers pulled up in front of the house, as I did. That’s where the drive leads, naturally, at any rate, and there’s no room on the other side of the car.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ said Gervaise.
‘No matter how Lady Chalmers left the house, by backing out, doing a three-point turn, whatever, if she’d hit Litton’s car, she would have hit it on the driver’s side, and the damage was on the passenger side, consistent with his overtaking and forcing another car off the road.’
‘It’s hardly evidence, is it, though?’ said Gervaise. ‘More like sheer speculation.’
‘It makes sense of the facts.’
‘Why on earth would Anthony Litton want to harm his own sister-in-law?’ Gervaise asked.
‘Because she knew he killed Gavin Miller, though he had convinced her it was an accident, and he felt she was becoming unstable. He knew she’d been talking to me, for example, and he was starting to feel it would only be a matter of time before she snapped.’ Banks looked at Gervaise and McLaughlin. ‘He first complained to you about me, remember, hoping to nip it in the bud. I think he realised he couldn’t, that she’d blurt it all out sooner or later, and that more drastic action was required.’
‘How do you know he killed Gavin Miller?’
‘He admitted to it. He said it was an accident, too, that they struggled, and Miller fell off the bridge.’
‘And you think he’s lying again?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘You’ll have to explain a bit better than that, Alan.’
‘It’s simple, really,’ said Banks. ‘Gavin Miller and Veronica Bellamy, as she then was, were at the University of Essex together. From what I could gather, they had gone out together for a few months in their first year. Miller must have thought there was money in it, so he contacted Lady Chalmers and asked her for money to keep quiet.’
‘About what?’ asked McLaughlin.
‘Their relationship? Some other indiscretion? Some crime they had committed? Drugs use, most likely? I don’t know exactly what. But it doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have taken much.’
‘But why so long after?’ asked Gervaise. ‘That must have been forty years ago.’
‘Because Miller was in desperate straits. Apparently, he had some woolly-headed notion about opening a record shop, and he wanted funding. He was also unravelling mentally, I think. A mix of drink and drugs and a deepening depression. And because Oliver Litton was all over the news. That was the trigger. Miller thought that if he caused the family trouble at a time like this, something that was bound to be splashed over all the tabloid front pages, given that Sir Jeremy and Lady Chalmers are celebrities of a kind, it might be worth a few thousand quid to them just to shut him up. And you all know what reporters are like. They’ll make a sow’s ear out of a silk purse in no time. It was potentially a very vulnerable time for Oliver Litton, especially with the opposition, and even contenders from his own party, searching for anything they could smear him with, however remote or spurious.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Gervaise. ‘But why was it necessary to kill Miller? Couldn’t his death have been an accident, as Litton said?’
‘It could have been, but it wasn’t,’ said Banks. ‘Lady Chalmers called her brother-in-law and asked for his help when Miller first got in touch with her, and he said he would deal with the problem, so he went to the arranged meeting with Miller instead of her. Her husband was abroad, and I doubt that she wanted him to know any sordid truths about her past, anyway. He knew nothing about Miller, and he accepted the story that he had phoned to con money out of her, posing as a member of the alumni society. Acc
ording to Anthony Litton, Miller was drunk, or stoned, or both, when they met, and he became aggressive, demanding more money, physically attacking Mr Litton, and saying vile things about Lady Chalmers and the things they’d done all those years ago. There was a struggle, and Miller was so emaciated he ended up over the side and Litton scarpered. At the most, Litton said, it was manslaughter. And that was probably what it would have come to in court. But I think he set out to kill Miller, to put an end to his blackmail, once and for all. We all know that blackmailers always come back for more. He couldn’t risk that, not with his son’s career at stake.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes. Whoever killed Miller must have physically lifted him off the ground to drop him over that bridge. It’s my opinion that it would have been very unlikely to happen by accident, and Stefan Nowak and Dr Glendenning concur. There were also ante-mortem wounds indicating a struggle of some sort.’
‘And now Anthony Litton’s dead, too?’
‘As you no doubt know,’ Banks said. ‘I approached the accident scene on my way home. They hadn’t found the body when I drove up, and they turned me back, but I’m sure it didn’t take them long, and I’m equally sure they told you all about it.’
‘It was Anthony Litton,’ said Browne, speaking up for the first time. ‘The police found his body several yards downstream. Drowned. It seems he’d managed to get out the car and was trying to swim for safety, but the current was too strong, and he wasn’t much of a swimmer. It was an accident black spot, according to the police at the scene.’ He paused and put his finger to his chin. ‘Though you might be forgiven for thinking that someone who lived in the neighbourhood would be aware of that fact and would consequently drive more carefully.’ Browne shrugged. ‘According to the accident investigator, he must have been doing about sixty. No matter. It was a bad night. Fog and all. The thing is, as soon as we heard what had happened, we – that is, some colleagues of mine – paid a hasty visit to Mr Litton’s home in search of any, well, sensitive material, and they found … well, perhaps you can tell me what they found, DCI Banks?’
There was no point lying about that, Banks thought. ‘I think Mr Litton panicked when I got the truth out of him. He took me by surprise, hit me over the head with a cut-glass decanter.’ He turned to show them the bump. ‘It bled quite a lot, and I lost consciousness for some time. When I came to, he was gone. I cleaned myself up and went out to try and find him. All I found was the accident scene.’
‘We were able to clean up the mess before any questions were asked,’ said Browne. ‘You see, none of us have the depth of understanding of this case that you have, Mr Banks, especially after the extensive inquiries you and your team have been making into Lady Chalmers’ past, but I’m sure it’s all quite irrelevant now.’ He stared blankly at Banks.
‘Quite irrelevant,’ Banks said.
Browne nodded slowly. ‘Yes. You see, as I’m sure you are also aware, we, and our sister organisation the police force, of course, have a very strong interest in wanting Oliver Litton to become the new Home Secretary, though we are aware it’s still not a foregone conclusion. It would be a tragedy if anything were to jeopardise his chances at this stage. For the first time in a long while, we would have a sympathetic and understanding Home Secretary, and perhaps some of these dreadful enforced budget cuts we’ve all been undergoing might be somewhat eased. Perhaps. At least the prospect is far better than any of the alternatives, even if nothing changes.’
‘Well,’ said Banks, spreading his hands, ‘the last thing I wanted was for the press to get hold of the story and distort it out of all proportion.’
‘Admirable, Mr Banks,’ said Browne, a glint in his eye. ‘Of course, the young Mr Litton will be the recipient of a great deal of sympathy over the loss of his father at a time when it certainly can’t do his future career any harm. Perhaps a few days of personal time, for grieving, you understand, the funeral, then back into the fray with renewed vigour. After all, it was a tragic accident. A terrible night, a notorious black spot. What can one say?’
‘Indeed,’ said Banks. Why did he always feel he was entering into a John le Carré novel every time he talked to Mr Browne? Well, this was only the second time, to be strictly fair, but he felt that it could never be otherwise. ‘And the murder of Gavin Miller?’ he said.
‘Hardly murder, wouldn’t you think?’ said Browne. ‘A bit of a puzzle, still, but one that will fade very quickly. Nobody much cares about Gavin Miller.’
‘But what about my team?’
‘What about them? Do they know anything?’
‘Just some background. They’ve put in a lot of work.’
‘Then there’s no need to worry, is there, if all they know is a little background. You were getting nowhere, the investigation is being scaled down. Soon, everyone will have forgotten about it.’
‘Are there any other promising leads?’ asked McLaughlin.
‘No,’ said Banks. ‘We were looking into drugs, and connections with Eastvale College, but we kept hitting a brick wall.’
‘There you are,’ said Browne. ‘People will assume it was probably a criminal gang who does something like that. Such killers are notoriously difficult to bring to justice.’
‘Then I don’t really think we can justify the cost of an ongoing investigation, can we?’ McLaughlin said. ‘I think we can safely put it on the back-burner.’
‘What about Lady Chalmers?’ Banks asked. ‘He tried to kill her.’
‘We’ve had a brief word,’ said Browne. ‘Naturally, she is grief-stricken. I understand that she and her sister were very close, and since her sister’s death, her brother-in-law and her nephew have become even closer to her. She’s bearing up well. I’d say she’ll be right as rain, given a little time.’
‘And me?’ said Banks.
‘Just a little bump on the head,’ said Browne. ‘You’ll recover.’
‘I didn’t mean that. Should I be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my days?’
Browne raised an eyebrow. ‘No need to be melodramatic. Oh, we’ll keep an eye on you. The way we always do. I heard rumours of a promotion.’ He glanced towards ACC McLaughlin. ‘That should be nice.’
Banks turned to Gervaise and McLaughlin. Neither of them seemed very happy. ‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘I’m not sure I’ve behaved myself well enough for that.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Browne, standing to leave. ‘You did exactly the right thing. Discreet inquiries. No sending for the cavalry. A plausible conclusion to a relatively simple case. As it happens, you’ve done us all a favour this time, whether you intended to or not. Do much better, and the next thing you know we’ll be asking you to join us.’
‘I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult,’ Banks said.
Browne chuckled and left the office, waving farewell without turning around as he went.
ACC McLaughlin set off in thinly disguised pursuit, leaving Banks only with a pointed frown that lingered like the Cheshire Cat’s smile.
‘Coffee, Alan?’ asked Gervaise.
‘Please, ma’am.’
Gervaise poured excellent, strong coffee from her machine. Banks popped another couple of painkillers. Of course, he’d given them all the pack of lies they had wanted, but it was a plausible pack of lies. And why not? he told himself.
Gervaise fixed him with a penetrating gaze as she handed him the coffee. ‘Do you know the truth about what happened, Alan?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Is there anything more that needs to be done?’
As far as Banks was concerned, Anthony Litton had murdered Gavin Miller to ensure his continuing silence over Oliver’s true parentage. But it could have been manslaughter. Anthony Litton, Banks also suspected very strongly, had committed suicide. But it could have been an accident. Banks had no proof of any of his suspicions, except what people had said to him in private, and he certainly wasn’t going to attempt to force a DNA test on Lady Chalmers, Joe
Jarvis and Oliver Litton. Anthony Litton was dead, and Lady Chalmers was free of her blackmailer. It was true that she had known what was going on, but she couldn’t believe that her brother-in-law was a cold-blooded killer until he tried to murder her. Why should Oliver Litton’s career suffer because of it all? He was the only true innocent in the whole business, insofar as any politician could be called innocent, except for Lady Chalmers’ immediate family, Sir Jeremy, Angelina, Samantha, the daughter he hadn’t met, and Oriana, of course.
There was the remote possibility that Veronica Chalmers was a great actress and that she had masterminded the whole thing, manipulated Anthony Litton into getting rid of Miller for her, even that the whole lot of them were in it together, that she had deliberately bumped Litton’s car on her way out of his gates and run herself through the fence to the edge of the river, but Banks considered that highly unlikely, not being drawn to wide-ranging conspiracy theories. The more links in the chain of a conspiracy, the more likely one is to break. Anthony Litton had, after all, confessed to him that he had killed Miller, though he maintained it was an accident. There had been no sense that he had done so under instruction, and he didn’t seem the kind of man to be easily manipulated. Banks could live with that.
‘No,’ he said, and finished his coffee. Gervaise opened her laptop computer and prepared to start typing. First, she glanced up at Banks and almost smiled at him. ‘Now for Christ’s sake, Alan, go and get your head seen to.’
15
It was folk night at the Dog and Gun. Banks had a brief chat with Penny Cartwright, who was the main attraction tonight, then took his pint down to the garden wall, rested it on the stone and looked out over the meandering river and water meadows, still saturated here and there, the water right at the upper level of its banks. Back in the pub someone was singing ‘The Water is Wide’. A three-quarter moon shone down on it all, dripping silver on the swirling currents and casting shadows in the overhanging trees. It was one of those magical nights in late November, Indian summer perhaps, when for a short while you can forget the chills, the rain, the fogs, and forget that winter with its snow and freezing rain is so close. His head also felt much better, though the spot where Litton had clobbered him was still tender.
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