Dead Man's Hand

by Otto Penzler

  ***

  It was lunchtime in the Queen's Arms, and the place was bustling with clerks and secretaries from the solicitors' and estate agents' offices around the market square, along with the usual retirees at the bar and terminally unemployed kids on the pool tables. The smoke was thick and the language almost as bad. Banks and Annie managed to find themselves a free table wedged between the door to the Gents' and the slot machines, where Annie sipped a Britvic Orange and nibbled a cheese roll, while Banks nursed a half of Black Sheep Bitter and worked on his chicken-in-a-basket.

  "So how was the redoubtable Gabriella Mountjoy?" Banks asked, when the player at the slot machine beside them cursed and gave up.

  "She seemed very nice, really," said Annie. "Not at all what I expected."

  "What did you expect?"

  "Oh, you know, some upper-class twit with a braying laugh and horsey teeth."

  "But?"

  "Well, her teeth are nice enough. Expensive, like her clothes. But other than that, she seems every inch the thoroughly modern woman."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Oh, really, Alan, you're seriously out of touch."

  "With the thoroughly modern woman? Tell me about it. It's not for want of trying."

  Annie nudged him. "First there's the career," she said. "Gabriella's a book designer for a big London publisher. Works from home a lot."

  "Impressive," said Banks.

  "And then there's the house. Cottage, really. It's small, but the view must be worth a million quid."

  "Does she live alone?"

  "As far as I can gather. There's a boyfriend. A musician. He travels a lot. It suits them both perfectly."

  "Maybe that's my problem with the modern woman," Banks said. "I don't travel enough. I'm always there when she needs me. Boring."

  "Tell Sandra that."

  Banks winced. "Touché."

  "I'm sorry," said Annie. "That wasn't very nice of me."

  "It's okay. Still a bit tender, that's all. That'll serve me right for being so flippant. Go on."

  Annie finished her roll first. "Nothing to add, really. She swears blind that Mrs. Vancalm was there all evening. Natasha Goldwell was at the cottage, too, when I called, and she confirmed it. Said they arrived together about 7:30 after a quick drink, and Mrs. Vancalm dropped her off at home—it's on her way—sometime after 11:00."

  "Well," said Banks, "it's not as if we expected otherwise."

  Annie went on, "I just had a word with Winsome, and she told me that the other two say exactly the same thing about the poker evening. Denise Vancalm's alibi is watertight."

  "God help me, but I've never liked watertight alibis," Banks said.

  "That's because you're contrary."

  "Is it? I thought it was my suspicious nature, my detective's instinct, my love of a challenge."

  "Pull my other leg."

  "Whatever it is, it seems as if we'll have to start looking elsewhere. You've checked out our list of local troublemakers?"

  "Winsome has. The only possibility at all is Windows Fennester. He'd know all about wall safes."

  "He's out?"

  "Been out three weeks now. Living back on the East Side Estate with Shania Longbottom and her two kids. Things is, according to Winsome, he's got a pretty good alibi, too—in the pub with his mates."

  "And whatever he is, he's not a killer."

  "Not as far as we know."

  "The lads have also been out doing a house-to-house in Denise Vancalm's neighborhood," Banks said.

  "And?"

  "Someone heard and glimpsed a car near the house after dark. Couldn't say what make. A dark one."

  "Nothing fancy like Mrs. Vancalm's red sports car, then?"

  "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 11:00."

  "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"—Banks sounded 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.

  "Look," said Annie, "I don't want you to make too much of this, but 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 the husbands?"

  "No. They were very much excluded."

  "And what about Denise Vancalm herself?"

  "I got the impression 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—you know, Sahara Desert treks 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?" Annie laughed. "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 suchlike. But wife swapping...." She shook her head and laughed again.

  "Okay, I get your point," said Banks. "No need to hammer it home. 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 tackle the burglar, and for his efforts he got bashed on the head with a poker. I mean, the side window had been broken from t
he outside."

  "Yes, but what about the security system?"

  "Turned off."

  "So our would-be burglar would have to know how to do that, too?"

  "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. 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." He looked at his watch. "Their office is in Harrogate, so it shouldn't take us more than an hour or so."

  It took only forty-five minutes in minimal traffic. The offices of the Vancalm-Whitman public relations company were above a wineshop on a side street off the main hill. Banks parked up by The Stray, and he and Annie walked down past Betty's Tearoom toward the spa. "If the timing's right," Banks said, "I'll take you to Betty's for a pot of tea and something sinfully sweet 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 room, 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," Whitman said 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 tennis court, and perhaps even at the gym. He seemed relaxed at first, his movements precise, not an ounce of effort wasted. He had a ruddy 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."

  "Where were you yesterday evening between the hours of seven and ten?"

  "Me?"

  "Yes." Annie leaned 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 wanted to get this over with, wanted the box checked off, 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, because 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," Annie said, "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, 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 Anne 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 warm gray air, Banks looked at his watch. "Betty's? Something sinfully sweet and sticky."

  "Ooh, you do know how to charm a woman. I can hardly wait!"

  It was after 8:00 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 and an extension added down one side and a conservatory at the back. He had turned the extension into an entertainment room, with large wide-screen 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, because he was finding nothing of the remotest interest.

  Then Banks remembered that he had set his recorder for A Touch of Frost. 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 Superintendent Mullett and with his various sidekicks.

  He put the vindaloo containers in the rubbish bin and se
ttled down for Frost. But it was not to be. After some confusion and much apology, what played instead was an old episode of Inspector Morse.

  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 and made sure that this was indeed the program he had recorded last night. Not that he had anything against Morse, but he had been expecting Frost. When he got back right to the beginning of his recording again, he found that it started toward the end of an explanation and apology.

  From what he 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 trash bin near Southwark. He had been shot. The TV executives clearly thought the Frost story mirrored the real one too much and could be disturbing to people, so at the last minute they had pulled it.

  Banks would have happily settled down to finish his beer and watch Morse solve yet another case of intercollegiate Oxford politics but for one thing. Colin Whitman had sworn 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 TV, and headed for the door.

  "Look, it's late," Whitman groused. "You drag me from my home and make me sit in this disgusting cell for hours. What on earth's going on? What do you think you're doing?"

  "Sorry about the melodrama," said Banks. "I suppose we could have waited till morning. I don't suppose you were going to make a run for it, were you? Why should you? You probably thought you'd got us all fooled."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."