Annie shook her head. Toughing it out, then. ‘No, it’s fine. I was expecting . . . you know . . . but it’s fine. It’s really nice, and it’s very cosy with that warm light and the wind and rain outside.’ She hugged herself. ‘Let’s just stay here, shall we? What’s that music?’
‘June Tabor,’ said Banks. ‘This one’s called “The Oggie Man”. Want something else on?’
‘No. I’m fine. Really.’ That made a change; she was always complaining about his tastes in music. ‘What’s an oggie man?’
‘A pasty seller,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a song lamenting the disappearance of street pasty sellers in Cornwall in favour of hot-dog stands. An oggie is a Cornish pasty. You ought to know that, being a good Cornish lass.’
‘Never heard of it. Sounds like a very sad song for such a silly little thing.’
‘Folk songs. You know. What can I say? I don’t suppose it was silly or little to them at the time. It’s about loss, the passing of a tradition.’
‘You know,’ Annie said suddenly, ‘I do remember that night. I remember when everything was fading to black, and I was feeling so cold and tired. I thought this was the last place I would ever see in my life, and for a moment, that was what I wanted.’ She glanced at Banks and smiled. ‘Disappearing like the silly oggie man. Isn’t that funny?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘But I’m seeing the room again. That’s the point. I know everything’s different and all, but now it feel like . . . like being reborn. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t die. It wasn’t the last thing I saw. It’s the same room, but it’s different. Not just the way it’s been refurnished or decorated. Oh, I can’t explain myself. I’m not good with words. I’m just saying it’s a special place, that’s all. For me. And the memories start now. I’m back, Alan. I want you to know that.’
Banks gave her hand a quick squeeze. ‘I know you are, and I’m glad. But that’s not why you came, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. I heard about DI Bill Quinn getting killed at St Peter’s. I want you to bring me up to date so I can jump right in on Monday morning. I’ve got to be more than a hundred per cent on this one, or I’ll be out.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Banks.
‘It’s true. I’ll bet you Madame Gervaise doesn’t think I’ll be fit enough, mentally or physically. I’ll bet you she thinks I’ve lost my mojo. She’ll be trying to drive me to resign.’
‘I think that’s going a bit too far, Annie.’
‘Is it? Then what about that other woman in there with you? Your new partner. Miss Professional Standards. She’s very attractive, isn’t she? What’s her name again? I’ve had a word with Winsome. She told me most of what’s been going on, but I’ve forgotten the damn woman’s name.’
‘Inspector Passero. Joanna Passero. She’s just tagging along to nail Quinn. Or his memory.’
‘Are you being thick, or naive?’
‘Aren’t you being a little bit paranoid?’
‘Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.’
‘Fair enough. You worked Professional Standards for a while. You know what it’s like. You didn’t let the job swallow you up, or change your basic attitude.’
‘It fucks you up, whether you fight it or not.’
‘I’m sure it does. But you’re all right now, aren’t you? What do you know about Inspector Passero?’
‘Not much, but I do have my sources at County HQ. She lived in Woodstock, worked for Thames Valley, got an Italian husband called Carlo. And she’s an icy blonde. I don’t trust icy blondes. You never know what they’re thinking.’
‘As opposed to feisty brunettes? All what you see is what you get? Jealous, Annie?’
Annie snorted. ‘Something’s going on. Mark my words. I’d watch my back if I were you. I hear the sound of knives being sharpened.’
‘Don’t worry about me. What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You think Gervaise wants you out. What are you going to do about it?’
‘I don’t know. My options are a bit limited at the moment.’
‘Going off half-cocked and trying to prove you’re better than everyone else won’t work.’
‘Look who’s talking.’
‘I’m being serious, Annie.’
‘So am I. I like my job. I’m good at it. And I want to keep it. Is that so strange?’
‘Not at all,’ said Banks. ‘I want you to keep it, too.’
‘So you’ll help me?’
‘How?’
‘Any way you can. Trust me. Give me decent tasks. Don’t sideline me.’
Banks paused. ‘Of course. I’ll help you all I can. You should know that.’
Annie leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. ‘Use me, Alan. Don’t keep me in the dark. I know I might seem like a bit of a liability at first, that I might seem a bit wobbly, and it’ll take me a while to get back to normal, but it doesn’t mean I have to be left out in the cold. Keep me informed. Listen to what I have to say. If I have a good idea, make sure people know it’s mine. I’m resilient, and I’m a quick learner. You already know that.’
‘Across the Wide Ocean’ ended, and with it the CD. Rain beat against the windows, and the wind howled through the trees. Annie sat back, shuddered and sipped some tea. ‘I enjoyed that,’ she said.
‘I’m glad.’
‘“The Oggie Man”. I’ll remember that. Poor oggie man. I wonder what happened to him. Did they kill him? Was he murdered? The rain softly falling and the oggie man’s no more.’ She shifted position and crossed her legs. ‘Tell me about Bill Quinn.’
‘Not much to say, really,’ said Banks. ‘According to everyone I’ve talked to, he was a devoted family man. Devastated by his wife’s death. No trace of a reputation for womanising or anything like that.’
‘But there are some pictures of him with a girl. I’ve seen them. I dropped by the squad room after a visit to Human Resources this morning, while you were out. The copies arrived while I was there. She looks like a very young girl.’
‘She wasn’t that young.’
‘She was young enough. But that’s not what I was thinking. Men are pigs. Fact. We all know that. They’ll shag anything in a skirt. Quinn did it, and he got caught.’
‘Or set up.’
‘All right. Or set up. But why?’
‘We don’t know yet. Obviously blackmail of some kind.’
‘He didn’t have a lot of money, did he?’
‘Not that we know of. We haven’t got his banking information yet, but there’s nothing extravagant about his lifestyle. Nice house, but his wife worked as an estate agent, and they bought it a long time ago. Mortgage paid off. Kids at university before the fee increases.’
‘So he wasn’t being blackmailed for his money.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Then why?’
‘To turn a blind eye to something, or to pass on information helpful to criminals,’ said Banks. ‘That’s what Inspector Passero believes. She said there were rumours. But when Quinn’s wife died, their hold over him was broken, all bets were off, and that caused a shift in the balance of power. Quinn became a loose cannon. All that has happened since resulted from that. At least, that’s my theory.’
‘I should imagine right now you’re casting your net pretty wide?’ said Annie.
‘We have to. There are a lot of questions to answer. Quinn worked on a lot of cases. I must say, though, that unless we’re missing something, or the girl herself killed him for some reason we don’t know about yet, it seems professional, organised.’
‘Cut to the chase. He wouldn’t have kept those photos with him if there wasn’t something important about them. Far too risky, even hidden as they were.’
‘His house was broken into,’ Banks said.
Annie shot him a glance. ‘When?’
‘Probably around the time he was killed, maybe even long enough aft
er for it to be the same person. We’re not sure. They took his laptop and some papers. And we’ve got some tyre tracks from a farm lane near St Peter’s that might help identify the killer’s car.’
‘Why don’t you bring me up to speed with the rest of it?’
Banks shared the last few drops of tea and told her what little he knew.
‘One of the first things that came into my mind when I saw those photos,’ said Annie, ‘and what seems to be even more relevant now, after finding out that Quinn was supposedly a devoted family man, was what would make him do what he did with the girl?’
‘Like you said, men are pigs.’
‘They let the little head do the thinking, right? Given the right circumstances, they’ll shag anyone. But they’ve still got oodles of the old self-preservation instinct. They don’t only lie to their families; they lie to themselves, too.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that a man like Bill Quinn – devoted family man, as you say – was very unlikely to shit on his own doorstep, if you’ll pardon my French. It’s harder to lie to yourself about that if you smell it every day, to pursue the metaphor. Meaning you need to check out any conventions he went to, any holidays he took without his wife and kids – a trip to Vegas with the lads, for example, or a golfing holiday in St Andrews. The further away from home, the better. Something so far away that it made it easy for him to pretend that he was on another planet, and everything that happened there had nothing to do with his earthly life, nothing to do with everyday reality, nothing to do with the family he was devoted to.’
‘Fishing. With Quinn it was more likely to be a fishing trip.’
‘Right, then. Whatever. Any period when he was away from home, either alone or with other like-minded blokes, staying in a hotel. You can’t tell much about the place from the photos, but you might get one of the digital experts in Photographic Services to see if he can blow up a few beer mats and bring a sign or two into focus.’
‘We’re working on it.’
‘Good. Because that might tell you whether we’re dealing with a trip abroad. In my limited experience of such things, the further away from his own nest a man gets, the freer and friskier he feels, and the more likely he is to stray. It’s like the wedding ring becomes invisible. Some men take it off altogether for the duration. And the shackles, the inhibitions, they conveniently fall off with it.’
‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.’
‘I did say it was limited experience. And don’t ask.’
‘But Quinn got set up.’
‘Indeed. What is it? What are you thinking?’
Banks hadn’t realised that his expression had so clearly indicated a sudden thought. ‘Two things,’ he said. ‘A conference in France – Lyon – with Ken Blackstone, among others, and the Rachel Hewitt case.’
‘The girl who disappeared from the hen weekend in Tallinn?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I’ve been to Tallinn once,’ said Annie. ‘Lovely city.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘You don’t know everything about me.’
‘Obviously not. When was this?’
‘A few years ago. After Rachel Hewitt disappeared.’
‘Hen party?’
‘Do I look like a hen?’
‘What, then?’
‘Dirty weekend.’
‘The married man?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Anyway, there might be other trips Quinn made abroad, in addition to Lyon and Tallinn. We’ll ask around. Thanks for the tip. That’s a good line of enquiry, and I’ll see it gets priority, and that your name is mentioned in dispatches.’
Annie put her mug down and stretched. ‘All I wanted to hear. And now I’d better go.’
‘You sure? No more tea? One for the road?’
‘I’m tired. I really think I’d better get going. I’ve got a massage appointment at St Peter’s tomorrow afternoon.’ Annie stood up, took a long look around the conservatory, then headed for the front door. Banks helped her on with her coat. It was still raining outside, but not so fast now, and the wind had dropped. ‘See you on Monday,’ she said. ‘Maybe I can help run down Bill Quinn’s trips abroad?’ Then she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Remember, watch out for the blonde,’ she said and dashed outside. He watched until her car disappeared down the drive, waved, and went back inside. She’d given him a lot to think about, he had to admit. In the initial flurry of questions, information and possibilities, he had neglected to zoom in on the important psychological details the way Annie had.
It was just after eleven o’clock on Friday night, and he didn’t feel like going out. Helmthorpe would be closing down for the night, anyway, unless they had a lock-in at the Duck and Drake. But Banks didn’t feel like company. Instead, he made a detour through the entertainment room and pressed PLAY again with Ashore still in the CD player. ‘Finisterre’ piped through the good quality speakers in the conservatory, where the rain was now no more than a pattering of mice’s feet. The tea had been nice, but he poured himself another glass of Malbec and settled down to listen to the music and think about what Annie had said. He did his best thinking when he was listening to music and drinking wine.
Chapter 4
‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ asked Banks.
‘According to the phone company, yes.’
‘But it’s . . .’
‘I know,’ said Winsome. ‘Apparently, it’s won prizes, though.’
Banks gave her a quizzical glance. ‘Prizes?’
‘Yes. It’s quite famous. A tourist attraction.’
Banks opened the door and glanced inside. ‘Bloody hell, I can see what you mean.’
‘That’s why it’s famous,’ said Winsome, smiling.
The old red telephone box abutted the end wall of a terrace of cottages in the village of Ingleby, not far from Lyndgarth. The paintwork and the window panes were as clean as could be, not a scratch or a greasy fingerprint in sight. Inside, there was a carpet on the little square of floor, a vase of fresh-cut pink and purple flowers on the shelf by the directory, a box for donations, and an empty waste paper bin. Banks shook the donations box. It rattled with coins. The whole place smelled clean and lemony, and all the surfaces shone every bit as much as the outside, as if recently polished. There was even a functioning telephone, as shiny black as could be, and no doubt sanitised, too. In almost every other telephone box Banks had seen over the past few years, the cash box, if there was one, had been broken into and the phone ripped, or cut, from its connecting wire. The donations box wouldn’t have lasted five minutes, either.
What was more, Bill Quinn had received two telephone calls on his mobile from this very box over the past ten days, the last one on Tuesday evening, the day before he had been killed. There were other calls, of course, including several to and from his son or daughter, and one from an untraceable mobile number on the morning of the day he died, but this one seemed really odd. The team was already checking to find out what other calls had been made from the telephone box in the past ten days, especially around the same time as the calls to Bill Quinn.
Ingleby was a beautiful village, slate roofs gleaming in the morning sunshine, still a little damp from last night’s rain, limestone cottages scrubbed and rinsed clean by the wind and rain, the gardens neat and already colourful, though it was still only late April, ready to burst forth in spectacular fashion as soon as summer arrived. Smoke curled up from one or two of the chimneys, as there was still a slight nip in the air. Behind the village, the daleside rose steeply through green and sere slopes to the rocky outcrops that marked the beginnings of the moorland. A narrow track wound up the hill, then split and ran along the daleside in both directions, about halfway up. Cloud-shadows drifted slowly across the backdrop on the light breeze.
Banks felt as if he were in a place where nothing had changed for centuries, though the telephone box was clear evidence
that they had. No signs of vandalism, neat gardens, obviously tended with pride. No wonder Ingleby had won the prettiest village award more than once. There were people in the cities who didn’t know, or even believe, that such places existed. Everybody believed in the urban landscape, with its no-go areas, dodgy council estates, riots, looting, terrorist hot beds, street gangs, people who would mug you as soon as look at you, and people who would kick the shit out of you if you so much as glanced at them. But this was something else. This was Arcadia.
Banks remembered the stories in a book he had read recently about wartime evacuees sent from the cities to the country panicking when they saw a cow or an apple tree because they had never experienced such things in their natural environment before. They thought that cows were no bigger than dogs or cats, and that apples grew in wooden boxes. Of course, there were other people, mainly in America, who believed that all of England was like this. The fact was that, while such pastoral idylls did exist in many pockets of the country, even in places as picturesque as Ingleby appearances could be deceptive; even in the prettiest villages there were things under the surface that didn’t bear close examination. As Sherlock Holmes had once observed about the countryside in general; there were stones you didn’t want to turn over, cupboards you didn’t want to open.
Banks took a deep breath of fresh air. ‘We’d better get the CSIs to come and check out the telephone box,’ he said. ‘I doubt we’ll find anything, the way it’s been cleaned and polished, but it’s worth a try.’
‘I suppose we’d better start asking a few questions, too,’ Winsome said. ‘Shouldn’t take long, a place this size. Should we ask her to help?’ She nodded in the direction of Inspector Passero, who had insisted on accompanying them from Eastvale and was now standing back, checking her mobile for texts.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s just keep her at a distance for now. She can tag along, but I don’t want her taking any leads.’ At least Joanna was wearing more appropriate clothing today, Banks had noticed, though even to someone as unversed as he was in matters of style and design, its quality and fashion cred were unmistakable. With her skintight designer jeans disappearing into tan leather boots a little below her knees, and the green roll-neck jumper under the light brown suede jacket, all she needed was a riding-cap and crop and she would be ready to set off on the morning gallops out Middleham way.
Watching the Dark Page 10