Strange Affair

by Peter Robinson

  The telephone was like a mini computer system in itself. Banks managed to dial 1471 and find out that the last incoming call was the one he had made himself that morning before setting off for London. Roy hadn’t subscribed to the extra service that gave the numbers of the last five callers. Banks realized it probably didn’t matter, as he had called at least five times himself. The phone was hooked up to a digital answering machine, and after a bit of dodgy business with the buttons Banks discovered three messages, all from him. The other times he had called he hadn’t bothered leaving one.

  Banks thought he heard a sound from somewhere inside the house. He sat completely still and waited. What if Roy came back and found Banks going through his personal things and business records? How would Banks talk his way out of that one? On the other hand, Banks would be relieved to see Roy, and surely Roy would understand how his phone call had set off alarm bells in the mind of his policeman brother. Nevertheless, it would be embarrassing all around. A minute or two passed and he heard nothing more, so he put it down to one of the many sounds an old house makes.

  Banks opened the desk drawers. The two bottom ones held folders full of bills and tax records, none of which seemed in any way unusual at a casual glance, and the top drawers were filled with the usual stuff of offices: adhesive tape, rubber bands, paper clips, scissors, scratch pads, staplers and printer cartridges.

  The shallow central drawer contained pens and pencils of all shapes and sizes. Banks stirred them around with his hand, and one struck his eye. It was thicker and shorter than most of the other pens, squat and rectangular in shape, rather than round. Thinking it might be some kind of marker, he picked it up and unclipped the top. It wasn’t a pen. Where the nib should have been, instead there was a small rectangle of metal that looked as if it plugged into something. But what? A computer, most likely. Banks put the top back on and clipped it in his shirt pocket.

  The last door led to a large living room above the garage. It was the front room with the bay window Banks had noticed from the street. The color scheme here was different, reds and earth colors, a desert theme. There were more framed black-and-white photographs on the walls, too, and Banks found himself wondering if Roy had taken them himself. He didn’t know whether you could take black-and-white photos of that quality with a digital camera, but maybe you could. He could still dredge up no memory of his brother’s interest in photography; as far as Banks knew, Roy hadn’t even belonged to the camera club at school, and most kids did that at some time in the vain hope that whoever ran it would sneak in a nude model one day.

  This room, like the rest of house, was clean and tidy. Not a speck of dust or an abandoned mug anywhere. Banks doubted Roy cleaned it himself; more likely he employed a cleaning lady. Even the entertainment magazines on the table were stacked parallel to the edge, Hercule Poirot style. A luxurious sofa bed sat under the window, facing the other wall, where a forty-two-inch wide-screen plasma TV hung, wired up to a satellite dish and a DVD player. On looking more closely, Banks noticed that the player also recorded DVDs. Under the screen stood a subwoofer and a front center speaker, and four smaller speakers were strategically placed around the room. It was an expensive setup, one that Banks had often wished he could afford.

  Banks walked to the fitted wall cabinets and cast his eye over the selection of DVDs and CDs. What he saw there puzzled him. Not for Roy the latest James Bond or Terminator movie, not schoolgirl porn or Jenna Jameson, but Fellini’s 8½, Kurosawa’s Ran and Throne of Blood, Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, Bergman’s The Seventh Seal and Truffaut’s The Four Hundred Blows. There were some films that Banks could see himself watching—The Godfather, The Third Man and A Clockwork Orange—but most of them were foreign-language art films, classics of the cinema. There were a few rows of books, too, mostly nonfiction, on subjects ranging from music and cinema to philosophy, religion and politics. Another surprise. In a small recess stood one framed family photograph.

  Banks studied Roy’s large collection of operas on both DVD and CD: The Magic Flute, Tosca, Otello, Lucia di Lammermoor and others. A complete Bayreuth Ring cycle, the same as the one on the iPod. There was also a little fifties jazz and a few Hollywood musicals—Oklahoma!, South Pacific, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers—but no pop at all except for the Blue Lamps’s debut. Banks was pleased to see that Roy had bought Brian’s CD, even though he probably hadn’t listened to it. He slid it out and opened the case, wondering what it would sound like on Roy’s expensive stereo system. Instead of the familiar blue image on the CD, he saw the words “CD—ReWritable” and that the disk held 650 megabytes, or 74 minutes of playing time.

  Banks stuck the CD in his jacket pocket and went over to sit on the sofa. Several remote-control devices rested on the arm, and when he had worked out which was which, he switched on the TV and amp just to see what the setup looked and sounded like. It was a European football game, and the picture quality was stunning, the sound of the commentary loud enough to wake the dead. He turned it off.

  Banks went back into the office and took the writing tablet from the desk and a pen from the drawer and carried them down to the kitchen with him. At the kitchen table, he sat down and wrote a note explaining that he’d been to the house and would be back, in case Roy returned while he was out, and asked him to get in touch as soon as possible.

  He wished now that he had thought to bring his mobile so he could leave a number, but it was too late; he had left it on his living room table next to his unused portable CD player, having got out of the habit of using it over the past few months. Then he realized he could take Roy’s. He wanted to check through the entries in the phone book, anyway, so he might as well have the use of it in case Roy needed to get in touch with him. He added this as a PS to the note, then he put the mobile in his pocket. On his way out, he tried the most likely-looking key and found it fit the front door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What do you make of it, Annie?” Gristhorpe asked.

  They were sitting in the superintendent’s large, carpeted office, just the two of them, and the sheet of paper lay between them on Gristhorpe’s desk. It wasn’t Banks’s writing, Annie was certain. But beyond that, the whole thing was a puzzle. She had certainly never seen the dead woman before, nor had she ever heard Banks mention anyone called Jennifer Clewes. That in itself meant nothing, of course, she realized. In the first place, it might not be her real name, and in the second, Banks may well have been keeping many aspects of his life from her, including a new girlfriend. But if she was his girlfriend, why did she need directions and his address? Perhaps she had never visited him in Gratly before.

  Was she new on the scene? Annie doubted it. The way Banks had been behaving lately—withdrawn, moody and uncommunicative—was hardly conducive to pulling a new girlfriend. Who would take him on, the shape he was in? And this woman was young enough to be his daughter. Not that age had ever stopped a man, but…Perhaps even more important was that she had ended up with a bullet in her head. Knowing Banks had its dangers, as Annie well knew, but it was not usually fatal.

  “I don’t know, sir. I’d say the most likely explanation is that it’s her own writing. Maybe she copied it down over the phone. We’ll be able to find out for sure when we get a sample of Jennifer Clewes’s writing.”

  “Have you been able to get in touch with DCI Banks?”

  “He’s not at home and his mobile’s turned off. I’ve left messages.”

  “Well, let’s just hope he gets one of them and rings back. I’d really like to know why a young woman was driving up from London to see him in the middle of the night and ended up with a bullet in her head.”

  “He could be anywhere,” Annie said. “He is on holiday, after all.”

  “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

  “He doesn’t tell me much these days, sir.”

  Gristhorpe frowned and scratched his chin, then he leaned back in his big padded chair and linked his hands behind his head. “How’s he doing?” he
asked.

  “I’m the last person to ask, sir. We haven’t really talked much since the fire.”

  “I thought you two were friends.”

  “I like to think we are. But you know Alan. He’s hardly the type to open up when he doesn’t want to. I think perhaps he still blames me for what happened, the fire and all. After all, Phil Keane was my boyfriend. Whatever the reason, he’s been very quiet lately. To be honest, I think it’s partly depression as well.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised. It happens sometimes after illness or an accident. About all you can do is wait till the fog disperses. What about you?”

  “Me? I’m fine, sir. Coping.” Annie was aware how tight and unconvincing her voice sounded, but she could do nothing about it. Anyway, she was coping, after a fashion. She certainly wasn’t depressed, just hurt and angry, and perhaps a little distracted.

  Gristhorpe held her gaze for just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Then he said, “We need to find out why the victim had Alan’s address in her back pocket. And we can’t ask her.”

  “There’s a flatmate, sir,” said Annie. “The lads from Lambeth North got bored with hanging around outside and went in for a look. Jennifer Clewes was sharing with a woman called Kate Nesbit. At least there were letters there addressed to a Kate Nesbit and a Jennifer Clewes.”

  “Have they talked to this flatmate?”

  “She’s not home.”

  “Work?”

  “On a Saturday? Maybe. Or she might have gone away for the weekend.”

  Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Better get down there, Annie,” he said. “Let your old pal at Kennington know you’re on your way. Find the flatmate and talk to her.”

  “Yes, sir.” Annie stood up. “There is one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  Annie gestured toward the scrap of paper. “This address. I mean, it is Alan’s address, but it’s not where he’s living now.”

  “I noticed that,” said Gristhorpe. “You think it might be significant?”

  “Well, sir,” Annie said, hand on the doorknob, “he’s been living at that flat in the old Steadman house for four months now. You’d think everyone who knew him—knew him at all well, at any rate—would know that. I mean, if it was a new girlfriend or something, why give her his old address?”

  “You’ve got a point.” Gristhorpe scratched the side of his nose.

  “What action do you think we should take?”

  “About DCI Banks?”

  “Yes.”

  Gristhorpe paused. “You say he’s not answering his phones?”

  “That’s right; neither his home phone nor his mobile.”

  “We need to find him, as soon as we can, but I don’t want to make it official yet. I’ll get Winsome to ring around his family and friends, see if anyone knows where he is.”

  “I was thinking of dropping by DCI Banks’s place—both of them—just to have a look around…you know…make sure nothing’s been disturbed.”

  “Good idea,” said Gristhorpe. “Are you sure you’re all right on this?”

  Annie looked over her shoulder. “Of course I am, sir,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  Out in the street, Banks tried knocking on a couple of neighbors’ doors, but only one answered, an elderly man who lived in the house opposite.

  “I saw you going into Roy’s,” the man said. “I was wondering if I should ring the police.”

  Banks took out his warrant card. “I’m Roy’s brother,” he said, “and I am the police.”

  The man seemed satisfied and stuck out his hand. “Malcolm Farrow,” he said as Banks shook hands. “Pleased to meet you. Come inside.”

  “I don’t want to intrude on your time, but—”

  “Think nothing of it. Now I’m retired, every day’s the same to me. Come in, we’ll have a snifter.”

  Banks followed him into a living room heavy with dark wood and antiques. Farrow offered brandy, but Banks took only soda. Much too early in the afternoon for spirits.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Banks?” Farrow asked.

  “Alan, please. It’s about Roy.”

  “What about him? Lovely fellow, that brother of yours, by the way. Couldn’t wish for a better neighbor, you know. Cheerful, considerate. Capital fellow.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Banks, judging by the slight slur in his voice and the network of purplish veins around his bulbous nose that Malcolm Farrow had already had a snifter or two. “I was just wondering if you had any idea where he’s gone?”

  “You mean he’s not back yet?”

  “Apparently not. Did you see him leave?”

  “Yes. It was about half past nine last night. I was just putting the cat out when I saw him going out.”

  Just after the phone call, Banks realized. “Was he alone?”

  “No. There was another man with him. I said hello and Roy returned my greeting. Like I said, you couldn’t wish for a more friendly neighbor.”

  “This other man,” said Banks. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Afraid not. It was getting dark by then, you see, and the street lighting’s not very bright. Besides, to be perfectly honest, I can’t say my eyesight’s quite what it used to be.”

  Probably pissed to the gills, too, Banks thought, if today was anything to go by. “Anything at all you can remember?” he said.

  “Well, he was a burly sort of fellow with curly hair. Fair or gray. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice any more than that. I only noticed because he was facing me at first for a moment, while Roy had his back turned.”

  “Why did Roy have his back turned?”

  “He was locking the door. Very security-conscious, Roy is. You have to be these days, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so,” said Banks, wondering how the door had come to be unlocked and the burglar alarm unarmed when he got there. “Where did they go?”

  “Got in a car and drove off. It was parked outside Roy’s house.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “I’m not very good with cars. Haven’t driven in years, so I haven’t taken much of an interest. It was light in color, I can tell you that much. And quite big. Looked expensive.”

  “And they just drove off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you see the man before?”

  “I might have, if it was the same one.”

  “Was he a frequent visitor?”

  “I wouldn’t say frequent, but I’d seen him a couple of times. Usually after dark, so I’m afraid I can’t do any better with the description.”

  “Was either of them carrying anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Suitcase. Cardboard box.”

  “Not that I could see.”

  That meant that Roy’s computer equipment must have been taken later, by someone with a key. “You didn’t see or hear anyone else call after that, did you?”

  “Sorry. My bedroom’s at the back of the house and I still manage to sleep quite soundly, despite my age.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Banks.

  “Look, is there something going on? You say Roy’s not come home.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Banks said, not wanting to worry Farrow. He put his tumbler of soda down and stood up. “You know, I’ll bet they went off to some pub or other, had a bit too much. They’re more than likely back at the other bloke’s place right now, still sleeping it off. It is Saturday, after all.” He started moving toward the door.

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Farrow, following, “but it’s not like him. Especially as he’d only just got in.”

  “Pardon?” said Banks, pausing in the doorway.

  “Well, he’d just come back in, oh, not more than ten or fifteen minutes earlier, about quarter past nine. I saw his car, watched him park it in the garage. I must say, he seemed in a bit of a hurry.”

  The phone call to Banks had been timed at 9:29 P.M., which meant that Roy
had rung him a short while after he had arrived home. Where had he been? What was it he couldn’t talk about over the telephone? While he was on the phone, someone had come to his door, and a few minutes later Roy had gone out again, most likely with the man who had rung his doorbell. Where had they gone?

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Farrow,” said Banks. “I won’t trouble you any longer.”

  “No trouble. You will let me know, won’t you, if you hear anything?”

  “Of course,” said Banks.

  And why shouldn’t I be all right with it? Annie thought as she parked at the top of the hill and walked toward the old Steadman house. Any romantic involvement she’d had with Banks was ancient history, so what did it matter whether he was seeing this Jennifer Clewes? Except that she was dead and Banks had disappeared.

  Annie paused a moment on the bridge. It was one of those early-summer days when the world seemed dipped in sunshine and life should be simple. Yet, for Annie, it was not without a tinge of melancholy, like the first sight of brown on the edges of the leaves, and she found her thoughts turning to the unresolved problems that haunted her.

  There was a time, she remembered, when Banks had just come out of the hospital, that there was so much she wanted to say to him, to explain, to apologize for being such a fool, but he wouldn’t let her get close, so she gave up. In the end, they simply carried on working together as if nothing of any consequence had happened between them.

  But something had happened. Phil Keane, Annie’s boyfriend, had tried to kill Banks, had drugged him and set fire to his cottage. Annie and Winsome had dragged him out in time to save his life, and Phil had disappeared.