Strange Affair

by Peter Robinson

  “Congratulations, Dave,” said Annie. “Detective Chief Inspector Brooke. Has a sort of ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  Brooke chuckled. “It does. How did the interview with the victim’s flatmate go?” he asked.

  Annie sipped some beer. “Fine. I didn’t find out much, but at least I’m building up some sort of picture of Jennifer, however vague. You know what it’s like in the early stages.”

  “I do indeed. A slow business.”

  “The poor woman, though,” Annie went on. “Kate Nesbit, the flatmate. She was really upset. I finally managed to persuade her to let me fetch the woman from upstairs to sit with her until her parents can come over. I phoned them and they said they’d be there as soon as possible. What’ll happen after that I don’t know.”

  “I’ll have someone keep an eye on her, if you like. Drop by now and then, see how she’s doing.”

  “Not Blunt and Useless.”

  Brooke smiled. “No, I wouldn’t wish them on the poor lass. We’ve got some good police community-support officers.”

  “All right,” said Annie. “It sounds like a good idea. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “I don’t like to ask,” she went on, “but do you think you could also spare a couple of DCs to do a house-to-house? I’d do it myself, but I’d like to go out to Hounslow to visit one of the victim’s close friends tomorrow.”

  “And what would they be asking about?”

  “If anyone has noticed anything unusual or suspicious—strangers hanging about, that sort of thing.”

  “I think we can manage that,” said Brooke. “Wouldn’t want our delicate DI’s feet getting sore, would we?”

  “You’re a sweetheart, Dave.”

  Annie’s mobile rang. She excused herself and walked outside so she could hear properly. When Winsome gave her Banks’s brother’s address and phone numbers and told her there was a possibility Banks might be there, she had to go back into the pub, take her notebook out of her briefcase and write the information down. She thanked Winsome and hung up.

  “Important news?” Brooke asked.

  “We may have a lead on our missing DCI,” Annie said.

  “Missing DCI?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Brooke nodded toward Annie’s empty glass. “Another?”

  “Why not,” said Annie. “I’m not driving.”

  “What about a bite to eat? Then you can tell me all about your DCI over dinner.”

  “Here?”

  Brooke looked around and pulled a face. “You must be joking. Let’s have one more drink here, then we’ll find somewhere decent over the river, if you’re up for it?”

  “That’d be fine,” said Annie. “How are Joan and the kids?”

  “Thriving, thank you.” Brooke paused. “You’re not very subtle, you know, Annie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want to know if I’m still happily married, whether I represent any sort of threat to you. Well, I am, and I don’t. Do you behave like that whenever a man offers to buy you dinner?”

  “Oh, you’re buying. I didn’t know that. That’s all right, then.”

  “Now you’re hiding behind flippancy.”

  “You’re right,” said Annie, “I’m sorry. I should know better. I’ve just had some bad experiences recently, that’s all.”

  “Want to talk about them?”

  Annie shook her head. The last thing she wanted to talk about was Phil Keane. Throttle him, maybe; hang, draw and quarter him, even better; but talk about him, no way. Brooke wasn’t the type to make a pass, and under ordinary circumstances she would have realized it. He had been married to Joan all those years ago, when Annie was a fresh-faced young DC in Exeter and Brooke was her DS. He was rather unimaginative and plodding as a detective, but he had been kind to her, and they had kept in touch sporadically over the years. Anyway, his offer of a shared meal was exactly that and no more, and it bothered her that she reacted as if she could no longer trust an old friend.

  “I’m sorry,” Annie said. “I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “That’s all right. And I’m secretly flattered that you still think I’m a contender.”

  Annie tapped him on the arm. “I’m sure you are,” she said. “But I’m bloody starving, so how about we skip that other drink here and have one when we get where we’re going? Does your offer still stand?”

  “The West End awaits us,” said Brooke.

  “Any chance we can go via South Kensington?”

  It was late Saturday night, Kev Templeton thought gloomily, and he was supposed to be shagging that gorgeous new redheaded clerk in Records, the one with the big tits and legs right up to her arse, but instead he was driving up the M1 in rain so heavy that his windscreen wipers could barely keep up with it.

  Still, this was the next-best thing, he told himself, if not even better. The thrill of the chase. Well, not exactly a chase, but at least he was out of the office, on the road, tracking down a lead, driving through the night. This was the life. This was what he had joined the force for. Water cascaded from the windows, lightning streaked across the sky and he could hear the thunder even over the Chemical Brothers CD he was playing at earsplitting volume.

  He knew they didn’t take him seriously back at headquarters, just because he was young and took a bit of pride in his appearance. They all thought he was some sort of club-crazy dandy. Well, he liked clubbing, and he liked to look good, but there was more to him than that. One day, he’d show them all. He’d pass his boards and rise up the ranks like a meteor.

  Who did they think they were, anyway? Gristhorpe was due to retire any moment now, and he hadn’t done any real detecting in years, if ever. Banks was good, but he wasn’t a team player and he seemed to be quickly writing himself out of the script due to personal problems. Annie Cabbot wasn’t as shit-hot as she thought she was. Too emotional, Kev thought, like she was always on the rag. The only one that really scared him was Winsome. Awesome, as he called her secretly. She’d go far. He could see her as his sidekick when he made superintendent. Could see shagging her, too. Just the thought of it made him sweat. Those thighs.

  He had first driven nonstop to the end of the motorway, then turned around, hitting Toddington and Newport Pagnell service stations on the northbound M1 already, showing Jennifer Clewes’s photo around without any success. He hadn’t eaten at either of the first two service stations—and now, as he approached Watford Gap, it was going on for midnight and he was feeling peckish. Needed a piss, too. He might as well stop there at the Road Chef. From what he had learned over the years, motorway cafés were all overpriced, and there wasn’t much to choose between them.

  All the roadside cafés seemed to have a slightly seedy aura at that time of night, Templeton thought; or maybe Watford Gap services were always like that. It was something to do with the lighting and the clientele. Not many nice middle-class families on the road at that hour. Not many old folks, either. Most of them, with the odd exception of a commercial traveler or a businessman on his way home from a late meeting, looked like villains. You probably wouldn’t go far wrong, Templeton thought, if you made the occasional swoop on motorway cafés. Bound to net a few faces from the “Wanted” posters, at any rate. Maybe he’d pass on the idea to the brass. Then again, maybe not. They’d only steal the credit themselves.

  A man came into the toilet and stood next to Templeton at the urinal, though there was plenty of free space elsewhere. When he started to open a conversation—the usual line about big knobs hanging out—Templeton zipped up, whipped out his warrant card and shoved it in the man’s face so hard he staggered back and lost directional control, pissing all over his shoes and trouser bottoms. “Fuck off, pervert,” Templeton said. “And think yourself bloody lucky I can’t be bothered to arrest you for soliciting. On your bike. Now!” Templeton clapped once, loudly.

  The man turned pale. His hands shook as he zipped himself up and, without even pausing to wash hi
s hands, ran for the door. Templeton washed his hands with soap under hot water for thirty seconds exactly. He hated poofters, and as far as he was concerned they’d made a bloody big mistake when they made homosexuality legal all those years ago. Opened the floodgates, they did, just as they did with immigration. As far as he was concerned, the government should send all the poofters to jail and all foreigners back home—except Winsome, of course; she could stay.

  Up in the restaurant, Templeton ordered a cup of tea and sausage, eggs and beans, figuring you can’t go wrong with something as basic as that, and carried his tray to the first empty table he saw, trying to ignore the smears of ketchup on the surface. The eggs were overcooked and the tea was stewed, but other than that the meal wasn’t too bad. Templeton tucked in with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  When he had finished, he went up to the counter and spoke to the young Asian lad who worked there. His name tag identified him as Ali.

  “Were you working here last night about this time?”

  “I was here,” said Ali. “Sometimes it feels like I’m always bloody here.”

  “I’ll bet it does,” said Templeton, pulling the photo of Jennifer Clewes from his briefcase. “By the way, I’m DC Templeton, North Yorkshire Major Crimes. Did you happen to see this woman in here?”

  “Bloody hell, is she dead?” Ali asked, paling. “I’ve never seen a dead person before.”

  “The question is: Did you see her?”

  “What happened to her?”

  Templeton sighed theatrically. “Look, Ali, we’ll get along a lot better if I ask the questions and you answer them, all right?” he said.

  “Yeah. All right. Let’s have a look, then.” Ali reached out his hand, but Templeton held on to the photograph, keeping it just within his field of vision. He didn’t want Ali’s greasy fingerprints all over it.

  Ali screwed up his eyes and looked at the photo longer than Templeton thought he needed to, then said, “Yeah, she was in here last night. Sat over there.” He pointed to a table.

  “What time?”

  “Can’t remember. It’s all the same when you’re on nights.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yeah. I remember thinking what’s a good-looking bird like that doing all alone on a Friday night, like.”

  “Did she seem upset or frightened in any way?”

  “Come again?”

  “How did she behave?”

  “Just normal, like. She ate her sandwich—well, half of it, at any rate. I can’t say I blame her. Those ham-and-tomatoes do get a bit soggy when they’ve been sitting—”

  “Did anyone approach her at all?”

  “No.”

  “Speak to her?”

  “No. But the bloke at the table opposite was definitely giving her the eye. Looked like a bit of a pervert to me, too.”

  “What do perverts look like?” Templeton asked.

  “You know. Creepy, like.”

  “Right. How long did she stay?”

  “Dunno. Not more than ten, fifteen minutes, I suppose. Look, aren’t you going to tell me what happened to her? She was all right when she left here.”

  “Anybody follow her?”

  “The bloke opposite, the pervert, went out not long after her, but I wouldn’t say he was following her. I mean, he’d finished his sausage roll. Why would he want to hang around?”

  Templeton gazed over the decor. “Why, indeed?” he said.

  “Most people here, they’re usually in a hurry, see. Quick turnover.”

  “And no one else took an interest in the woman?”

  “No.”

  “She make any phone calls?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “This pervert, had you ever seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “Can you describe him for me?”

  “He was wearing a dark gray suit, like a businessman, wore glasses with black rims, and he had a long, jowly sort of face, with a long, thin nose. Short brown hair, light brown. Oh, yeah, and he had dandruff. Reminded me of someone, but I can’t think who. Not the dandruff, I mean, the face.”

  “How old would you say he was?”

  “Old. Maybe forty or so.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Don’t think so. Is this gonna be on Crimewatch?”

  “Thanks for your help.” Templeton left Ali dreaming of TV stardom and walked back to his car. The rain had stopped and dark puddles reflected the lights. Before setting off back up the motorway, Templeton walked over to the garage and into the night manager’s office. There he found a sleepy young man behind the counter and showed his warrant card. The boy seemed to wake up a bit.

  “I’m Geoff,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Were you working here last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  Templeton took out the photograph again. “Remember her?”

  “She looks…” He frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “She looks dead,” said Templeton. “Just as well, because she is. Do you remember her?”

  “She was here. You don’t forget someone who looks like that in a hurry.”

  “Do you remember what time?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but her credit card receipt should tell us.”

  “She used plastic?”

  “Most people do. Petrol’s so bloody expensive and cards are convenient. Nowadays you can just swipe the card right by the pump. You don’t even have to come into the office. Not everyone likes to do it that way, mind you. Some still prefer the human touch.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve still got last night’s receipts?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Geoff, “I have. There’s no pickup till Monday morning.”

  “What are we waiting for? Her name’s Jennifer Clewes.”

  Geoff located the credit card receipts and sucked on his lower lip as he made his way through them. “Just give me a minute. Here, I think this is it.” He held the receipt up for Templeton to see: 12:35 A.M. Which meant she’d get to the junction with the A1 about two and a half hours later. It fit. Templeton thanked Geoff, and just on the off chance asked him about the “old” man Ali had described.

  “The bloke with the dandruff? Old hatchet face?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yeah, he was here, too. Same time as her, now I come to think of it. I caught him giving her the eye when she was bending over with the pump. Can’t say I blame him, mind you. Like something out of FHM. Hey, you don’t think that—”

  “Seen him before?”

  “Not that I recall. But we get so much traffic.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s the remotest chance that he paid by plastic, too?”

  Geoff grinned, flicking through the stack again. “I told you. Most of them do. Here you are, right after hers. A Mr. Roger Cropley.”

  “Do you have CCTV?”

  “As a matter of fact, we do,” said Geoff.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Geoff held up the slip and Templeton read the details. So there is a God, after all, he thought.

  Back at Roy’s, Banks first checked the phone for messages. There was only one, and to his surprise it was from Annie Cabbot. Even more to his surprise, it was clearly intended for Roy because she addressed him as “Mr. Banks.” She had called around at the house earlier, she said, but he had been out. Would he please get in touch as soon as possible? Of course, Annie had no idea that Roy was missing. She sounded rather chilly and official, Banks thought, wondering what she was doing in London. Could it have something to do with the murder she was investigating in Eastvale? It was after eleven now, though, and he didn’t fancy getting into a complicated conversation with Annie so late. He’d give her a ring in the morning.

  He brought the open bottle of Amarone upstairs and watched A Clockwork Orange on the plasma TV. Even with the surround sound turned low so as not to disturb the neighbors, it still filled the room. After that, he fell asleep o
n the sofa, the bottle still half full.

  Banks didn’t hear the thunder, nor did he see the lightning, when the storm passed over the London area in the small hours of the morning. What did awaken him, however, at shortly after three, was the distinct melody of “La donna è mobile” coming from very close by.

  As Banks struggled to consciousness, his first thought was that that he didn’t remember putting a CD of Rigoletto on before he went to sleep. Then he remembered Roy’s mobile, which sat on the table beside him.

  He picked it up and, sure enough, that was the source of the sound. The room was dark, but with the help of the blue back-lighting, he found the right button to push.

  “Hello,” he mumbled. “Who is it?”

  At first he heard nothing at all except a slight background hiss, perhaps some sort of static interference. He thought he could hear someone making choking or gagging sounds, as if they were trying to hold back laughter. Then he began to think that perhaps someone had rung by accident, and the sounds came from a television playing in the background.

  A similar thing happened to Banks once when he had forgotten to lock his mobile. Somehow or other he had activated one of the numbers in his phone book, and Tracy got to listen to the questioning of a murder witness. Fortunately, she couldn’t make out the conversation clearly, and she knew enough to switch off when she realized what must have happened. Still, it made Banks paranoid about locking the device after that.

  Or maybe this was kids, someone’s idea of a joke?

  The muffled noises went on, followed by a thud and the unmistakable sound of someone laughing. Then, as Banks looked at the display, a picture began to form. It wasn’t very sharp, but it looked like a photograph of a man slumped in a chair, asleep, perhaps, or unconscious, his head to one side. Banks couldn’t see whether there were other people around, but given the sounds, it might have been some sort of wild party.

  Why on earth would anyone want to send Roy such a picture? Banks was still half asleep and not thinking at all clearly, so he saved the picture and put the phone back on the table. Whatever it was, he would be better equipped to deal with it in the morning.