Strange Affair

by Peter Robinson

  “Why? What—”

  “Do you remember her?”

  “Perhaps,” said Cropley. “Vaguely. But I can’t say I was paying much attention.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Then you heard wrong.”

  “Come off it,” said Templeton. “You were leering at her, weren’t you? The attendant said you looked as if you wanted to stick your nozzle in her tank. You fancied her, didn’t you? Wanted a piece.” He was aware of Winsome looking askance at him, but sometimes a direct shock to the system worked better than any amount of gentle questioning.

  Cropley reddened. “That’s not how it happened at all.”

  “Not how what happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing happened. The situation, that’s all. I might have noticed her, but I wasn’t ‘leering,’ as you put it. I’m a married man, a God-fearing man.”

  “That doesn’t always stop people.”

  “Besides, since when has leering been against the law?”

  “So you were leering at her.”

  “Don’t put words into my mouth.”

  “What were you doing on the road so late?”

  “Coming home. That’s not a crime, either, is it? I work in London. I usually spend the week there.”

  “A commuter, then. What do you do?”

  “Computers. Software development.”

  “Are you usually that late coming home?”

  “It varies. As a rule, I try to get away by mid-afternoon on a Friday to beat the traffic, or early evening at the latest.”

  “What was different about last Friday?”

  “There was a meeting. We had a deadline to meet on an important project.”

  “And if I called your company they’d verify this?”

  “Of course. Why would I lie?”

  “For all I know,” said Templeton, “you drive up and down the motorway looking for young girls to rape and kill.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Do you read the papers? Watch the news?”

  “I try to keep abreast of current affairs.”

  “Oh, you do, do you? Well, I don’t suppose you’ve been following the story about the young woman murdered on the road from the A1 to Eastvale, have you? The same road you took. You were following her, weren’t you? Waiting for your opportunity. A dark country lane. You cut her off. What happened next? Wasn’t she your type after all? Did she struggle? Why did you shoot her?”

  Cropley got to his feet. “This is absurd. I don’t even own a gun. I’m going to call my solicitor.”

  “Where’s the gun, Roger? Did you throw it away?”

  “I told you. I don’t own a gun.”

  Templeton looked around the room. “We can get a search warrant. Make a mess.”

  “Then get one.”

  “It’ll be better if you tell us all about it,” said Winsome in a soothing voice. “We know these things happen, people lose control. Please sit down again, sir.”

  “Nothing of the sort happened,” said Cropley, straightening his tie and glaring at Templeton. He sat down slowly.

  “Come on, Mr. Cropley,” said Winsome. “Get it off your chest. There were two of them, weren’t there?”

  “Two what?”

  “Two girls. Claire Potter and Jennifer Clewes. What were you doing on the twenty-third of April?”

  “I can’t remember that far back.”

  “Try,” said Templeton. “It was a Friday. You’d be on your way back from London. Get away late that day, too, did you?”

  “How do you expect me to remember one Friday out of all the rest?”

  “Always stop at Watford Gap services, do you? Like the food there? Or do you stop at other places? Newport Pagnell? Leicester Forest? Trowell?”

  “I stop when I feel the need.”

  “What need?”

  “It’s a long drive. I usually take a break when I feel like it. Just the one. Use the toilets. Have a cup of tea. Maybe a sausage roll, a chocolate biscuit.”

  “And look at the girls?”

  “There’s no crime in looking.”

  “So you admit you do look?”

  “You’re doing it again. I simply said there’s no crime in looking. Don’t twist my words.”

  “Were you at Trowell services on the twenty-third of April?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t think so. I usually stop before then.”

  “But you have been there on occasion?”

  “On occasion. Yes.”

  “And maybe you were there on the twenty-third of April?”

  “I’ve told you. I doubt it very much. I don’t recall being there at all so far this year.”

  “Very convenient.”

  “It happens to be the truth.”

  Templeton could feel his frustration level rising. Cropley was a cool one and he seemed to have mastered the art of not giving anything away. Why would he need to do that unless he did have a secret?

  “Look, Roger,” said Winsome, “we know you did it. The rest is just a matter of time. We can do it the easy way, like this, in the comfort of your own home, or we can take you down to the station. It’s your choice. And believe me, every choice you make now will come back to haunt you down the line.”

  “What would you do?” Cropley said to her. “If you were innocent and someone was trying to say you’d done something terrible. What would you do?”

  “I’d tell the truth.”

  “Well, I am telling the bloody truth, but a fat lot of good it’s doing me, isn’t it?”

  “Watch your language,” Templeton cut in. “There’s a lady present.”

  “I’m sure she’s heard worse than that.”

  “And you a God-fearing man.”

  “I didn’t say I was a saint. Or a pushover.”

  “Right, let’s get back to that, shall we. Your unsaintly acts. We might not be able to prove you killed Claire Potter, but we’ve got a damn good chance of proving you killed Jennifer Clewes.”

  “Then you don’t need anything from me, do you?”

  “Don’t you understand?” Winsome said. “It would make things easier for you later on if you told us now.”

  “And what would it do for me? Knock a year off my sentence? Two years? Three years? If I survived that long.”

  “That’s good, Roger,” Templeton said. “You’re talking about doing time, now. Jail. Shows you’re moving in the right direction. What it might mean is the difference in the quality of care once you’re inside. See, people like you are on about the same level as child molesters as far as the general prison population is concerned, and the court has some discretion as to whether you’re to be isolated or not.”

  “That’s bollocks,” said Cropley. “There are strict prison guidelines and it doesn’t matter a damn whether I confess or not. Besides, you’re both missing the point completely. Read my lips: I didn’t do it. I have never, not once in my life, raped or killed anyone. Is that clear enough for you?”

  Templeton glanced at Winsome. “So be it,” he said. “Like I told you, we’ll be able to make out a good case from evidence and witness statements.”

  “Circumstantial. It means nothing.”

  “People have been convicted on a lot less.”

  Cropley said nothing.

  “What time did you start out on Friday?”

  “About half ten.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “About five.”

  Templeton paused. There was something wrong here. “Come off it. It doesn’t take that long to drive from London to Eastvale, even with a stop or two. Unless you couldn’t go straight home after you’d killed the girl. What did you do? Drive around until you calmed down, felt able to face your wife?”

  “As a matter of fact, my car broke down.”

  “Pull the other one.”

  “It’s true. I had a breakdown just a short distance past Nottingham.”

  “That’s very convenient.”


  “It wasn’t convenient at all. I had to wait over a bloody hour for the AA to come. They said it was a busy night.”

  “The AA?”

  “That’s right. I’m a member. Want to see my card?”

  Templeton felt his forehead getting hot. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Can you prove this, about the breakdown?” he asked.

  “Of course I can. Ask the AA. They’ll verify what happened. I was stuck on the hard shoulder from about one o’clock till half past two. Wait a minute—”

  “What was the problem?”

  “Fan belt. That’s put a spoke in your wheels, hasn’t it? You never told me what time this girl was killed. It was while I was waiting for the AA, wasn’t it?” Cropley smirked.

  Templeton suppressed a sudden urge to break Cropley’s nose. He felt himself running out of steam. If Cropley had been stuck on the M1 until well after two o’clock, he could hardly have killed Jennifer Clewes. “Your mobile phone records will bear this out?”

  “Should do. Will that be all?”

  “Not quite,” said Templeton, loath to let the bastard gloat for too long. “Who left the garage first, you or Jennifer Clewes?”

  “She did.”

  “And you followed her?”

  “No. I was just behind her, but another car cut in front of me. Came right out of the shadows. I overtook them both shortly after and I never saw her again. She must have passed me later, when I was stuck by the roadside, but I didn’t notice.”

  “What about this other car? Why didn’t you tell us about it before?”

  “Because you were too busy trying to accuse me of rape and murder. You never asked.”

  “Well, I’m asking now. What make was it?”

  “A Mondeo. Dark color. Maybe navy blue.”

  “How many people in it?”

  “Two. One in the front, one in the back.”

  “Like a taxi?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t a taxi. I mean, it didn’t look like one. There was no light on top, for a start.”

  “Chauffeured car, then?”

  “Maybe. Look, I hate to tell you how to do your job, especially as you’ve been doing it so well, but why don’t you ask me something useful, like do I remember the number?”

  “I was getting to that,” Templeton said. “Do you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Well, some of it, anyway. I suppose I noticed because he pulled out a bit sharply and I had to brake.”

  “What was it?”

  “LA51.”

  Templeton couldn’t remember offhand what Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency office and local memory tag the first two letters represented, but he knew that “51” meant the car had been registered between September 2001 and February 2002. The rest he could look up. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing.

  “What did the occupants look like?”

  “I didn’t get a good look,” said Cropley. “But I think they were both men. I really didn’t think anything of it at the time, except that I had to brake rather sharply.”

  “Try to remember.”

  Copley thought for a moment. “The one in the back turned and looked at me after they pulled out. I suppose I tooted the horn at them. Just instinct.”

  “And?”

  “Well, as I said, I didn’t get a good look. It was dark and his face was in shadow. But I think he had dark hair, tied back in a ponytail, and I doubt it was a friendly glance he gave me. I remember just feeling rather glad they didn’t stop and beat me up. You hear so much about road rage these days.”

  “What you get for going around tooting your horn,” said Templeton.

  “They cut me off.”

  “Popular girl, Ms. Clewes,” mused Templeton. “First you’ve got your eye on her, then another couple of blokes come cutting in and spoil all your fun. How did that make you feel?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Cropley said. “Can you hear yourself speak? You sound like a cheap television psychologist. Look, you already know I didn’t do it, and I’ve had just about enough of this, so why don’t you both sod off and check with the AA.”

  Templeton reddened and Winsome gave him a sign that they should leave before he did something he might regret. He paused a moment, locking eyes with Cropley, then did as she suggested.

  “Nice one, Kev,” she said, when they got outside. “You handled that really well.”

  He could tell she was still laughing at him when she got in the driver’s seat and the anger prickled at his skin from the inside like hot needles.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The pub Burgess chose was flanked by a halal butcher and an Indian take-away on a narrow street between Liverpool Street Station and Spitalfields Market. Banks took the tube and checked constantly to see if he was being followed. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t. After receiving the image on the mobile he didn’t feel like taking any chances.

  Though it was lunchtime and most pubs in the area were offering the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, at this place the choice was between nachos with sour cream and spicy chicken wings with BBQ dip. Banks didn’t fancy either, so he stuck with a pint of Pride and a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps while Burgess attacked the nachos and washed them down with cheap lager.

  There wasn’t exactly any sawdust on the floor, but looking at the state of the place, Banks thought perhaps there ought to be.

  Most of the lunchtime drinkers were older Bangladeshis, Indians and Pakistanis—clearly not devoutly Muslim. A group of them was watching a cricket game on the television, Essex playing Pakistan, commenting loudly now and then on a particularly good off-spinner or square cut.

  Burgess looked much the same as he had when Banks last saw him in January, except today he was informally dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt that dazzled Banks. But the shaved head and slight paunch were still there, and the cynical, world-weary look had returned to his eyes. All that was new was his tan. After many rises and falls in fortune, Burgess had landed on his feet after 9/11, when the service required men who got things done, no questions asked. Banks wasn’t sure what outfit he worked for now, but he assumed it was something to do with Special Branch.

  “Nice place you picked,” said Banks.

  “It’s anonymous,” Burgess said. “Everyone here just minds their own business. Besides, most of the buggers can barely understand English.” Outside the window, the sky had darkened and a few splashes of rain ran down the grimy glass. Burgess looked at Banks closely. “You look like a worried man. Care to tell your Uncle Dicky what’s wrong?”

  Banks looked around, saw that no one was paying them any attention, then he brought up the image on the mobile and slid it over the table. Burgess picked it up, examined it closely and raised his eyebrows. “It could be anyone,” he said, handing it back to Banks. “Some drunk asleep at a party.”

  “I know that. But what if it’s not?”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “It might be my brother.”

  “Roy?”

  “How do you know his name?”

  Burgess paused. “It was a long time ago.”

  “When?”

  “About five or six years. Last century, at any rate. No reason to bother you with it at the time.”

  “So what brought brother Roy under scrutiny?”

  “Arms dealing.”

  Banks swallowed. “What?”

  “You heard me. Arms dealing. Don’t look so surprised. Your brother helped broker a deal between a UK arms manufacturer and some rich Arab sheikh. Greased the wheels, handled the baksheesh, attended galas at the consulate and so on.”

  “Roy did that?”

  “Roy would do anything to make a bit of extra cash. He has an extraordinary range of contacts and connections, and the bugger of it is that he doesn’t even know who half of them really are.”

  “ ‘Naive’ was never a description I’d have used to describe Roy,” said Banks.
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  “Maybe not,” Burgess argued, “but he took too many people at face value. Maybe he didn’t want to dig any deeper. Maybe it was safer that way and easier on his conscience. Pocket the money and turn your back.”

  Banks had to admit that sounded like the Roy he knew. More likely than naïveté was lack of imagination. When they were kids, Banks remembered, they had had to share a bedroom for a few days for some reason. Banks was ten, Roy about five. Banks had tried to torment his younger brother by telling him gruesome ghost stories at bedtime, about headless corpses and misshapen ogres, hoping to scare him well into the night. But Roy had fallen asleep during Banks’s gory version of Dracula and it was Banks who was left unable to sleep, flinching at every gust of wind and creak in the woodwork, victim of his own imagination. Perhaps Roy had taken his colleagues and their claims at face value, perhaps he hadn’t wanted to dig any deeper, or perhaps he just lacked the imagination to extrapolate on the bare facts. Banks reached for a Silk Cut.

  “Didn’t think you’d last long,” said Burgess, lighting one of his own Tom Thumb cigars and offering the flame to Banks, who took it.

  “It’s only temporary,” Banks said.

  “Of course. Another pint?”

  “Why not?”

  Burgess went to the bar and Banks watched the cricket game while he was gone. Nothing exciting happened. A second pint of Pride on the table before him, he asked Burgess exactly what he knew about Roy.

  “You’ve got to understand,” Burgess said, “that your brother did nothing illegal in the strict sense. People manufacture the damn things and people sell them. Back then you could sell anything to anyone, anywhere: missiles, land mines, submarines, tanks, jet fighters, you name it. The problem is that they had a habit of ending up in the hands of the wrong people, despite all the red tape. Sometimes they got used on the very people who sold them in the first place.”

  “So where did these particular shipments go?”

  “They were destined for a friendly country in the Middle East, but they ended up in the hands of a terrorist splinter group.”

  “And Roy’s part?”

  “He had no idea. Obviously. He couldn’t see the big picture, didn’t want to, no more than the arms manufacturers did. They didn’t care. All they wanted was a nice fat profit.”