Strange Affair

by Peter Robinson

  “Even now he looks up to you,” Hunt went on.

  “That I find even harder to believe,” said Banks, wondering what there was to look up to: a failed marriage and a thankless job. Especially when Roy had it all: the flashy car, women falling at his feet, the mews house. But they were all things, Banks realized, all material possessions. Even the women, to some extent, were status symbols. Look at me with a beautiful young woman on my arm. All for show. Roy’s three marriages had ended in divorce, and not one of them had produced any children. He had even broken off his engagement to Corinne. Banks at least had Brian and Tracy.

  He saw that Hunt was standing, ready to leave. “Sorry,” said Banks. “Just thinking about what you said.”

  “That’s all right,” said Hunt. “I should go. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be of more practical help. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate. It’s St. Jude’s, just down the street.”

  “Thanks. Oh, hang on a minute.” Banks fetched one of the digital photos and showed it to Hunt. “Do you recognize either of those men?”

  Hunt shook his head.

  “You’ve never seen Roy with either of them?”

  “No, never.”

  They shook hands again and Ian Hunt left.

  Maybe the mistake Banks had made in trying to figure Roy out was to dismiss his spiritual and emotional sides. Now he had discovered that Roy had become a regular churchgoer, it changed things, added a dimension he hadn’t suspected. Did it help him figure out what had happened to Roy? Perhaps not, but it might affect the way in which he conducted his investigation. Previously, he’d been looking for something dodgy that Roy had been connected to, something he had perhaps run away from; now, though, the field was wide open. Possibly Roy had stumbled over something he shouldn’t have or perhaps he had become a threat to people he had once worked closely with, and instead of turning a blind eye he had planned on blowing the whistle? But on what, on whom?

  Gaps in the clouds let through bright lances of light and the western sky turned vermilion and violet. The crowds queuing for the sunset ride on the London Eye shifted restlessly in the downpour and people on Westminster Bridge watched the huge Ferris wheel from under their umbrellas and rain hoods.

  Eight-year-old Michaela Toth had been excited all day about the promised ride. It was to be the highlight of her first ever weekend in London—even better than Madame Tussaud’s and the zoo—and her mum and dad were letting her stay up late especially. Even the rain didn’t dampen her spirits as she stood in the queue hopping from foot to foot, clutching her yellow plastic handbag with the pink flower on it. It seemed as if they would never get there, edging forward at a snail’s pace like this. Michaela could hardly believe that the Eye was so much bigger than she had imagined, or that it never stopped turning, even when you got on and off. The thought made her just a little bit scared, but nicely so.

  Inch by inch, they moved forward. As soon as the cars emptied, they filled up again. A squat red tugboat chugged down the river, leaving its arrowhead wake in the darkening water. It was still light enough to see ?he men standing on the deck and Michaela noticed one of them point in her direction. At first she thought he was just pointing at the Eye, but more men joined him and the tug changed direction, heading for the bank.

  Michaela tugged on her father’s hand and asked him to take her to the wall to see what the men were pointing toward. At first she thought he wasn’t going to, but then she could tell he got curious too because he asked her mother to keep their place in the queue and said they’d be back in just a moment.

  The tug was getting close to the embankment as they got to the railings beside the Eye. The people on Westminster Bridge were pointing their way now, too, and Michaela wondered if they’d seen a dolphin, or even a whale, though she didn’t really believe there were any whales or dolphins living in the river Thames. Maybe one had escaped from an aquarium. Or maybe someone had fallen in the river and the men on the tugboat were going to rescue him.

  Holding her father’s hand, Michaela strained to see over the embankment wall. She was just tall enough to manage it. The tide was very low and a pebbly shingle bank stuck out of the water like a whale’s back just below the wall. Lying on the shingle bank was the sprawled figure of a man. A dark shape, he was lying on his stomach and his arms were stretched out in front of him, his lower half in the water. Michaela’s father pulled her away quickly.

  “What is it, Daddy?” she asked, frightened. “What’s that man doing there?”

  Her father didn’t answer; he simply led her away. When they rejoined her mother in the queue, her father spoke and Michaela heard the words “dead body.” Soon, others started drifting toward the wall. One woman screamed. Michaela worried she might not get her ride after all. If there was a dead body down there, perhaps the London Eye would even stop turning.

  After the Reverend Ian Hunt had left, Banks put away the golf club, feeling rather foolish, locked up the house and went upstairs with the remains of his wine. He rang Julian Harwood, who confirmed that he was managing director of the Berger-Lennox Centre but said he had never actually been to the place and had never heard of Jennifer Clewes. Banks had no reason to disbelieve him.

  Banks felt a sudden urge to listen to some music before bed. He found a CD he had never heard before: Lorraine Hunt Lieberson singing two Bach cantatas. Roy’s top-of-the-line stereo system brought out the rich timbre of the strings, and when he closed his eyes Banks could imagine himself in a room surrounded by the small ensemble. And the voice was sublime, almost enough to make you believe in God. He thought of Penny Cartwright singing “Strange Affair.” Different, but another wonderful voice.

  Banks sipped wine, feeling a pleasant buzz; he let the music roll over him and thought about Annie, Roy, Jennifer Clewes and the Berger-Lennox Centre. He would like to have been invited to go along with Annie in the morning, but she was right—it wasn’t his case, and he was a bit of a mess. When he examined his feelings, it was curious how little her comments really hurt. At the time, they had stung, but they had quickly sunk in, and he knew they were true. He had let things go. If he wasn’t as bad as the hapless fellow in one of his favorite Nick Lowe songs, he had been getting there.

  Perhaps a few months ago, before the Phil Keane business, Annie would have welcomed his company, but now she didn’t quite seem to trust him. And she was right not to do so. The last thing he had on his mind was going back up to Yorkshire.

  The CD finished and Banks looked fo? something else to put on. Roy didn’t have the Mahler songs, but he did have Strauss’s Four Last Songs, one of Banks’s favorite pieces of music; so he put that on. As it turned out, he wasn’t far into the second song when he heard the phone ring in Roy’s office. Putting his glass down, he hurried across the landing to answer it.

  The London Eye towered over the scene, a huge dark semicircle against the moonlit clouds. It was closed for the night now, but still turning slowly, always turning. Nearby, on the stone steps that led down to the hump of shingle bank bared by the tide, the SOCOs came and went like ghosts in their protective clothing. It was a precise ballet in which every dancer knew his steps. Despite the occasional shout and chatter or static over police radios, there was an odd hush about the scene, and no sense of hurry, as if the mighty heart of the city were lying still. Even the media beyond the taped-off area were strangely quiet. Arc lamps lit rough slimy stone, shingle and greasy water alike, and a police video camera recorded everything. The rain had stopped, and from Westminster Bridge a few curious onlookers watched over it all, silhouettes against the light dying in the west.

  When Banks arrived at the taped-off area, Burgess was already waiting for him, a grim look on his face. He had explained to Banks over the telephone that when he saw on the news that the body of a white male about Roy’s age had washed up by the London Eye, his alarm bells had gone off. They had found no identification on the body, so there was no evidence yet that it was Roy, and indeed he hoped it wasn’t, bu
t it might be worth Banks’s coming along and having a look.

  Banks hadn’t needed to be asked twice.

  Burgess took him by the arm and led him over to a thickset man with a red moon-shaped face. “DI Brooke, Lambeth North,” said Burgess, “meet DCI Banks, North Yorkshire Major Crimes.”

  The two men nodded at each other. “DI Brooke?” said Banks. “You’ll be the chap Annie Cabbot’s working with on the Jennifer Clewes case?”

  “Annie and I go back a long way.”

  Banks gestured toward the river. “Is he still down there?”

  “The police surgeon’s pronounced death, but the SOCOs haven’t finished yet. They’ll have to move fast, though, because the tide’s coming in.” Brooke paused and looked down at his feet. “Look, Superintendent Burgess here told me he thinks there’s a possibility it might be your brother down there?”

  “I hope to God it’s not,” said Banks, “but it’s a possibility, yes. He’s missing.”

  “Sorry to have to put you through this.”

  “Better than not knowing,” said Banks. “Can we go down?”

  “There’s some extra overalls in the SOCOs’ van. And mind your step, those old stone stairs are worn and slippery.”

  Kitted out in protective clothing, Banks and Burgess showed their identifications to the officer guarding the scene, ducked under the tape and approached the steps. The landing at the bottom didn’t quite reach as far as the exposed shingle bank, so the SOCOs had already set up a makeshift bridge made of planks. It wobbled a little as Banks and Burgess crossed. Once, Banks almost lost his footing and he became suddenly aware of how much he had had to drink that day. Water lapped gently against the stone wall.

  Banks felt a tightness in his chest as he app?oached the shingle bank and breathing became an effort. Burgess gave a nod and one of the SOCOs gently turned the body so that the face was visible. Banks squatted, feeling his knees crack, and looked into Roy’s dead eyes. There was a little hole in his left temple, close to the childhood scar Banks had accidentally inflicted on Roy with a toy sword. Banks felt himself sway on his haunches and stood up so fast it made him dizzy. Burgess grabbed his elbow.

  “I’m all right,” said Banks, disengaging himself.

  “Is it him?”

  “It’s him,” Banks said, and the only thing he could think as he tried to rein in his surging emotions was What the hell am I going to say to my parents?

  “Let’s get back up on shore,” Burgess said.

  Banks followed him back over the planks and up the steps. Brooke and his DS were waiting for confirmation. The sooner you identified the body, Banks knew, the sooner you put the machinery of a major investigation in motion. He nodded to Brooke.

  “I’m sorry,” Brooke said.

  “Look,” said Banks, “do you think you could keep it under wraps? His identity, that is. I’d like to be the one who tells our parents, in person, but not tonight. It’s too late.”

  Brooke looked at the crowd on the bridge and the reporters and camera operators behind the crime scene tape. “We can tell them we’re still awaiting official identification of the body,” he said. “That should hold them off for a while.”

  “First thing tomorrow,” said Banks. Just not tonight, he prayed. He couldn’t stand the idea of going over to Peterborough right now and waking his parents up and spending the night comforting them in their grief, knowing they would probably prefer it were Alan rather than Roy. Daylight would make it easier, he thought. Let them have just one more night of peace; there would soon be enough dreadful nights to come. “Can you tell Annie for me, please?” he asked.

  “Of course. In the morning.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brooke paused. “I’m sure you know I was intending to visit you, anyway,” he said. “In fact, DI Cabbot and I had a little word about you earlier this evening.”

  “I thought you might,” said Banks.

  “This changes everything, of course, but I’ve still got some questions for you,” Brooke went on. “When you’re up to it, that is.”

  “I’m up to it now,” said Banks.

  “Right. Superintendent Burgess tells me you’ve been stopping at your brother’s house. How about we go there?”

  “Fine,” said Banks, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Berger-Lennox Centre opened at nine o’clock on Monday morning and Annie was there on the dot. The center took up the first two floors of a four-story Georgian crescent house in Knightsbridge, which looked like something out of Upstairs, Downstairs. Still, when you paid through the nose for the service, Annie reflected, you didn’t expect some prefab concrete-and glass block building.

  As soon as she got through the front door, the impression of elegant age gave way to one of muted modernity. The walls were painted in soft pastel hues and there was a kind of hissing hush about the place that made her ears feel stuffed-up, as if she were in an airplane. It took her a moment to notice the music playing softly in the background—something classical and soothing, something Banks would probably recognize.

  The scent of sandalwood in the air triggered a sudden vision of Annie’s mother, Jane, leaning over her, smiling. The image shocked her, as her mother had died when Annie was six and she didn’t remember much about her. But now she could almost feel the long, soft hair tickling her face. Jane had been something of a hippie, and Annie remembered that sandalwood incense had often been burning in the artists’ commune where she had grown up. The memory also made her realize how far she had moved away over the past few years from so many of the ideals of her youth, and she felt the urge to spend more time on yoga and meditation; she hadn’t practiced at all since the business with Phil Keane.

  The blonde behind the polished wood reception desk looked up from her computer monitor and smiled as Annie approached. A brass plate on her desk said her name was Carol Prescott. Behind her, in the open-plan office space, a young woman stood at an open filing cabinet.

  Annie showed her warrant card and explained that she was investigating Jennifer Clewes’s murder. Carol’s public smile dropped and was replaced by an expression of sadness. Her eyes moistened slightly.

  “Poor Jennifer,” she said. “It was in the paper this morning. She was really sweet. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do something like that to her. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “She was my boss. We didn’t socialize outside the center or anything, but she was always ready with a hello and a smile.”

  “How was her state of mind recently?”

  “Fine,” said Carol. “Though, come to think of it, she did seem a bit scatterbrained last week.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No. She just seemed sort of on edge.”

  “Was she happy working here?”

  “She always seemed to be, but I didn’t know her well enough for her to confide in me. Anyway, how can you tell if someone is really happy? I mean, you read in the papers about people killing themselves when their friends think they’ve got everything to live for, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” Annie said. “But Jennifer didn’t kill herself.”

  “No. I know that. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be. Look, I want to speak to a few people here, people who knew her, but maybe you can give me a bit of background on the place first.”

  The phone rang and Carol excused herself. She adopted her professional voice and made a consultation appointment for a new patient.

  “Sorry,” she said when she’d hung up. “Of course, I’ll fill you in on what I can.”

  “How many people work here?”

  “Seven,” said Carol. “That’s including Jennifer. She was administrative director of the center. Then there’s her assistant, Lucy, behind me there in the office. Andrea and Georgina are our two consultation advisers, counselors; then there’s Dr. Alex Lukas, the medical
director, and Nurse Louise Griffiths.”

  “What’s Julian Harwood’s role?”

  “Mr. Harwood? He’s managing director of the whole group. But we never see him. I mean, he doesn’t really have anything to do with the day-to-day running of the center, or with the clinics.”

  “Clinics?”

  “Yes. We don’t carry out terminations here. If a client decides that’s the route she wants to go, we make an appointment at whichever of our clinics is most convenient for her.”

  “I see,” said Annie. “So this center wouldn’t be a magnet for anti-abortion activists?”

  “Hardly,” said Carol. “We’ve had one or two small demonstrations, you know, when there’s something’s in the news, but nothing violent. We offer advice on all aspects of family planning, not just abortion.”

  “How does the system work?”

  Carol sat back in her chair. “Well,” she said, “first they come to me, or phone, and I explain what our services and charges are and give them some pamphlets to read; then I send them to Lucy, who handles the preliminary paperwork. Usually at that point Louise runs a proper pregnancy test, just to make sure. We usually tell them to bring a urine sample with them, but there are facilities here if they forget. Anyway, then they’ll go to the waiting room, where they can read through the brochures until Andrea or Georgina is ready to see them.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s up to them, really. Our counselors will ask a few personal questions, and they’ll also answer any questions the client has at that point. You’d be surprised how many are confused by their pregnancies, poor things.”