Strange Affair

by Peter Robinson

  No, I wouldn’t, thought Annie. She had become pregnant after a rape and while there was no doubt that she was going to have an abortion, she could remember the inner turmoil and the guilt she felt. And Annie thought of herself as a modern, forward-thinking woman. Very few women, if any, approached termination lightly.

  “After that they’ll discuss the choices available,” Carol went on, “give guidance and advice if necessary. They’re specially trained. Then the client sees Dr. Lukas, who asks them about their medical history and examines them to confirm the gestation of the pregnancy, then Nurse Griffiths takes a blood sample. There’s more paperwork—consent forms and so on—and the doctor will discuss the different methods available and help you decide on the type of procedure most suitable.”

  “What if the client decides against abortion?”

  “Then Andrea or Georgina will give her information about adoption agencies and so on. She’ll still see the doctor, though, to determine her general health and so on.”

  “Do you offer antenatal care?”

  “No. Not here, at any rate. We usually refer.”

  “You say Jennifer was the administrative director. What exactly was she responsible for?”

  “Everything to do with the running of the place except the medical side. That’s an awful lot of work,” said Carol. “Sometimes she had to work late just to keep up.”

  “That reminds me,” said Annie. “Have you ever heard the term ‘late girls’?”

  Carol frowned. “ ‘Late girls’? No. Why, what does it mean?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not familiar to me.”

  “Do you remember ever having a client here called Carmen Petri?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “You can ask Lucy to check the records, but I think I would remember a name like that.”

  “Probably,” said Annie. “Lucy and Jennifer were close, were they?”

  “They worked together. Jennifer was Lucy’s boss, too, so that always puts a bit of wedge between you, doesn’t it? Not that Jennifer was one to play the high and mighty.”

  “Who was closest to her?”

  Carol thought for a moment, then said, “Georgina, I’d say. They’d talk about the center, some of the clients, and I think they even went out for a drink a couple of times after work if Jennifer didn’t have to stay late.”

  “Thanks,” said Annie. “Is Georgina in this morning?”

  “Yes, she’s in her office.” Carol picked up her phone. “I don’t think there’s anyone with her right now. Would you like me to let her know you want to see her?”

  “That’s all right,” said Annie, who preferred the element of surprise. “You can just show me where her office is.”

  Carol’s hand faltered. Clearly this went against standard procedure. “Okay,” she said, putting the phone back. “It’s up the stairs, second door on the right. It’s got her name on it: Georgina Roberts.”

  “Did you ever have any trouble with a man called Victor Parsons?” Annie asked. “He’s an ex-boyfriend of Jennifer’s.”

  “Oh, him. I remember him all right. Had to get security to throw him out.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Making a fuss. Upsetting our clients.”

  “About what?”

  “He demanded to see Jennifer, but she’d given me instructions not to let him in.”

  “What happened?”

  “He went away in the end.”

  “Did this happen more than once?”

  “The first time he went without too much fuss. It was the second time I had to get security.”

  Twice, then. “Did he make any threats?”

  “Not that I heard. He just said he’d be back.”

  “When was this?”

  “Couple of weeks ago.”

  That recently, Annie thought. Yet Jennifer and Victor had split up over a year ago. Anyone who could maintain a fixation for that long was definitely worth looking at.

  “One more thing,” said Annie. “Have you ever seen anyone by the name of Roy Banks here at the center?”

  Carol’s face brightened, then reddened a little. “Mr. Banks? Yes, of course. He and Jennifer were…you know, an item. I know she’s a bit young for him but he really is quite tasty. I don’t blame her at all.” Her face fell. “Oh. Poor Mr. Banks. He’ll be just devastated. Does he know?”

  “Not yet,” said Annie. “So he came here quite often?”

  “Quite. He’d pick Jennifer up after work sometimes and we’d chat if he had to wait.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular. Films, the weather, just small talk. And Arsenal. We’re both big Arsenal fans.”

  “Was he ever here at the same time as Victor Parsons?”

  “No.”

  “You know he was an investor in the centers?”

  “Yes, he mentioned it once. But he didn’t have any airs or graces.”

  “Is that why he came here the first time, when he met Jennifer?”

  “Oh, no,” said Carol. “No, he was here as a client. Accompanying a client, I should say.”

  Now it was Annie’s turn to feel surprised. “Accompanying a client?”

  “Yes,” said Carol. “His daughter. She was pregnant.”

  Long before Annie paid her visit to the Berger-Lennox Centre, Banks was plowing his way through the Monday-morning rush-hour traffic on his way to Peterborough. He felt numb after grappling with the demons of fear and loss most of the night, but he also felt apprehensive about what was to come. His parents doted on Roy; something like this could push his father’s heart over the edge. But he had to tell them himself; he couldn’t let the news come from some anonymous copper knocking on the door.

  Brooke had gone out of his way to protect the identity of the victim from the media. As soon as Banks had told his parents, he had to ring Brooke and tell him it was done; the rest would follow. He remembered he had also promised to keep Corinne and Roy’s neighbor Malcolm Farrow, up-to-date, but they would have to wait their turn.

  After some relatively gentle questioning—very gentle, given the circumstances—Banks had handed over Roy’s mobile, the USB drive and the CD to Brooke and tried to get some sleep. The effects of the wine were fast wearing off, leaving him with a throbbing head, and sleep had refused to come. Luckily, there wasn’t much of the night left by then, and the dawn came early in June. At six o’clock, Banks was in the shower, then it was time to go pick up his car from where he had left it last night, near Waterloo Station, pick up a coffee for the road, and head for home.

  Progress was slower than Banks remembered, or expected, and a journey that should have taken under two hours took almost three. Every time the news came on the radio, no matter what station he tuned into, there was the story about the mystery body fished out of the river Thames just below the London Eye last night. In the end, Banks turned it off.

  When he finally pulled up outside his parents’ house in Peterborough, it was close to ten o’clock. Back in London, the murder investigation would be following its natural course: the technical support unit experts would be going over Roy’s mobile and the SOCOs would be tracking every piece of evidence retrieved from the crime scene. DCs would be out on the streets asking questions and Brooke would be sifting through it all, looking for that promising line of inquiry.

  The front door was painted green, Banks noticed, which was surely different from his last visit. The tiny lawn looked a little overgrown and some of the flowers in the bed didn’t look in peak condition. That wasn’t like his mother. He knocked and waited. His mother answered and was, naturally, surprised to see him. She had lost weight, Banks noticed, and looked tired and drawn, with dark crescents under her eyes. God only knew what the news of Roy’s murder would do to her.

  He could tell that she knew something was wrong by her ceaseless nervous chatter as she led him into the living room,
where his father sat in his usual armchair, newspaper on his lap.

  “Look who it is, Arthur. It’s our Alan come to call.”

  Maybe it was Banks’s imagination, but he thought he sensed just the slightest air of neglect about the place; a patina of dust on the TV screen, a picture frame out of alignment, a teacup and saucer on the floor beside the settee, a slight bunching of the rug in front of the fire.

  “Hello, Son,” said Arthur Banks. “Just happened to be passing, did you?”

  “Not exactly,” said Banks, perching on the edge of the sofa. His mother fussed about, heading for the kitchen to put on the kettle for that great English cure-all, tea. Banks called her back. There would be time and need enough for copious quantities of tea later. On his way he had rehearsed what he was going to say over and over, how he was going to handle it; but now the time had come, he couldn’t remember what he had decided would be best.

  “It’s about Roy,” he began.

  “Did you find him?” Ida Banks asked.

  “In a way.” Banks leaned forward and took his mother’s hand. This was even harder than he had imagined it might be; the words seemed stuck deep inside him and when he spoke they came out as little more than a whisper. “He wasn’t at home and I looked for him all weekend. I did my best, Mum, honestly I did, but I was too late.” He felt the tears brim in his eyes and let them course down his cheeks.

  “Too late? What do you mean, too late? Where’s he gone?”

  “Roy’s dead, Mum.” There, he’d said it. “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

  “Are you sure?” Ida Banks asked. “Maybe he’s only joking.”

  Banks thought he’d misheard. “What?” he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

  Ida Banks laughed and touched her hair. “Don’t you understand?” she said. “It’s a joke. Our Roy’s a great practical joker, isn’t he, Arthur? He’s playing a joke on us.”

  Arthur Banks said nothing. Banks noticed he had turned pale and seemed to be clutching the newspaper tightly by its edges. It was already ripped. “Dad, can I get you anything? Do you need a pill or something?”

  “No,” Arthur Banks managed. “Nothing. I’m all right. Go on. What happened?”

  “There’s not much more to say,” Banks said, turning back to his mother. “They found him last night in the river.”

  “Swimming in the river?” Ida Banks said. “But surely the water’s too dirty to swim in? I always told him he had to be careful. You can get terrible diseases from dirty water, you know.”

  “He wasn’t swimming, Mother,” said Banks. “He was dead.”

  His mother took a sharp breath. “Don’t say that,” she said. “You shouldn’t say things like that. Tell him, Arthur. You’re only trying to upset me. You never did like Roy. If this is supposed to be some sort of joke, then it isn’t very funny.”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  Arthur Banks stood up with some difficulty and shuffled over to his wife. “I think we’d better have that tea now, love,” he said, “then our Alan can explain it all over a nice cuppa.”

  Ida Banks nodded, happy to have a purpose in life. “Yes,” she said, “that’ll be best. I’ll make some tea.”

  When she had gone to the kitchen, Arthur Banks turned to his son. “There’s no mistake, then?”

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  His father grunted and glanced toward the kitchen. “She’s not been well. She’s got to go in for tests and stuff. We didn’t want to worry you. Doctors haven’t figured out what’s wrong with her yet, but she’s not been well. She’s not eating properly. She gets confused.” Arthur Banks pointed to his newspaper. “It’s that story in the paper, isn’t it? The body pulled out of the Thames. It’s on the front page. That’s our Roy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “We’ve managed to keep his identity from the media so far, but it’ll have to come out. It’s going to get worse, Dad. Our Roy was shot. We don’t know why yet. But it’s a big story. Reporters will be around.”

  “Don’t you worry, Son, I’ll soon send that lot packing.”

  “It might not be as easy as you think. I’ll get in touch with the local police, if you like.” Banks knew his father’s attitude to the police, had suffered it all his life, but the need to protect his parents was stronger even than his respect for the old man’s opinion.

  “Whatever you think’s best. I just don’t know. I can’t seem to think straight. Our Roy…dead. It’s a terrible thing when your children die before you do. Shot? No. I can hardly believe it.”

  Banks felt a sudden chill, a premonition of what he would feel like if anything happened to Tracy or Brian, and it gave him a stronger sense of empathy with what his parents were suffering. For him it was the loss of a brother, perhaps one he never particularly liked and never really knew, but family nonetheless, and it hurt. For his parents, it was the loss of their favorite son.

  “I know, Dad,” he said. “And I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you, but I just didn’t want you to find out any other way.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Arthur Banks, looking at his son. “It can’t have been easy. Will we have to identify the body?”

  “It’s been done.”

  “What about the funeral?”

  “I’ll deal with all that, Dad; don’t worry yourself.”

  “What was he…I mean, would it have been quick?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “He wouldn’t have felt a thing.” Except the fear, the anticipation, he thought, but didn’t say.

  “The paper said he was in the river.”

  “Yes. He was spotted on a shingle bank just below the London Eye.”

  “You don’t know where he went in?”

  “Not yet. The tides and currents are pretty strong, especially with the rain we’ve been having. It’s for the experts to figure out.”

  “Do you know anything about why? Was he in trouble?”

  “I think he was,” said Banks.

  “Roy always sailed a bit close to the wind.”

  “Yes, he did,” Banks agreed. “But somehow this time I don’t think that’s what it was.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just a feeling. There’s been another murder, a young woman. They might be connected.”

  Arthur Banks rubbed his face. “Not that girl he brought around last year, Corinne?”

  “No, Dad. Corinne’s fine. It’s someone else. Her name’s Jennifer Clewes. Did Roy ever mention her to you?”

  “No.”

  “Look, I’ll help around here all I can,” said Banks, “but I might be more use back in London trying to find out what happened. That’s what I do, after all. Right now, though, I’m just worried about you and Mum. Is there someone you’d like me to call? Uncle Frank, perhaps?”

  “Bloody hell, no. He’d be more a hindrance than a help, would Frank. No, you leave it to me. I’ll handle your mother. Maybe, if she wants, I’ll ask Mrs. Green to pop over later.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’m sure—”

  At that moment Banks and his father heard a cup break on the kitchen floor, followed by a long wail of anguish that froze their blood.

  Annie mulled over the information she’d got from Carol Prescott as she made her way upstairs to Georgina’s office after a quick word with Lucy, who had nothing much to say except that Jennifer was a good boss and a “nice” person. Annie certainly hadn’t known that Roy Banks had a daughter. It had been in April, Carol said, and the girl, eleven weeks pregnant, had opted for an abortion, which had cost Roy Banks about five hundred pounds in all. Roy had met Jennifer then. Carol remembered them chatting while the daughter went through her meetings with the counselor and doctor. Since then, he had been by a number of times to meet her after work or take her for lunch.

  The name Carol gave Annie rang a bell: Corinne. Banks had mentioned that Roy had a girlfriend called Corinne. Either Roy Banks had passed off his girlfriend as his daughter for reasons of his, or her, own, or the
people at the center had simply assumed she was his daughter because of the age difference. But wouldn’t they have seen her name on the forms? Still, for all they knew, she could have been divorced, yet kept her married name, Annie supposed. Perhaps this was a different Corinne? When Annie asked Carol if Roy had specifically mentioned the girl being his daughter, she couldn’t recall, and she said she didn’t really pay attention to the girl’s name.

  Well, Annie told herself, it probably meant nothing. She already knew that Roy Banks and Jennifer Clewes were seeing each other, no matter how they first met. It didn’t show Roy Banks in a particularly good light, Annie thought, chatting up his next girlfriend while bringing in last year’s model for an abortion, but worse things happened. He probably got a discount for being an investor, too. And what had Jennifer thought about it? By all accounts she was a “nice” girl, decent, caring, hardworking. She had never mentioned the “daughter” at work. Roy Banks must have a hell of a smooth tongue on him, Annie thought, to explain that one away.

  Annie knocked on Georgina’s office door.

  “Come in,” called a voice from inside.

  Annie entered and found a pleasantly plump woman with dark curly hair and the hint of a double chin sitting behind a desk. She looked as if her normal expression was a smile. Today, though, it was banished in favor of a frown. Annie introduced herself and the frown lines deepened.

  “I understand the two of you were quite close?” she said.

  “Yes,” Georgina agreed. “I’d like to think we were friends. I’m simply devastated by what’s happened. I know that sounds like a cliché, but I just can’t articulate my feelings any more clearly.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Annie.

  “Would you like me to get us some coffee?” Georgina suggested. “It’s really not that bad.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had my ration for today.”

  Georgina stood up. “Would you mind if I…It’s not far. I won’t be a minute. Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

  “Go ahead.” Left alone, Annie first walked over to the open window, which looked out on the hustle and bustle of the street below. Delivery vans came and went. Taxis stopped to pick up or drop off fares. Men and women in business suits dashed across the roads before the lights changed.