Strange Affair

by Peter Robinson

  “It’s not your fault,” said Annie.

  “Even so, I feel badly.”

  “Mr. Seaton. Alf,” DI Brooke cut in, “do you think you would be able to work with a police artist on a sketch of the man you got a good look at?”

  “I think so,” said Seaton. “I mean, I’ve got a fairly clear picture of him in my mind. It’s just a matter of getting it down.”

  “That’s what the artist’s for. With a bit of luck, we might be able to get him here by tomorrow morning. Would that be all right?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good. I’ll make the arrangements. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  Seaton thought for a moment, then said, “No, I don’t think so. It all happened very quickly, and as I said, I didn’t know what was going on. Why would a man abandon a nice car like that in a neighborhood like this unless he wanted it to be stolen?”

  “Exactly,” said Annie.

  Banks fetched fish and chips from the Chinese chippie over the road for lunch, but his father just picked at them. He didn’t even complain the way he usually did that they tasted of chop suey, his only notion of Chinese food. After a cup of tea Banks was seriously thinking of heading back to London, but he sensed that he should stay. Not that his father asked him, or ever would, but it seemed the thing to do. The family should be together, at least for now.

  He felt restless, though, cooped up, so he drove into town and wandered aimlessly around Cathedral Square and the Queensgate Centre. While he was there he remembered that he had left his mobile back in Gratly and he had given Roy’s to Brooke. If he was planning on heading back to London, which he was, he might need one. He went into the first electronics shop he saw and bought a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile and a ten-pound card. Once he’d got the battery charged back at his parents’ house it would be ready to use.

  It was a cloudy afternoon, holding the threat of rain. A group of buskers was playing jigs and reels in the square, a small crowd gathered around them. A steady stream of tourists entered the Cathedral precints.

  When Banks found himself wandering by the Rivergate Centre flats he thought of Michelle Hart, who used to live there, on Viersen Platz. On the opposite side of the river was Charters Bar, an old iron barge moored near Town Bridge, and Banks remembered the blues music he’d heard issuing from it on weekends he had stayed with Michelle.

  Banks stared into the murky water and wondered if he should have tried harder with Michelle. He had let her slip away far too easily. But what could he do? Her career was important to her, and when the opportunity in Bristol came up, he could hardly plead with her not to go. Besides, there had been problems with the relationship well before the move, so many that Banks had often thought the new job was at least partly an attempt to put more distance between them.

  He walked back to his car and just sat there for a while with the windows open, smoking. How bloody ironic it was, he thought, that he had only come to know his brother after his disappearance. If Roy had died two, three years ago, Banks would have grieved, of course, but he wouldn’t have felt the loss in such a personal way. Now, though, it actually hurt, squeezed at his heart. Now there was someone to miss, not just a distant memory.

  It wasn’t so much that he had revised his opinion of Roy as that he had put it in a larger context. Roy was a rogue, no doubt about it; he had about as much sense of business ethics as a flea and he was a bastard to women. That he’d made a fortune, driven a Porsche and had women falling all over him was only a testament to one of those grim truths of life: that the bastards thrive. Maybe they get their just desserts in the afterlife, maybe they come back as cockroaches, but in this life, they thrive.

  Roy’s crisis of conscience after witnessing the horror of 9/11, his turning to the church, had probably sharpened what moral instinct he had to some degree Had he stumbled across something in that last week that offended his sense of right and wrong? Had he gone through a struggle of conscience before ringing his policeman brother? Or had it been business much as usual? Throughout his life Roy had probably stolen, cheated and lied without giving a damn for the consequences, or a moment to worry over those whom he had hurt in the process. Had he changed that much? Banks wouldn’t find out in Peterborough, he knew that, so tomorrow he would have to head back to London and start digging again.

  Banks thought it might be a good idea to let a few people, especially his children, know he had a new mobile number, so he turned on the engine, plugged the phone in the car charger and rang to leave messages. To his great surprise, Brian actually answered in person.

  “Dad. Nice to hear from you. We’re on a break. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner but we were in the studio. I was going to ring tonight.”

  “It’s okay,” said Banks. “I’ve been out a lot. How’s it going?”

  “Good. Slowly, but good.”

  “And how’s Dublin?”

  “Great.”

  “Tried the Guinness yet?”

  “A pint or two. Look, what is it, Dad? Why did you want to talk to me? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” said Banks, thinking, Here we go again, then taking a deep breath and plunging in. “Your Uncle Roy’s been killed. It’ll be all over the news in a while, so I wanted you to know.”

  “Uncle Roy? No. I mean, I never really knew him, but…he always sent cards and stuff. I can’t believe it. Why? What happened? Did he have some sort of accident?’ ”

  “I’m trying to find out what happened,” said Banks. “But, no, it wasn’t an accident. He was shot.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Brian, really. I can’t think of an easier way to break the news. Anyway, there’s nothing you can do. I’ve told Tracy, and she’s going to tell your mother. Just get on with your recording.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. And be prepared for reporters.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “You’ll let me know how it goes? Keep me informed?”

  “I’ll let you know,” said Banks. “I’ll be back in London in a day or so, probably staying at Roy’s house if the police have finished with it. Do you want the address and phone number there?”

  “Sure. Might as well. Shot…Jesus.”

  Banks gave him Roy’s address.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Brian said. “And I’m really sorry.”

  “Take care,” said Banks, then he broke the connection.

  Banks sat there for a moment longer thinking he’d probably gone and ruined his son’s big recording session, then he stubbed out his cigarette and set off back to his parents’ house.

  Victor Parsons shared a flat with two other young men in Chalk Farm. When Annie called around teatime, he was sitting in the living room reading a film magazine. Annie’s first impression was of a nice-enough-looking bloke with a bland and unassuming personality, quite a contrast to the chic, successful and dynamic Roy Banks.

  Parsons clearly hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and it looked as if he’d been wearing the same T-shirt and jeans for much longer. There was a snail-like lethargy about him that hinted at lack of ambition. Yet, Annie had to remind herself, he had turned up at Jennifer Clewes’s place of work and caused a scene. Quite frankly, he didn’t look as if he had it in him.

  Annie didn’t like to make snap judgments, but all she had seen and heard of Jennifer, admittedly only after her death, indicated that she outclassed Victor by far. Had she had such low self-esteem, then, had she been so insecure that she had really seen something of value in him? Still, Annie thought, there was no accounting for taste and no explanation for many of the strange couplings in life.

  The room itself seemed clean and tidy enough, which pleased and surprised Annie. Knowing she had been about to visit a bachelor pad, she had mentally girded herself for dirty laundry over chair backs and posters of Kelly Brook and Jordan in lacy black lingerie plastered to the walls.
As it turned out, the only poster in view was for Kill Bill Volume I.

  “I suppose it’s about Jenn?” Victor said, without offering Annie a seat, let alone a cup of tea or coffee. As he was slouching on the sofa, she took an armchair and sat. Victor looked across at her. “I suppose that bitch Melanie Scott’s been talking?”

  “Among others,” said Annie. “You’re not exactly popular among Jennifer’s friends and acquaintances.”

  “I don’t care what people think about me. They don’t really know me, anyway. They’re just a bunch of superficial losers.”

  “Oh, it’s like that is, it? Poor, hard-done-by misunderstood genius takes on the world.”

  He gave her a look of scorn. “What do you know? You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re right,” said Annie, “so why don’t I ask the questions and you answer them? I find this sort of thing works best that way.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Good. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted. Now let’s get down to business. Where were you last Friday night?”

  “Here.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Watching TV.”

  “What were you watching?”

  “Coronation Street, East Enders, Lenny Henry, Have I Got News for You, then Jools Holland and a late film. It was a horror film called Session Nine.”

  “Any good?”

  “It had its moments.”

  “That’s pretty impressive, Victor, remembering all that.”

  “I’ve just got a good memory, that’s all, and it’s pretty much the same every Friday. Different film, of course.”

  “Anyone else with you?”

  “Gavin was out till about one o’clock, but Ravi was here most of the time. You can ask him.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “Look, I’m gutted, you know. By what’s happened. I loved her.”

  “So I hear. Can be a nasty thing, unrequited love.”

  “She loved me, too. She just didn’t realize it. She would’ve, if…”

  “If?”

  “Given time.”

  Annie sighed. “Victor, it sounds to me as if somewhere along the line you lost touch with reality. Jennifer wasn’t in love with you. She’d moved on, found someone else.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Do? What do you mean?”

  “Your job. Work.”

  “I’m an actor.”

  “Working these days?”

  “Resting. It’s true, though. I’ve had roles. I’ve even done TV. Only adverts, and one non-speaking part, but it’s a start.”

  “Earn much money?”

  “Not a lot, no.”

  If Annie held out any hopes that it was Victor who hired someone to kill Jennifer, they were soon dashed. He obviously couldn’t afford it. “Why did you pester her?” she asked. “You went to her place of work and caused a scene. Why did you do that if you loved her?”

  “I’m not proud of that. I was pissed. I’d been drinking with Ravi at lunchtime and I’m not used to it. The booze went to my head, that’s all, and I got overexcited. I was sorry about it afterward. I even rang her to apologize but she wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “Did you talk at all since you split up?”

  “No. I couldn’t get near her at work and she always hung up the phone if I tried her at home. Or the other girl did.”

  “Kate Nesbit?”

  “Is that her name? I don’t know.”

  “But you knew where she lived, where she’d moved to?”

  “Yeah. I made it my business to find out.”

  “Have you any idea if anything, or anyone, was bothering her over the past while?”

  “No. Like I said, she shut me out of her life completely.”

  “Did you ever hang around outside her house?”

  “I walked by once in a while, yes. I thought I might bump into her.”

  “Once in a while?”

  “We’ll, not every day, but regular, like.”

  “And did you see her?”

  “No. Never.”

  “When were you last there?”

  “Couple of weeks ago.”

  “Did you notice anyone else hanging around?”

  “No.”

  Of course he wouldn’t, Annie thought. He wouldn’t even notice if Godzilla stomped on the house next door. All he had eyes for was Jennifer. “What about her place of work?”

  “She worked late sometimes. I used to wait across the street. Just to see her.”

  “Did you ever approach her when she left?”

  “No. I didn’t have the bottle. I’d just watch her. I told you, it was only because I was pissed that I made a scene.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Last week. Monday.”

  “And did you see her leave?”

  “Yeah, but she was with someone.”

  “Who?”

  “It wasn’t anyone I knew, just some girl, by the looks of her.”

  “A young girl?”

  “Yeah. Probably one of the rich pregnant teenagers they deal with there. Only this one didn’t look particularly rich.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About eight o’clock.”

  “Wasn’t the center closed by then?”

  “Yeah. They close at five. I think everyone else had gone home, but Jenn worked late a lot.”

  “Can you describe the girl?”

  “Long dark hair. Bit skinny, but a nice figure, apart from the bump. She was just wearing ordinary clothes. You know, a flowery dress, sandals. I didn’t get a really good look at her face.”

  “I take it by the ‘bump’ you mean her pregnancy was showing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “A bloke got out of a car parked in front, had a word in her ear, and she got in the car with him.”

  “Who, Jennifer or the girl?”

  “The girl.”

  “What did Jennifer do?”

  “Walked toward the tube station.”

  “Did you follow her?”

  “No. I just went for a drink.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Like he lifted weights. You know, big, broad shoulders, no neck. And he had a ponytail.”

  “And the car?”

  “Didn’t notice.”

  “Dark or light?”

  “Light, I think. Maybe silver.”

  “Was there anyone else in it?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “Did he force the girl into the car?”

  Parsons frowned. “No. But it was like he was in charge and he was saying ‘That’s enough, time to go.’ ”

  “She didn’t resist?”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” said Annie. “Were you outside Jennifer’s house or place of work last Friday?”

  “No. I already told you. I stayed in. I do most nights.”

  Had Victor Parsons killed Jennifer or had anything to do with her death? Annie doubted it. Stalkers could turn violent, true, but more often than not they didn’t. Most of the time they were sad, pathetic pillocks like Victor, or like Peeping Toms, irritating and upsetting, but ultimately harmless.

  “Tell me something,” she asked, “just out of interest. Why did you split up with Jennifer?”

  “It was all a misunderstanding. That’s it, you see. I thought we wanted different things. You know, Jenn wanted marriage, family, all that, and I wanted to pursue my acting career. But I was wrong.”

  “So you chucked her?”

  “No. It wasn’t like that. All I said was that we should give one another a bit more space and get clear about what we wanted, that’s all. And I did. I decided I wanted her, no matter what, that I’d even give up my career, she meant that much to me.”

  “Generous of you.” No doubt, Annie guessed, as soon as Jennifer had got over t
he immediate shock of the breakup and got pissed with Melanie Scott a few times in Sicily, she had probably realized just how lucky she was to get out of the relationship.

  There was nothing more to be gained talking to Victor Parsons, Annie decided; she would get someone else to check his alibi with his flatmate and cross him off her list. It was only early evening, but it had been a long day and Annie felt tired, felt like simply going back to her hotel, ordering room service and vegging out in front of the TV. She had rung Peterborough earlier in the afternoon, but Banks was out. Maybe she would try ringing again later.

  “What am I going to do now?” Victor asked as Annie opened the door. “What am I going to do?”

  “Maybe you should get out of the house a bit more often and try to get an audition?” Annie suggested, and left.

  How is she?” Banks asked when he got back from town.

  “No different,” said his father. “I told you she wasn’t well even before all this. It’s only made her worse. Anyway, she’s still in bed. Doesn’t seem to want to get up.”

  “I’ll go up and see her in a while. I’ve decided to stay over tonight.”

  “You’ve no need to,” said his father. “Not for our sake. We can manage.”

  “I’d like to.” One thing Banks knew that his father might not have thought of was that Roy’s identity would now be public knowledge and there was a good chance that the phone would be ringing off the hook. He wanted to be there to field the calls for them.

  “Suit yourself. Your room’s always here, you know that.”

  “I know,” said Banks.

  “I still can’t believe our Roy’s dead. Murdered.”

  “Me neither. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “You can’t bring him back.”

  “No. Any signs of reporters while I was out?”

  “No.”

  “Thank the Lord for small mercies, then. Look, Dad, I don’t suppose Roy ever talked to you about his business interests, did he? What he was up to, that sort of thing?”

  “Me? You must be joking. He knew I’d have about as much understanding of business as I have about rocket science.”

  “And that you might not approve of how he made his money?”

  “I’m not a bloody Communist. All I’ve ever asked for is a fair share for the workingman. What’s so wrong about that?”