Strange Affair

by Peter Robinson

  You again,” said Roger Cropley, when Kev Templeton turned up at his front door again. “You’ve got a bloody nerve. What the hell do you want?”

  “Just a few more questions,” said Templeton. “I’m by myself this time. As a matter of fact, I’m very surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be down in London. It was your wife I was planning on talking to.”

  “I’m off sick,” said Cropley. “Summer cold. What do you want to talk to Eileen about?”

  “Oh, this and that. But now that you’re here, too, let’s have a party, shall we?” Templeton edged his way into the hall. Eileen Cropley was standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Ah, Mrs. Cropley. Good afternoon. I don’t believe we had a proper chance to get acquainted on my last visit.”

  “That’s because you were so rude, if I remember correctly. Roger, what does this man want? What have you been up to?”

  “I haven’t been up to anything. It’s all right, dear.” Cropley sighed. “You’d better come through,” he said.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  The living room still smelled of lavender, but the flowers had wilted and shed a few petals. “I might have been a little hasty last time,” said Templeton, when both Mr. and Mrs. Cropley had sat down. They sat on the sofa, Templeton noticed, one at each end, like bookends. Mrs. Cropley was definitely frosty. Cropley himself seemed resigned. “I hadn’t got all my ducks in a row.”

  “You can say that again,” said Cropley.

  “But that’s water under the bridge, isn’t it? No hard feelings?”

  Cropley regarded him suspiciously.

  “Anyway,” Templeton went on, “I’m glad I found both of you in. Gives me a chance to make up for bad first impressions. We’ve talked to the AA, Mr. Cropley, and they verify that you were, indeed, at the time in question, stuck on the hard shoulder of the M1 just south of the Derby turnoff.”

  “As I told you.”

  “Indeed. And I apologize for any…disbelief…I might have shown at the time. We tend to get quite wrapped up in our search for justice, and sometimes we trample on people’s finer feelings.”

  “So what do you want this time?”

  “Well, we’ve got a bit more information than we had before, and it looks as if these two men you saw in the dark Mondeo followed Jennifer Clewes—that was the victim’s name—off the A1 on the road to Eastvale, where they ran her into a drystone wall and shot her. They then returned to wherever they came from and the following night they dumped the Mondeo in the East End of London, where it was immediately stolen and later involved in a serious accident. Now, we’ve got some tire tracks the car made in a private lane in Gratly and some fingerprints that might possibly belong to one of the men. Our forensic scientists are checking the Mondeo for fingerprints to compare, but as you can imagine, after a crash like that, well…”

  “This is all very interesting,” said Cropley, “but I still don’t see how my wife or I can help.”

  “Hear the man out, Roger,” said Mrs. Cropley, who seemed interested despite herself.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cropley. Anyway, we got a description of the man who dropped off the car in London and a colleague down there has just faxed me an artist’s impression. I was wondering if you’d have a look at it and see if you can identify him.”

  “I told you,’ said Cropley, “I didn’t get a good look. I’m not very good at describing people.”

  “Most of us aren’t,” said Templeton. “That’s why looking at a picture helps.” He lifted his briefcase. “May I?”

  “Of course,” said Cropley.

  Templeton showed him the sketch.

  Cropley stared at it for a while, then he said, “It could be him.”

  “Only could be?”

  “As I said, I didn’t get a good look.”

  “But he did turn to look at you when the driver pulled right out in front, didn’t he? You told me that.”

  “Yes, but it was dark.”

  “The petrol station was well lit.”

  “I’m still not certain. I mean, I wouldn’t want to swear to it in court. Is that what you want?”

  “Not yet. We just want to find him.”

  “Well, it definitely looks like him. The hair, the general shape of the head, but it was too dark to make out his features.”

  “I understand that. Was he well-built?”

  “He did have rather broad shoulders, now I come to think of it, and not much of a neck. And he seemed tall, high in the seat.”

  “Fine,” said Templeton, putting the drawing away. “Many thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Cropley. “But you said you came to talk to my wife. She wouldn’t have been able to identify this man as she wasn’t with me.”

  “Just seizing the opportunity, Mr. Cropley. Saved me a trip to London, this has.” Templeton took out his notebook.

  “So what did you want to ask me? ” Mrs. Cropley said.

  Templeton scratched the side of his nose. “That’s another matter entirely, Mrs. Cropley. At least we think it is. On the twenty-third of April this year, a young woman named Claire Potter was raped and stabbed just off the M1 north of Chesterfield. She was last seen at the Trowell services a short time earlier.”

  “You mentioned this the last time you were here,” said Roger Cropley. “It meant nothing to me then and it means nothing now.”

  Templeton ignored him and faced Mrs. Cropley. “We’ve now got quite a bit more information about that crime,” he said, “and believe me, whoever did it must have picked up quite a bit of blood. I was just wondering if you had ever noticed anything about your husband’s clothing around that time—you know, unusual stains, that sort of thing. Devilishly hard to get rid of, blood. You do the washing around here, don’t you?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” said Mrs. Cropley. “The sheer nerve of it.”

  “Well, I’ve never been faulted for my lack of nerve,” said Templeton. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That’s my motto. So if there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest…”

  “I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Well, the clothes might have been beyond salvation, I suppose,” said Templeton. “Have any of your husband’s clothes gone missing over the past few months?”

  “No.”

  “Still,” Templeton mused aloud, “the killer washed the victim’s body, so the odds are he managed to deal with his own clothes. Very fastidious, he was. Are you a fastidious man, Mr. Cropley?”

  “I like to think so,” said Cropley, “but it doesn’t make me a killer, and I resent these accusations.”

  “Of course you do. It’s only natural. But I have to ask. I’d be a pretty useless detective if I didn’t, wouldn’t I?”

  “Quite frankly I don’t care what kind of bloody detective you are,” said Cropley. “One thing I do know is that you’re a very offensive person and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my house immediately.”

  “Just one more question, please, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Eileen Cropley glared at him.

  “How often has your husband been unusually late home from work on a Friday? Say, after midnight.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Surely you ought to be able to remember something like that? Don’t you wait up for him?”

  “No. I usually take a sleeping pill at eleven o’clock and go to bed. I’m fast asleep before midnight.”

  “So he usually gets back after eleven, then, can we say?”

  She looked at her husband. “I suppose so.”

  Templeton turned to Roger Cropley. “Nearly done now, sir. I remember the last time I was here with DC Jackman that you distinctly told me you usually try to get away by mid-afternoon to beat the rush-hour traffic.”

  “If I can. I don’t always succeed.”

  “How often in the last four months?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”

  “I think I’d remember
,” said Templeton.

  “I’m not you.”

  “No, you’re right about that.” Templeton put his notebook back in his inside pocket. “Well, I’ll be off now. Thanks for your time. No need to see me out. I know the way.”

  Templeton walked toward the door, but just before he opened it, he turned to face Cropley again. “One more thing.” He took out his notebook again, frowned and consulted it. “The twentieth of February. Were you on your way home late that Friday, do you remember? Did you stop at Newport Pagnell?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Only, a young girl called Paula Chandler was driven off the road and an attempt was made at assaulting her. It failed. Her car doors were locked. There’s a chance she might be able to identify her assailant.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Cropley said.

  “Of course not,” said Templeton, “I’m only—”

  “Then I want you to leave now or I’m calling my solicitor,” said Cropley, getting to his feet and striding toward Templeton. “Go on, get out!”

  For a moment, Templeton thought Cropley was going to hit him, but he merely grabbed his shoulder and steered him toward the front door. Templeton didn’t resist. When the door slammed behind him, he stood for a few moments enjoying the fresh, wet smell of the late-afternoon air. It had stopped raining but the sky was still overcast and the streets were glistening. To the west, the low hills were faint gray outlines against a darker gray background. He could hear the sound of flowing water nearby, probably a beck, and a bird was singing in one of the trees. All in all, he thought, it had been a much more successful interview than the previous one.

  As he got in his car, Templeton noticed a few flakes of Cropley’s dandruff on his sleeve jacket and moved to brush it off. Then he had a better idea. If Roger Cropley was their man, he thought, he was damned if DS Susan Browne was going to get all the glory.

  Annie stood in the rain among the massed crowds held back by barricades at the far side of Euston Road. The entire area had been blocked to traffic and all the station exits sealed, the underground shut down. People had swarmed out of the nearby offices, shops and cafés to stand at a safe distance and see what was going on, and their presence only served to swell the crowds. Annie began to feel uncomfortably penned in. Across the road, police in protective clothing moved about like shadows inside the station itself. The words that were on most people’s lips were terrorists, bomb threat, a fact of life in London. Annie had asked one of the officers on crowd control how long it would be before the trains started running, but he didn’t know. Could be a couple of hours, could be longer was all he would say. Annie saw her trip home quickly slipping away. There was no point going if she didn’t get back until evening.

  She made her way through the crowds, narrowly avoiding a poke in the eye from one of the many raised umbrellas. She didn’t care where she was walking as long as she was getting away from the people. Eventually, when she got off Euston Road and took her bearings, she found herself winding her way via the back streets toward Bloomsbury.

  When she got to Russell Square, she remembered the small hotel she and Banks had stayed at a few years ago, when their relationship had been just beginning and seemed full of possibility. She couldn’t stay there by herself. It would be far too depressing. She would go back to her faceless, modern, efficient chain hotel; they would be sure to have a room available, perhaps even the same one she had just vacated, though they all looked so much the same that it didn’t matter.

  If she found herself stuck in London for another night, so be it. She took out her mobile and rang Brooke. He had already faxed the artist’s impression up to Eastvalè, but said he’d be more than happy to fax it to her hotel right away. Annie then rang the hotel, made a reservation and told them she was expecting a fax. They said they would take care of everything.

  In the evening, she would go and visit Dr. Lukas at her home, but before that, Annie knew she couldn’t spend another day and night in London without some new clothes, so she headed for Oxford Street. A bit of retail therapy would help dispel the gloom that seemed to have descended on her with the rain.

  The pub was on Frith Street and at five o’clock it was already crowded. Burgess was there ahead of Banks, sitting on a wooden stool at a small table in the far corner, and he gestured to Banks, holding up an empty pint glass. Banks bought himself an orange juice and Burgess a pint of lager.

  “Not drinking?” Burgess said, when Banks made his way back from the bar with the drinks.

  “Not right at the moment. Tell me,” said Banks, “why do you always want to meet me in pubs? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your office. I’m not even entirely convinced that you have one.”

  “They’d never let you in. Besides, if they did, they’d probably have to kill you. Best this way. Easier all round.”

  “Are you ashamed of me or something?”

  Burgess laughed, then turned serious. “How are you doing?”

  “Not bad. It’s…I don’t know. Roy and I weren’t close or anything, but it still feels like a piece of me’s died.”

  “It’s family,” Burgess said.

  “I suppose so. That’s what everyone says. I feel as if I’ve only just started getting to know him and he’s been snatched from me.”

  “I had a sister die a few years back,” Burgess went on. “She lived in South Africa. Durban. Hadn’t seen her in years, not since we were kids. She was murdered during a robbery. Shot. I felt the same way, though, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about her for ages, what it must have been like when she knew she was going to die. Still, it was quick.”

  “Roy, too.”

  “Nothing like a bullet for that. So what are you up to?”

  Banks told him about the men who followed him on the motorway, the shooting gesture through the window.

  “What have you done about it?”

  “I almost turned back, but that’s probably what they wanted me to do. I called the locals in Peterborough and asked them to keep an eye open. They said they’d post surveillance on the council estate.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Can you still run down a number plate?”

  “Nothing could be easier.”

  Banks gave him the Vectra’s number.

  “You realize it’s probably stolen, don’t you?” Burgess said.

  “Attention to detail,” said Banks. “Sometimes they make little mistakes.”

  “True enough.”

  “Ever heard of the Berger-Lennox Centre?”

  “What’s that when it’s at home?”

  “A private family-planning center. They deal with the whole lot. Abortions, adoption, whatever you want.”

  “No,” said Burgess, “I can’t say I’ve heard of them, but then I wouldn’t have any need for such a place, would I?”

  “I suppose not. But Roy was an investor and Jennifer Clewes worked there, in administration.”

  “Sounds interesting, but I still don’t know anything about it. What are you going to do next?”

  “I want to find out who killed Roy and why.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? The caped crusader rides again.”

  “Aren’t you mixing your metaphors?”

  “Probably. I don’t suppose it’s any use telling you to leave it to the locals?”

  “No.”

  “Thought not. What is it you want from me?”

  “You’ve already told me a bit about Roy’s checkered past.”

  “The arms thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was years ago. I told you, as far as we know, your brother’s been clean for the past while. Forget about it.”

  “So why is he dead?”

  “Some of the nicest people end up dead.” Burgess lit a Tom Thumb cigar and added to the general fug.

  “Any idea who the bloke in the photo sitting at a café with Lambert is yet?”

  “Nope. I’m working on it, though. It’s still doing the rou
nds. Believe me, I want to know as much as you do. Trouble is, this time of year a lot of blokes are on holiday. And quite a few have retired since back then. Anyway, be patient. Remember it’s not the local nick you’re dealing with here. I promise you’ll be among the first to know.”

  “Tell me more about Gareth Lambert.”

  “I told you. He was a business associate of your brother’s and an all-round nasty piece of work. Charming enough on the surface. Like I said, Harry Lime. I take it you have seen The Third Man?”

  “It’s one of my favorite films. Look, according to Julian Harwood, Lambert’s been living in Spain.”

  “My, my, you have been a busy boy, haven’t you?”

  “Why come back?”

  “I suppose he got bored with paella. He also got married to some beautiful Spanish actress. Centerfold material. England’s quite sexy these days, or didn’t you know? Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow, Liv Tyler, and all the rest. They all want to live here. Anyway, he’s back, and apparently he’s in the travel business.”

  “Legit?”

  “I didn’t say that. But there’s no evidence to the contrary. Like I said, Lambert’s elusive. He’s got no form, never once been arrested. Not in this country, at any rate. Not yet. Always manages to keep one step ahead. Sure you won’t have a real drink?”

  “No, thanks. I need to keep my head clear.”

  “For what?”

  “For Roy.”

  “Okay.” Burgess went up the bar and bought himself another pint. Banks noticed that the pub was filling up even more with the after-work crowd. There had been a blackboard outside advertising hand-pulled “real” ale, so perhaps that was what brought them in. Most of the newcomers had to stand and the crush at the bar was getting to be three deep. Some people took advantage of the break in the rain and stood outside drinking, but from what Banks could see through the open door, the sky was darkening again and they’d all be dashing back inside soon.

  Burgess came back and squeezed through the bodies to his stool without spilling a drop. “Are there any other leads on Roy’s murder?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Banks. “I’ll have a word with Annie Cabbot later and see if I find out what’s going on with DI Brooke’s investigation.”