Strange Affair (23 page)

“She didn’t confide in you about anything that was bothering her?”

“No.”

“What about Victor Parsons?”

“That waste of space. What about him?”

“I heard he caused a bit of trouble here at the centre.”

“Yes, but he’s all bluster. I mean, he’s obnoxious enough, but I can’t imagine him doing…you know.”

“What happened between them?”

“Search me. I think Jenn wanted to settle down, have a family, but he wasn’t interested. To be quite honest, from what I could gather he’s a bit of a layabout, a sponger. She was well shut of him.”

“Do you know if he ever hit her?”

“I don’t think so. At least she never said, and I never saw any evidence of it. The breakup hit her hard, though. She didn’t say much, but you could tell she was under a lot of stress, poor thing. She lost weight, let herself go, as you do.”

“But this was before Roy Banks?”

“Oh, yes. She’d bounced back by then. Even tried one or two dates. They didn’t lead anywhere.”

“But Victor Parsons turned up again, as recently as two weeks ago, I understand?”

“Yes, made a terrible scene. I was down in reception at the time.”

“What did he say?”

“He begged her to go back with him. Said he couldn’t live without her.” Georgina’s lip curled in distaste. “Pathetic little shit.”

“Did he and Roy Banks ever bump into one another?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But you think that’s what might have been upsetting Jennifer this last week? Victor? Or Roy?”

“Maybe they’d had a row or something. Bear in mind, though, I’m only guessing. It could have been something else entirely.”

“You said she had a tendency for getting involved, trying to help people.”

“Yes.”

“Did she have any particular causes lately?”

“I don’t think so. None that she mentioned to me, anyway.”

“Did she ever mention someone called Carmen Petri?”

“No, not to my knowledge.”

“What about the ‘late girls’? Do you know what that means?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. What was the context?”

“It was just something Jennifer said to a friend, to describe this Carmen person.
One of the late girls.
It still doesn’t ring a bell?”

“No, not at all. I mean, it could be someone late with her period, or late in her pregnancy. As you know the law only allows abortions up to the twenty-fourth week.”

“Yes,” said Annie, “I’d thought of that. Apart from Roy Banks and this Victor, did Jennifer have any other visitors here, or any other friends you know about?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you know anyone who drives a dark Mondeo, either black or navy blue?”

“My father does, but I doubt it’s him you’re interested in.”

Annie smiled. “I doubt it. No one else?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Do you think Jennifer would have confided in you if there was anything seriously wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“Say at the centre. Something going on.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean, but she might have done. The thing is, though, if there was anything untoward going on here, Jenn would have been in the best position to know about it as she practically ran the place single-handed. Her and Alex Lukas, at any rate.”

“Dr. Lukas?”

“Alex doesn’t stand on ceremony.”

“Is he in today?”

“She. It’s Alexandra. You might have noticed that the centre prefers to employ women. It’s not some sort of positive discrimination thing. It’s just that we’ve noticed that the kind of clients we get here respond better to dealing with another woman.”

Annie understood. She had felt the same when she went for her NHS abortion. She certainly wouldn’t have wanted a man asking her questions or poking about inside her.

“Look,” Georgina went on, leaning forward so her ample bosom rested on the desk. “I can’t imagine who would want to kill Jennifer, or why, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think it was anything to do with this place. She had no enemies here.”

“I’m just trying to cover all the angles. That’s all a lot of police work is, Ms. Roberts, covering the angles so you don’t look stupid for missing something obvious.”

“A bit like counselling.”

“How?”

“Well, it seems a bit of a cliché asking people how they get on with their parents, how they feel about their father, but if it turned out there was an incestuous relationship you’d look pretty damn silly for not even probing the area, wouldn’t you?”

“I see what you mean. Can you think of anything else that might help me?”

“I’m sorry, no.” Georgina paused. “Look, Jenn wasn’t raped or anything, was she?”

“No.”

“Because I thought that might be something the police were holding back, like they do.”

“Sometimes it’s important to keep key pieces of information from the public, but not that. Jennifer was shot in the head, pure and simple.” Annie noticed Georgina flinch at the brutality of the remark.

“But what I can’t understand,” Georgina said, “is why on earth someone would want to kill her like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad for her it was quick. It’s just that I might be able to get my head around some pervert raping her and killing her to gratify his own filthy lust, but this…? It doesn’t make sense. It’s almost as if someone actually had a
reason
for killing her.”

“We’ll do our best to make sense of it,” said Annie, standing up to leave. “In the meantime, if you can think of anything else at all – and I do mean anything, something Jennifer might have said, done, not done, whatever – then please get in touch with me. Here’s my card.”

“Thank you.” Georgina took the card and looked at it.

On her way to Dr. Lukas’s office Annie’s mobile rang. She went into the stairwell, took it out of her pocket and put it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Annie, it’s Dave here. Dave Brooke.”

“What is it, Dave? Have you got something for me?”

“In a way,” Brooke said. “Brace yourself. It’s not good news.”

“Go on.”

“We found Roy Banks’s body last night. Pulled him out of the Thames near the Eye.”

“My God. That story in the paper this morning? That was Roy Banks?”

“Yes. Shot. A .22 by the looks of it.”

“Alan…?”

“He identified the body. Asked us to sit on the identity until he told his parents. He was pretty shaken up.”

“I can imagine. Poor Alan,” said Annie. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not right now. He’s gone off to Peterborough. I just heard from him. He’s going to stay with his parents for a while. I just thought you should know.”

“Yes. Thanks, Dave. Bloody hell, what’s going on?”

“I wish I knew.”

10

T
he Banks family had been seeing Dr. Grenville down at the local health centre for more than twenty years, since back when he had his own practice, and he was only too willing to pay a house call when Banks rang him and told him what had happened. A fussily neat man near retirement age, with salt and pepper hair and a matching moustache, he tut-tutted over Ida Banks before giving her a sedative and issuing a prescription for more, which Banks rushed down to the chemist’s to fill. He felt like taking one or two himself on his way back but resisted the temptation. He’d need a clear head over the next few days.

Ida Banks lay on the sofa, a small, lost figure covered with a blanket. She was mumbling, but she wasn’t making much sense, and after a while she drifted off. Banks offered a pill to his father who gave him a look of distaste and declined. It had always been his way to face life’s harshness head on, without a mask, and he wasn’t going to change.

“What do we do now?” he asked Banks. “I mean, aren’t there forms to fill in and such like?”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll take care of it all down in London. Do you know if Roy left a will?”

“Will? Don’t know. He never said.”

“I’ll talk to his solicitor later. He’s in Roy’s phone book. I have to make a couple of calls right now. Can I use the phone? It’s important.”

“Go ahead. Make as many as you want.”

First Banks rang Tracy’s mobile. The last thing he wanted was his children finding out about their uncle’s murder from the television or newspapers.

“Dad, what’s up?”

“How are things going?”

“Fine. What’s wrong?”

“Does something have to be wrong for me to ring my own daughter?”

“You just sound funny, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re right this time. It is bad news, I’m afraid,” said Banks.

“What’s happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Banks. “It’s your Uncle Roy.”

“What about him? Is he in jail?”

“Tracy!”

“Well, you always seemed to think he’d end up there.”

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but he’s dead.”

There was a moment’s silence at the other end, then Tracy’s voice came back on again, shaking a little. “Uncle Roy? Dead? Are you serious? An accident?”

“No. I’m sorry, love, but he was killed. I don’t know how to put it any better.”

“Killed how?”

There was no point trying to save her from the knowledge, Banks realized. She would soon find out from the newspapers. “He was shot. Murdered.”

“My God,” said Tracy. “Uncle Roy. Murdered.”

“It’ll be in the papers and on the TV,” Banks said. “I just wanted you to know first.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“It’s under control. Just don’t talk to any reporters, if they track you down.”

“Do Grandma and Granddad want me to come and stay with them?”

“You get on with your studying. I’ll take care of them and I’ll try to come and see you soon. You can do me a small favour, though.”

“What?”

“Will you tell your mother?”

“Dad!”

“Please. Look, normally, I wouldn’t bother. They weren’t close or anything and she has her own life now. But it’ll be high profile. Maybe the reporters will trace her, too. I don’t want it to come as too much of a shock to her.”

“Oh, all right. But this is silly. You’ve got to talk…Oh, never mind. I’m really sorry about Uncle Roy. I know…I mean, I know we didn’t see him often but he always sent really cool presents.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I’ve got to go now. Keep in touch.”

“I will. I love you, Dad.”

Next Banks rang Brian, who didn’t answer. Banks left a message for him to ring as soon as he could, then phoned DI Brooke to thank him for his patience and give him the go-ahead to release Roy’s identity. Finally he rang Corinne. She sounded devastated after her initial stunned silence, and he wished he could be there for her, but all he could do was murmur useless words of comfort over the telephone as she cried. He promised to drop by next time he was in London, which he said would probably be soon.

He didn’t have Malcolm Farrow’s phone number, so that call would have to wait until he went back to Roy’s house. Then he realized he probably couldn’t go back there, as the whole place would be sealed off by the police investigating Roy’s murder. He hesitated, then he called Annie Cabbot on her mobile. She was on the line. Brooke would have already told her about Roy, so Banks just left a message asking her to give him a ring at Peterborough as soon as she could, then he went back to his mother and father.

“Would you close the upstairs curtains, Son?” Arthur Banks asked. “Your mother would want it that way.”

“Of course.” Banks remembered how, when he was younger, if someone in the family died, his mother would always close the upstairs curtains.

Up in his old room again, Banks looked out over the backyards and the deserted alley to find that the housing estate the builders had been working on during his last visit was now almost finished. Most of the houses were as yet unoccupied, and some were still without windows, but rows of them, all the same, filled the stretch of waste ground where he used to play football and cricket as a child, where he had his first kiss and first furtive feel of a girl’s breast as a teenager. He tried to recall whether Roy, too, had had such formative experiences there, but he didn’t know. Most likely, if he had, it had all happened after Banks had left home, when they hardly communicated.

He did remember one incident. When he was about thirteen and Roy eight, Banks saw an older, bigger boy of about ten or eleven bullying Roy out in the field. Poor Roy was in tears as the bigger boy punched him repeatedly in the stomach and jeered at him for being a weakling. Banks rushed over to stop it, and even though he knew that he was now the bully,
he couldn’t hold himself back from giving the bastard a bloody nose and a split lip.

It came back to haunt him, too, when the boy’s parents called at his house that night. Only because Roy corroborated his story in every detail did Banks get off with a mere admonishment to pick on people his own age in future. It could have been much worse. So he had stood up for Roy, and Roy had stood up for him. What had happened, then? What had come between them?

As he usually did on his infrequent visits home, Banks looked in the wardrobe where the boxes of his adolescence were stored. The last couple of times he had been back he had discovered a treasure trove of old records, comics, diaries, books and toys. There were even more boxes he hadn’t got around to yet, and he found himself wondering if any of them were Roy’s.

The toy-box with the padlock was long gone, but he did eventually manage to dig out a cardboard box full of things that definitely weren’t his: Corgi toys – better than Dinkys, he remembered Roy arguing, because they had plastic windows and more realistic detail – a stamp album full of bright but worthless stamps, a portable chess set that folded into a box, a Scalextric set that Banks was never allowed to play with, and several of those tiny submarines that came out of a cornflakes packet, the kind you stuffed with baking soda to make them submerge and surface. There were no diaries or old school reports, nothing to flesh out the vague sense of Roy that the toys implied, but down at the bottom was a Junior Driver, a toy steering-wheel. Banks remembered Roy used to stick it on the dashboard on the passenger side of his father’s Morris Traveller whenever they went anywhere and pretend he was driving. Even back then Roy had been car-mad.

Banks held the plastic steering-wheel in his hands for a moment, then he put it back, returned the box to the wardrobe and set about closing the curtains.

By midmorning the whole of Western Area Headquarters, in Eastvale, knew about the murder of Banks’s brother. Gristhorpe went into conference with ACC McLaughlin, and a hush fell over the Major Crimes squadroom. Even the telephone conversations seemed to take place in whispers. If it wasn’t exactly one of their own who had fallen in the line of duty, it was still too damn close for comfort.

“Did you ever meet him?” Winsome asked Jim Hatchley, who had known Banks the longest of all of them.

“No,” said Hatchley. “I got the idea he was a bit of a black sheep. Alan didn’t have much to do with him.”

“Still,” said Winsome. “It’s family.” She thought of her own younger brother, Wayne, a schoolteacher in Birmingham, and how rarely she saw him. She would ring him tonight, she resolved.

“Aye, it is that, lass,” said Hatchley.

Winsome chewed on her lower lip and got back to the telephone. She had had a bit of luck tracking down the Mondeo, first through the DVLA Wimbledon office and then through the Police National Computer database of stolen cars. A car matching the description, with a “51” registration number plate, had been stolen from a cheap long-stay parking facility near Heathrow Airport shortly before Jennifer Clewes’s murder. When the car’s owner, who had been on a business trip to Rome since Thursday, arrived back on Sunday evening and found his car missing, he had immediately informed the local police. Winsome had rung Heathrow police, who would be the
first to hear if the car turned up, and asked them to let her know as soon as possible.

If all the leads in this case led to London, as they seemed to be doing so far, it could be a while before DI Cabbot got back to Yorkshire. Winsome envied her. A nice little shopping trip down Oxford Street or Regent Street wouldn’t go amiss right now. Not that Winsome was a clothes junkie, but she liked to look fashionable and she liked to look good, even if it meant creeps like Kev Templeton ogling her. She did it for herself, not for anyone else.

Winsome was just about ready to head down to the canteen for lunch when her phone rang.

“DC Jackman?” the unfamiliar voice inquired.

“That’s me.”

“PC Owen here, Heathrow.”

“Yes.”

“We just got a report in about a stolen vehicle, a dark blue Mondeo. I understand you were inquiring about it?”

“That’s right,” said Winsome, pencil in her hand. “Any news?”

“It’s not good, I’m afraid.”

“Go ahead.”

“The long version or the short one?”

“The short first.”

“It turned up in the early hours of Sunday morning on the A13 just outside of Basildon.”

“Where’s that?”

“Essex.”

“Excellent,” said Winsome. “Can we get a SOCO team over there?”

“Hold on a minute,” said Owen. “I haven’t finished yet. I
said it had turned up, but what I didn’t get a chance to tell you was it was involved in an accident.”

“Accident?”

“Yes, the driver lost control and wrapped it around a telegraph pole. By all accounts he was going way too fast.”

“Do you have him in custody?”

“He’s in the mortuary.”

“Damn,” said Winsome. “Any identification on him?”

“Oh, we know who he was all right. His name’s Wesley Hughes. The bugger of it is he was only fifteen.”

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Winsome. “Just a kid. But what happened to our two men? The descriptions we have put them at way over fifteen.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that. We did get one lucky break, mind you: there was a passenger, and he was uninjured. Well, he got a few cuts and bruises, but the doc’s checked him out and he’s basically okay. A little shaken, though, as you can imagine.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen.”

“Have the local police questioned him?”

“I don’t know. It’s out of my hands now. If I were you, I’d give them a ring. I’ve got the number. Sergeant Singh is handling it. Traffic.” He gave Winsome the number. She thanked him and hung up.

Next she rang Sergeant Singh of the Essex Police at Basildon Divisional Headquarters. He answered immediately.

“Ah, yes, I’ve been expecting your call,” he said. “Just hold on a minute.” Winsome heard some muffled words, then Singh came back on the line. “Sorry about that. It gets a bit noisy in here.”

“That’s all right. What have you got?”

“A real mess is what.”

“Are we sure it’s the right Mondeo?” Singh gave her the number. It matched what she’d got from the DVLA and the PNC. “PC Owen gave me the basics,” Winsome said. “Have you talked to the surviving boy yet?”