enjoyment of deceit and causing humiliation for their own sakes. But was his charm merely on the surface? The more Annie thought about it, the more she came to believe that Phil’s charm was not simply a matter of surface veneer, that it was deeply rooted in the rest of his being, a tumor inseparable from the evil at his core. You couldn’t just scratch the surface and see the terrible truth beneath; the surface was as true as anything else about him.
Such speculations shouldn’t be allowed on a fine day like this, Annie told herself, battening down the anger that rose like bile in her throat whenever she thought about Phil and what had happened last winter. But ever since then, she had been searching for a hint as to where he might have gone. She read all the boring police circulars and memos she used to ignore, pored over newspapers and watched TV news, looking for a clue – an unexplained fire somewhere, a businessman conned out of his fortune, a woman used and cast aside – anything that fit the profile she had compiled in her mind. But after nearly six months, all she had was one false lead, a fire in Devizes that turned out to have been caused by careless smoking. She knew he was around somewhere, though, and when he made his move, as he surely would, then she would have him.
A young boy in short trousers, shirt hanging out, sat on the bank of Gratly Beck fishing. He’d be lucky to catch anything in such fast-flowing water, Annie thought. He waved when he saw her watching him. Annie waved back and hurried on to the Steadman house.
After checking out both Bank’s flat and his cottage, she would have to hurry to Darlington to catch a train to London. The three twenty-five would get her into King’s Cross just after six, all being well. It would be quicker than driving, and she didn’t fancy negotiating her way through the central London traffic all the way south of the river to Kennington. She would leave her car at Darlington station.
Annie passed the tiny Sandemanian chapel and overgrown graveyard and walked down the path to the holiday flats. Two houses had been knocked into one, the insides refinished, to make four spacious, self-contained flats, two up, two down. She knew Banks had one window that looked out on the graveyard, because he had mentioned how apt that seemed, but she hadn’t been inside. He hadn’t invited her.
Though she knew it was futile, Annie rang Banks’s doorbell. A tired-looking young woman holding a baby to her breast opened the door to the downstairs flat, having no doubt noticed Annie walking up the garden path.
“It’s no use,” she said. “He’s out.”
“When did he leave?” Annie asked.
“Who wants to know?”
Annie pulled her warrant card from her handbag. “I’m a colleague of his,” she explained. “There’s something important I need to talk to him about.”
The woman looked at her card, but she obviously wasn’t impressed. “Well, he’s out,” she said again.
“When did he leave?” Annie repeated.
“About eight o’clock this morning. Just drove off.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Not to me. And I wouldn’t expect him to.”
“Do you own these flats?”
“Me and my husband. We live in this one and rent out the others. Why?”
“I was wondering if I might have a look around. I assume you have a spare key?”
“You can’t do that. It’s private.” The baby stirred, made a few tentative burps. She rubbed its back and it fell silent again.
“Look,” said Annie, “this really is important. I don’t want to keep you here. I can see you have the baby to deal with, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me have a quick look in DCI Banks’s flat. It would be so much less trouble than if I had to go and get a search warrant.”
“Search warrant? Can you do that?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Oh, all right, I suppose,” she said. “It’s no skin off my nose, is it? Just a minute.”
She went inside and returned with two keys, which she handed to Annie. “I’ll be wanting them back, mind,” she said.
“Of course,” said Annie. “I won’t be long.”
She felt the woman’s eyes boring into her back as she opened the door to the upper level and walked up the staircase to the upper flat. At the top, she opened Banks’s door and found herself in a small hallway with pegs for jackets and raincoats and a small cupboard for shoes and heavier clothing. A pile of junk mail sat on a table under a gilt-edged mirror.
The first door she opened led to the bedroom. Annie felt strange poking around Banks’s flat with him not there, especially his bedroom, but she told herself it couldn’t be helped. Somehow or other, he had become connected to a murder investigation, and he was nowhere to be found. There was nothing in the bedroom anyway except a double bed, hastily made, a few clothes in the dresser drawers and wardrobe, and a cushioned window seat that looked out over the graveyard. Must be quite a pickup line, Annie thought, if you fancied sharing your bed with someone. “Come sleep with me beside the graveyard.” It had a sort of ring to it. Then she took her mind off images of shared beds and went into the living room.
On the low table in front of the sofa sat a mobile phone and a portable CD player with headphones. So wherever Banks had gone, he had left these behind, Annie thought, and wondered why. Banks loved his music, and he liked to keep in touch. At least, he
The kitchen was tiny and narrow, the fridge full of the usual items: milk, eggs, beer, cheese, a selection of vegetables, bacon, tomatoes, a bottle of sauvignon blanc and some sliced ham – all of it looking fairly fresh. Well, at least he was still eating. A couple of cardboard boxes under the small dining table were filled with empty wine bottles ready for the bottle bank.
Annie glanced briefly in the toilet and bathroom, a quick look through the cabinets revealing only what she would have expected: razor, shaving cream, toothpaste and toothbrush were missing, so he must have taken them with him. Amid the usual over-the-counter medication there was one small bottle of strong prescription painkillers dated three months ago. Wherever Banks had gone, he clearly hadn’t thought he needed them.
She stood in the center of the hall wondering if she could possibly have missed something, then realized there was nothing to miss. This was the flat of a faceless man, a man with no interests, no passions, no friends, no life. There weren’t even any family photos. It wasn’t Banks’s flat, couldn’t be. Not the Banks she knew.
Annie remembered Newhope Cottage and its living room with the blue walls and ceiling the color of melting Brie, remembered the warm shaded orange light and the evenings she had spent there with Banks. In winter, a peat fire had usually burned in the hearth, its tang harmonizing with the Islay malt she sometimes sipped with him. In summer they would often go outside after dark to sit on the parapet above Gratly Beck, looking at the stars and listening to the water. And there would always be music: Bill Evans, Lucinda Williams, Van Morrison, and string quartets she didn’t recognize.
Annie felt tears in her eyes and she brushed them away roughly and headed downstairs. She handed back the keys without a word and hurried down the path.
Banks sat in a pub on Old Brompton Road playing with Roy’s mobile, learning what the functions were and how to use them. He found a call list which gave him the last thirty incoming, outgoing and missed calls. Some were just first names, some numbers, and quite a few of the incoming calls were “unknown.” The last call had been made at 3:57 on Friday afternoon to “James.” Banks pressed the “call” button and listened to a phone ring. Finally someone picked it up and uttered a frazzled “Yeah?” Banks could hear David Bowie in the background singing “Moonage Daydream.”
“Can I speak to James?” he said.
“Speaking.”
“My brother, Roy Banks, rang you yesterday. I was wondering what it was about.”
“That’s right,” said James. “He was ringing to make an appointment for next Wednesday, I believe. Yeah, here it is, Wednesday at half past two.”
