Some of it, anyway.”
“Did you ever see him or hear from him again?”
“No.”
“Do you know ifTommy and Rolo kept in touch with him?”
“If they did, they didn’t tell me. We all lost touch when we graduated, of course, as you do, though we had every good intention.”
“What was his last name?”
“Moore. Giles Moore.”
With the name and some of the details Elaine had given them, they would be able to dig a little deeper into the background of this enigmatic Giles Moore, Annie thought, perhaps even locate him. Of course, he might have had nothing to do with recent events, but at least he sounded a promising start. They were looking for someone who was linked with both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner when they were at Leeds Polytechnic, and it looked as if they’d found that someone.
“Do you have any photographs?” Annie asked.
“No. They disappeared after one of my many moves.”
“Pity,” said Annie. “This might sound like a strange question, but was there ever any connection between Giles or the rest of you and a fire?”
Elaine frowned. “A fire? No, not that I remember. I mean, I’m sure there were fires in the city, but none of them concerned us. Surely you can’t think Giles had anything to do with what happened to Tommy and Rolo? Not after all this time.”
“I’m not saying he did,” said Annie. “But don’t you think it’s a big coincidence that two men living about ten miles from one another, both killed in suspicious fires only days apart, happened to be at Leeds Polytechnic at the same time? I do. Not only that, but since we’ve talked to you, we now also know that they were close friends over twenty years ago. And then there’s this mysterious third: Giles Moore.”
“But Giles wouldn’t hurt anyone. Why would he do that?”
“Is there anything else you can tell us about him that might help us find him?”
“No,” said Elaine. Annie could sense her closing down. She didn’t like the idea of her old lover being in the frame for a double murder. Annie didn’t blame her; she wouldn’t feel too good about it, either.
“What did he look like?”
“He was very good-looking. A bit taller than me, slim. Wavy hair, a bit long. Chestnut. But that was years ago.”
“How old was he at the time?”
“Twenty-one, a couple of years older than the rest of us.”
“Any distinguishing marks?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like birthmarks, scars, that sort of thing.”
“No,” said Elaine. “His skin was smooth, without a blemish.” She blushed at the memory. “Apart from an appendectomy scar.”
“Any regional accent?”
“No. A bit posh, maybe, but not too much. Educated, upper-class. Just like you’d expect, coming from the background he did.”
“Smoker? Drinker?”
“He smoked. We all did back then. I mean, it’s not as if we didn’t know what it did to you – it was 1980, after all – but we were young, we felt invulnerable. I stopped ten years ago. As for the drinking, we all did.”
“To excess?”
“Giles? Not really, no.”
“Was there anyone else on the scene you think we might be able to locate and talk to?”
“It was so long ago. I’ve lost touch with all of them. Can’t even remember most of their names. You do lose touch, don’t you? Move away, get married, have kids or concentrate on your career.”
Annie realized that even though she was younger than Elaine, and not so distant from her past, she didn’t know a soul she went to school or university with, hadn’t kept in touch at all. Still, given the police life, the frequent relocations, the unreasonable hours, it was hardly surprising. Apart from Phil, the only friends she had were colleagues from work, the only social life an occasional drink with Banks or someone else in the Queen’s Arms. “Do you have any ideas who might have done this to Tommy and Rolo?”
“Me? Good Lord, no. I just don’t believe Giles had anything to do with it.”
Annie gestured to Winsome, who put away her notebook. She hoped Elaine was right, though perhaps a part of her also hoped that they could track down this Giles Moore and prove that he
As Banks walked out of the underground station on to Holland Park Avenue, he was grateful for yet another mild evening after the previous night’s cold snap, and thankful that he had been in Leeds when he got Burgess’s message. He was also lucky that both the trains and the tube were running on time that day. As a result, it was a little over two and a half hours since his train had pulled out of Leeds City Station, and now he was heading for Helen Keane’s flat – the one she shared with her art researcher husband, Phil (now short for “philanderer” in Banks’s mind) Keane – in one of the residential streets across the main road, overlooking the park itself. Maybe it wasn’t Mayfair or Belgravia, but you didn’t live around here if you couldn’t afford the high rents.
Banks didn’t know what to expect when he pressed the buzzer. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t rung ahead, so he didn’t even know if Keane himself would be there. He hoped not, but it didn’t really matter. He needed to know what the hell was going on. It wasn’t just a question of Annie’s feelings being hurt, but of someone being not exactly the sort of person he presented himself as. It probably meant nothing, but coming hot on the heels of the lie about not knowing McMahon, Banks wanted some answers.
A cautious voice came over the intercom. “Yes?”
Banks introduced himself and said he wanted to speak to Helen Keane. Naturally, she was suspicious and nervous – people always are when the police come to call – but he managed to convince her that it was information he wanted, nothing more. She agreed to let him in but said she would keep her chain on until she had seen his identification. Fair enough, Banks thought, climbing the plushly carpeted stairs. Foyers, halls and stairs said a lot about the quality, and cost, of the place you were visiting, Banks always thought, the way bath towels and toilet paper said a lot about the hotel you were staying in.
As promised, she kept the chain on while she examined his warrant card, then she let him in.
The flat was an interior designer’s paradise, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, colors named after rare plants and southwest American states. There was no clutter. The stereo was state-of-the-art, brushed steel, hanging on the wall next to the large plasma wide-screen TV, and if the Keanes owned any books or CDs, they were stored elsewhere or hidden well out of sight. A couple of artfully placed art and design magazines were the only reading materials in plain view. At the far end of the high-ceilinged room stood a narrow black chair with a fan- shaped back. When he looked more closely, Banks couldn’t be sure whether it was a chair or a work of art. At any rate, he wouldn’t want to try sitting on it.
The woman who came with the flat was every bit as much of an expensive package and a designer’s wet dream – beautiful, chic, petite, dark-haired, thirty at most, with intense blue eyes and a pale, flawless complexion. She was wearing ivory silk combats, high-heeled sandals and a delicate lace top that didn’t quite obscure her skimpy black bra.
She bade Banks sit on the modular sofa and sat opposite, on a matching armchair, the color of which Banks couldn’t name. Pink, or coral, came closest, but even they were a long way off.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Keane,” said Banks. “There’s no need to be nervous. As far as I know, nobody’s done anything criminal. I’d just like a bit of background information, if you don’t mind.”
“About what?”
“Your husband.”
She seemed to relax a bit at that. “Philip? What about him? I’m afraid I don’t know where he is right now.”
