Strange Affair

there puzzled him. Not for Roy the latest James Bond or Terminator movie, not schoolgirl porn or Jenna Jameson, but Fellini’s 8?, Kurosawa’s Ran and Throne of Blood, Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, Bergman’s The Seventh Seal and Truffaut’s The Four Hundred Blows. There were some films that Banks could see himself watching – The Godfather, The Third Man and A Clockwork Orange – but most of them were foreign-language art films, classics of the cinema. There were a few rows of books, too, mostly nonfiction, on subjects ranging from music and cinema to philosophy, religion and politics. Another surprise. In a small recess stood one framed family photograph.

Banks studied Roy’s large collection of operas on both DVD and CD: The Magic Flute, Tosca, Otello, Lucia di Lammermoor and others. A complete Bayreuth Ring cycle, the same as the one on the iPod. There was also a little fifties jazz and a few Hollywood musicals – Oklahoma!, South Pacific, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers – but no pop at all except for the Blue Lamps’s debut. Banks was pleased to see that Roy had bought Brian’s CD, even though he probably hadn’t listened to it. He slid it out and opened the case, wondering what it would sound like on Roy’s expensive stereo system. Instead of the familiar blue image on the CD, he saw the words “CD – ReWritable” and that the disk held 650 megabytes, or 74 minutes of playing time.

Banks stuck the CD in his jacket pocket and went over to sit on the sofa. Several remote-control devices rested on the arm, and when he had worked out which was which, he switched on the TV and amp just to see what the setup looked and sounded like. It was a European football game, and the picture quality was stunning, the sound of the commentary loud enough to wake the dead. He turned it off.

Banks went back into the office and took the writing tablet from the desk and a pen from the drawer and carried them down to the kitchen with him. At the kitchen table, he sat down and wrote a note explaining that he’d been to the house and would be back, in case Roy returned while he was out, and asked him to get in touch as soon as possible.

He wished now that he had thought to bring his mobile so he could leave a number, but it was too late; he had left it on his living room table next to his unused portable CD player, having got out of the habit of using it over the past few months. Then he realized he could take Roy’s. He wanted to check through the entries in the phone book, anyway, so he might as well have the use of it in case Roy needed to get in touch with him. He added this as a PS to the note, then he put the mobile in his pocket. On his way out, he tried the most likely-looking key and found it fit the front door.

CHAPTER THREE

“What do you make of it, Annie?” Gristhorpe asked.

They were sitting in the superintendent’s large, carpeted office, just the two of them, and the sheet of paper lay between them on Gristhorpe’s desk. It wasn’t Banks’s writing, Annie was certain. But beyond that, the whole thing was a puzzle. She had certainly never seen the dead woman before, nor had she ever heard Banks mention anyone called Jennifer Clewes. That in itself meant nothing, of course, she realized. In the first place, it might not be her real name, and in the second, Banks may well have been keeping many aspects of his life from her, including a new girlfriend. But if she was his girlfriend, why did she need directions and his address? Perhaps she had never visited him in Gratly before.

Was she new on the scene? Annie doubted it. The way Banks had been behaving lately – withdrawn, moody and uncommunicative – was hardly conducive to pulling a new girlfriend. Who would take him on, the shape he was in? And this woman was young enough to be his daughter. Not that age had ever stopped a man, but… Perhaps even more important was that she had ended up with a bullet in her head. Knowing Banks had its dangers, as Annie well knew, but it was not usually fatal.

“I don’t know, sir. I’d say the most likely explanation is that it’s her own writing. Maybe she copied it down over the phone. We’ll be able to find out for sure when we get a sample of Jennifer Clewes’s writing.”

“Have you been able to get in touch with DCI Banks?”

“He’s not at home and his mobile’s turned off. I’ve left messages.”

“Well, let’s just hope he gets one of them and rings back. I’d really like to know why a young woman was driving up from London to see him in the middle of the night and ended up with a bullet in her head.”

“He could be anywhere,” Annie said. “He is on holiday, after all.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“He doesn’t tell me much these days, sir.”

Gristhorpe frowned and scratched his chin, then he leaned back in his big padded chair and linked his hands behind his head. “How’s he doing?” he asked.

“I’m the last person to ask, sir. We haven’t really talked much since the fire.”

“I thought you two were friends.”

“I like to think we are. But you know Alan. He’s hardly the type to open up when he doesn’t want to. I think perhaps he still blames me for what happened, the fire and all. After all, Phil Keane was my boyfriend. Whatever the reason, he’s been very quiet lately. To be honest, I think it’s partly depression as well.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. It happens sometimes after illness or an accident. About all you can do is wait till the fog disperses. What about you?”

“Me? I’m fine, sir. Coping.” Annie was aware how tight and unconvincing her voice sounded, but she could do nothing about it. Anyway, she was coping, after a fashion. She certainly wasn’t depressed, just hurt and angry, and perhaps a little distracted.

Gristhorpe held her gaze for just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Then he said, “We need to find out why the victim had Alan’s address in her back pocket. And we can’t ask her.”

“There’s a flatmate, sir,” said Annie. “The lads from Lambeth North got bored with hanging around outside and went in for a look. Jennifer Clewes was sharing with a woman called Kate Nesbit. At least there were letters there addressed to a Kate Nesbit and a Jennifer Clewes.”

“Have they talked to this flatmate?”

“She’s not home.”

“Work?”

“On a Saturday? Maybe. Or she might have gone away for the weekend.”

Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Better get down there, Annie,” he said. “Let your old pal at Kennington know you’re on your way. Find the flatmate and talk to her.”

“Yes, sir.” Annie stood up. “There is one other thing.”

“Yes?”

Annie gestured toward the scrap of paper. “This address. I mean, it is Alan’s address, but it’s not where he’s living now.”

“I noticed that,” said Gristhorpe. “You think it might be significant?”

“Well, sir,” Annie said, hand on the doorknob, “he’s been living at that flat in the old Steadman house for four months now. You’d think everyone who knew him – knew him at all well, at any rate – would know that. I mean, if it was a new girlfriend or something, why give her his old address?”

“You’ve got a point.” Gristhorpe scratched the side of his nose.

“What action do you think we should take?”

“About DCI Banks?”

“Yes.”

Gristhorpe paused. “You say he’s not answering his phones?”

“That’s right; neither his home phone nor his mobile.”

“We need to find him, as soon as we can, but I don’t want to make it official yet. I’ll get Winsome to ring around his family and friends, see if anyone knows where he is.”

“I was thinking of dropping by DCI Banks’s place – both of them – just to have a look around… you know… make sure nothing’s been disturbed.”

“Good idea,” said Gristhorpe. “Are you sure you’re all right on this?”