Strange Affair

Jennifer’s.”

“Oh, him. I remember him all right. Had to get security to throw him out.”

“What was he doing?”

“Making a fuss. Upsetting our clients.”

“About what?”

“He demanded to see Jennifer, but she’d given me instructions not to let him in.”

“What happened?”

“He went away in the end.”

“Did this happen more than once?”

“The first time he went without too much fuss. It was the second time I had to get security.”

Twice, then. “Did he make any threats?”

“Not that I heard. He just said he’d be back.”

“When was this?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

That recently, Annie thought. Yet Jennifer and Victor had split up over a year ago. Anyone who could maintain a fixation for that long was definitely worth looking at.

“One more thing,” said Annie. “Have you ever seen anyone by the name of Roy Banks here at the center?”

Carol’s face brightened, then reddened a little. “Mr. Banks? Yes, of course. He and Jennifer were… you know, an item. I know she’s a bit young for him but he really is quite tasty. I don’t blame her at all.” Her face fell. “Oh. Poor Mr. Banks. He’ll be just devastated. Does he know?”

“Not yet,” said Annie. “So he came here quite often?”

“Quite. He’d pick Jennifer up after work sometimes and we’d chat if he had to wait.”

“What about?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. Films, the weather, just small talk. And Arsenal. We’re both big Arsenal fans.”

“Was he ever here at the same time as Victor Parsons?”

“No.”

“You know he was an investor in the centers?”

“Yes, he mentioned it once. But he didn’t have any airs or graces.”

“Is that why he came here the first time, when he met Jennifer?”

“Oh, no,” said Carol. “No, he was here as a client. Accompanying a client, I should say.”

Now it was Annie’s turn to feel surprised. “Accompanying a client?”

“Yes,” said Carol. “His daughter. She was pregnant.”

Long before Annie paid her visit to the Berger-Lennox Centre, Banks was plowing his way through the Monday-morning rush-hour traffic on his way to Peterborough. He felt numb after grappling with the demons of fear and loss most of the night, but he also felt apprehensive about what was to come. His parents doted on Roy; something like this could push his father’s heart over the edge. But he had to tell them himself; he couldn’t let the news come from some anonymous copper knocking on the door.

Brooke had gone out of his way to protect the identity of the victim from the media. As soon as Banks had told his parents, he had to ring Brooke and tell him it was done; the rest would follow. He remembered he had also promised to keep Corinne and Roy’s neighbor Malcolm Farrow, up-to-date, but they would have to wait their turn.

After some relatively gentle questioning – very gentle, given the circumstances – Banks had handed over Roy’s mobile, the USB drive and the CD to Brooke and tried to get some sleep. The effects of the wine were fast wearing off, leaving him with a throbbing head, and sleep had refused to come. Luckily, there wasn’t much of the night left by then, and the dawn came early in June. At six o’clock, Banks was in the shower, then it was time to go pick up his car from where he had left it last night, near Waterloo Station, pick up a coffee for the road, and head for home.

Progress was slower than Banks remembered, or expected, and a journey that should have taken under two hours took almost three. Every time the news came on the radio, no matter what station he tuned into, there was the story about the mystery body fished out of the river Thames just below the London Eye last night. In the end, Banks turned it off.

When he finally pulled up outside his parents’ house in Peterborough, it was close to ten o’clock. Back in London, the murder investigation would be following its natural course: the technical support unit experts would be going over Roy’s mobile and the SOCOs would be tracking every piece of evidence retrieved from the crime scene. DCs would be out on the streets asking questions and Brooke would be sifting through it all, looking for that promising line of inquiry.

The front door was painted green, Banks noticed, which was surely different from his last visit. The tiny lawn looked a little overgrown and some of the flowers in the bed didn’t look in peak condition. That wasn’t like his mother. He knocked and waited. His mother answered and was, naturally, surprised to see him. She had lost weight, Banks noticed, and looked tired and drawn, with dark crescents under her eyes. God only knew what the news of Roy’s murder would do to her.

He could tell that she knew something was wrong by her ceaseless nervous chatter as she led him into the living room, where his father sat in his usual armchair, newspaper on his lap.

“Look who it is, Arthur. It’s our Alan come to call.”

Maybe it was Banks’s imagination, but he thought he sensed just the slightest air of neglect about the place; a patina of dust on the TV screen, a picture frame out of alignment, a teacup and saucer on the floor beside the settee, a slight bunching of the rug in front of the fire.

“Hello, Son,” said Arthur Banks. “Just happened to be passing, did you?”

“Not exactly,” said Banks, perching on the edge of the sofa. His mother fussed about, heading for the kitchen to put on the kettle for that great English cure-all, tea. Banks called her back. There would be time and need enough for copious quantities of tea later. On his way he had rehearsed what he was going to say over and over, how he was going to handle it; but now the time had come, he couldn’t remember what he had decided would be best.

“It’s about Roy,” he began.

“Did you find him?” Ida Banks asked.

“In a way.” Banks leaned forward and took his mother’s hand. This was even harder than he had imagined it might be; the words seemed stuck deep inside him and when he spoke they came out as little more than a whisper. “He wasn’t at home and I looked for him all weekend. I did my best, Mum, honestly I did, but I was too late.” He felt the tears brim in his eyes and let them course down his cheeks.

“Too late? What do you mean, too late? Where’s he gone?”

“Roy’s dead, Mum.” There, he’d said it. “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

“Are you sure?” Ida Banks asked. “Maybe he’s only joking.”

Banks thought he’d misheard. “What?” he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Ida Banks laughed and touched her hair. “Don’t you understand?” she said. “It’s a joke. Our Roy’s a great practical joker, isn’t he, Arthur? He’s playing a joke on us.”

Arthur Banks said nothing. Banks noticed he had turned pale and seemed to be clutching the newspaper tightly by its edges. It was already ripped. “Dad, can I get you anything? Do you need a pill or something?”

“No,” Arthur Banks managed. “Nothing. I’m all right. Go on. What happened?”

“There’s not much more to say,” Banks said, turning back to his mother. “They found him last night in the river.”

“Swimming in the river?” Ida Banks said. “But surely the water’s too dirty to swim in? I always told him he had to be careful. You can get terrible diseases from dirty water, you know.”

“He wasn’t swimming, Mother,” said Banks. “He was dead.”

His mother took a sharp breath. “Don’t say that,” she said. “You shouldn’t say things like that. Tell him, Arthur. You’re only trying to upset me. You never did like Roy. If this is supposed to be some sort of joke, then it isn’t very funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”