“Long dark hair. Bit skinny, but a nice figure, apart from the bump. She was just wearing ordinary clothes. You know, a flowery dress, sandals. I didn’t get a really good look at her face.”
“I take it by the ‘bump’ you mean her pregnancy was showing?”
“Yes.”
“Where did they go?”
“Nowhere.”
“Why not?”
“A bloke got out of a car parked in front, had a word in her ear, and she got in the car with him.”
“Who, Jennifer or the girl?”
“The girl.”
“What did Jennifer do?”
“Walked toward the tube station.”
“Did you follow her?”
“No. I just went for a drink.”
“What did the man look like?”
“Like he lifted weights. You know, big, broad shoulders, no neck. And he had a ponytail.”
“And the car?”
“Didn’t notice.”
“Dark or light?”
“Light, I think. Maybe silver.”
“Was there anyone else in it?”
“I didn’t see.”
“Did he force the girl into the car?”
Parsons frowned. “No. But it was like he was in charge and he was saying ‘That’s enough, time to go.’ ”
“She didn’t resist?”
“No.”
“Okay,” said Annie. “Were you outside Jennifer’s house or place of work last Friday?”
“No. I already told you. I stayed in. I do most nights.”
Had Victor Parsons killed Jennifer or had anything to do with her death? Annie doubted it. Stalkers could turn violent, true, but more often than not they didn’t. Most of the time they were sad, pathetic pillocks like Victor, or like Peeping Toms, irritating and upsetting, but ultimately harmless.
“Tell me something,” she asked, “just out of interest. Why did you split up with Jennifer?”
“It was all a misunderstanding. That’s it, you see. I thought we wanted different things. You know, Jenn wanted marriage, family, all that, and I wanted to pursue my acting career. But I was wrong.”
“So you chucked her?”
“No. It wasn’t like that. All I said was that we should give one another a bit more space and get clear about what we wanted, that’s all. And I did. I decided I wanted her, no matter what, that I’d even give up my career, she meant that much to me.”
“Generous of you.” No doubt, Annie guessed, as soon as Jennifer had got over the immediate shock of the breakup and got pissed with Melanie Scott a few times in Sicily, she had probably realized just how lucky she was to get out of the relationship.
There was nothing more to be gained talking to Victor Parsons, Annie decided; she would get someone else to check his alibi with his flatmate and cross him off her list. It was only early evening, but it had been a long day and Annie felt tired, felt like simply going back to her hotel, ordering room service and vegging out in front of the TV. She had rung Peterborough earlier in the afternoon, but Banks was out. Maybe she would try ringing again later.
“What am I going to do now?” Victor asked as Annie opened the door. “What am I going to do?”
“Maybe you should get out of the house a bit more often and try to get an audition?” Annie suggested, and left.
“How is she?” Banks asked when he got back from town.
“No different,” said his father. “I told you she wasn’t well even before all this. It’s only made her worse. Anyway, she’s still in bed. Doesn’t seem to want to get up.”
“I’ll go up and see her in a while. I’ve decided to stay over tonight.”
“You’ve no need to,” said his father. “Not for our sake. We can manage.”
“I’d like to.” One thing Banks knew that his father might not have thought of was that Roy’s identity would now be public knowledge and there was a good chance that the phone would be ringing off the hook. He wanted to be there to field the calls for them.
“Suit yourself. Your room’s always here, you know that.”
“I know,” said Banks.
“I still can’t believe our Roy’s dead. Murdered.”
“Me neither. I wish there was something I could do.”
“You can’t bring him back.”
“No. Any signs of reporters while I was out?”
“No.”
“Thank the Lord for small mercies, then. Look, Dad, I don’t suppose Roy ever talked to you about his business interests, did he? What he was up to, that sort of thing?”
“Me? You must be joking. He knew I’d have about as much understanding of business as I have about rocket science.”
“And that you might not approve of how he made his money?”
“I’m not a bloody Communist. All I’ve ever asked for is a fair share for the workingman. What’s so wrong about that?”
“Nothing,” said Banks, who didn’t want to get into that old argument again. Not here, not now. Besides, he agreed. His father had been given a raw deal, made redundant from his job as a sheet-metal worker during the Thatcher years. He had seen the riot police taunting the striking coal miners, and as a result he had come to see the police as the right hand of the oppressor. Banks knew that could happen, had done in some countries, and there was a certain feeling, not entirely unjustified, that it had happened during the Thatcher years. But most of Banks’s attempts to explain to his father that he simply put in a long day’s work trying to catch criminals fell on deaf ears.
“Anyway,” said his father, “Roy was always generous to us.”
The implied barb wasn’t lost on Banks, but he managed to bite his tongue before asking his father whether it mattered where the money came from. “So he never mentioned any names?”
“Not as I remember.”
“The Berger-Lennox Centre, Gareth Lambert, Julian Harwood?”
“Never heard of them.”
“What about his girlfriends?”
“Only that young lass he brought over last year, for the anniversary.”
“Corinne. Yes, I’ve talked to her. He never mentioned anyone called Jennifer Clewes?”
“That girl that got shot up in Yorkshire? You mentioned her earlier. No, I’m certain he never mentioned her to us.”
Arthur Banks sagged back in his favorite armchair. The television was turned off, which was unusual, and there was no sign of a newspaper. Even though Banks had been absent only a short while, he noticed more signs of neglect. And his father was clearly as much in the dark about Roy’s activities as he was. He picked up two empty cups from the floor beside the armchair. “Fancy a cup of tea?”
“If you like,” said his father.
“What about dinner?”
“Doesn’t matter as long as it’s not from that place over the road.”
Banks put the kettle on and found the tea bags, never an easy task as his mother seemed to keep moving them around like beans in a shell game. This time they were in a jar in the pantry marked “Cocoa.” While the kettle
