“A crime passionnel? I suppose so. Wouldn’t be the first time. We can’t discount anything yet. Let’s just give them a bit of time, hope forensics turn up something, and have at them again in the morning.”
“Good idea, sir.” Annie finished her pint.
“Annie, before you go…?”
“Sir?”
“I don’t mean to pry, but you and Alan…?”
“Just colleagues, sir. And friends.”
Gristhorpe seemed pleased with her answer. “Aye,” he said. “Good. Good. Get some sleep, lass. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.”
The pub was closer to the riverside than the city center, though even that wasn’t very far. Banks parked by the Rivergate Centre and walked the rest of the way. It was a pleasant evening, not a leaf stirring in the warm air. The sunset painted the sky bright orange and crimson. Banks could see Venus low on the horizon, and the constellations were slowly taking shape overhead. He wished he could recognize them all, but he could only make out Hercules. That made him think of those dreadful historical spectacles he used to love in the early sixties, with cheap special effects, Steve Reeves, and a scantily clad Sylva Koscina.
Michelle was five minutes late, and Banks had already settled at a small corner table with a pint of bitter. The lounge was small and smoky, but most of the people stood at the bar, and the video machines were mercifully silent. Piped music played softly, some sort of modern pop stuff Banks didn’t recognize. Michelle was wearing tight black trousers and a green blouse tucked in at the waist. She carried a tan suede jacket slung over her shoulder. Banks had never seen her dressed so casually before. Hadn’t seen her looking as good, either. She’d had her hair done, he noticed; nothing drastic, just tidied up a bit, the fringe trimmed, highlights renewed. And she wore a little makeup, just enough to accentuate her green eyes and high cheekbones.
She seemed self-conscious about her appearance because she wouldn’t meet his eyes at first. Only when he had offered a drink and she asked for a dry white wine did she favor him with a look and a shy smile.
“Thanks for coming,” Michelle said, when Banks placed the drink in front of her and sat down.
“My pleasure,” said Banks. “I’d have come tomorrow for the service, anyway, so another evening doesn’t make much difference.”
“I know you’re busy.”
“I’m covered. Besides, we had a lucky break just before I set off.” Banks told her about finding Luke Armitage’s bag at Liz Palmer’s flat.
“Poor kid,” said Michelle. “He wasn’t much older than Graham Marshall, was he?”
“A year or so.”
“Why would anyone want to kill a boy that age? What could he possibly have done?”
“I don’t know. I suppose that’s why we assume it’s a pedophile when the victim’s so young. We can easily imagine older people being killed for other motives, for greed or to cover up something, but it’s hard with kids. Anyway, it looked like a kidnapping, but I have my doubts. What about you? Any more news?”
Michelle gave him the gist of her conversation with retired DI Robert Lancaster in London, especially his remarks about Graham seeming streetwise beyond his years.
“So your ex-copper thought Graham had a future in crime, did he?” Banks said. “Interesting, that.”
“Why? Have you remembered something?”
“Nothing, really. Just that Graham never seemed short of money, and I’d no idea where he got it from.”
“There’s something else,” Michelle said. She seemed hesitant, Banks thought, unwilling to meet his eyes.
“Yes?”
“Someone was in my flat on Saturday, while I was down in London.”
“Anything taken?”
“Not as far as I can tell, just a few things out of place. But whoever it was had also been having a good look at my computer files.”
Banks got the impression that she wasn’t telling him everything, but he didn’t pursue it. If there was something she was omitting, it was probably for a good reason, such as personal embarrassment. She’d hardly want to tell him if someone had been going through her undies, would she? “Anything there?”
“Not much. Personal notes. Speculations.”
“About the case?”
“Some of it.”
“Did you report the break-in?”
“Of course not. Under the circumstances.”
“How did he get in?”
“Finessed the lock somehow.” Michelle smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve had it changed. The locksmith assures me the place is as impregnable as a fortress now.”
“Anything else?”
“Maybe.”
“What does that mean?”
“Yesterday, as I was crossing the road near the Hazels estate, I was almost hit by a small van.”
“Almost?”
“Yes, no damage. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it was deliberate.”
“Any idea who?”
“The number plate was obscured.”
“A guess?”
“Well, I hesitate to say it, but after the missing notebooks and actions, my mind can’t help but wander toward Shaw. Thing is, I can’t bring myself to believe it, that he would do something like that.”
Banks didn’t have much of a problem believing it. He’d known bent coppers before, and known them well enough to realize that they were capable of anything when cornered. Many coppers were also as skilled at picking locks as burglars were. But why did Shaw feel cornered? And what was it he’d done? Banks remembered the quiet young man with the freckles, ginger hair and sticking-out ears, rather than the bloated, red-nosed bully Shaw had become. “Shaw was teamed up with DI Proctor, right?”
“Reg Proctor, yes. He took early retirement in 1975 and then died of liver cancer in 1978. He was only forty-seven.”
“Any rumors, hints of scandal?”
Michelle sipped some wine and shook her head. “Not that I could uncover. Seems to have had an exemplary career.”
Banks asked Michelle’s permission and lit a cigarette. “Shaw and Proctor were the detectives who came to our house,” he said. “They were obviously interviewing friends of Graham’s and people on the estate. There would no doubt have been other teams assigned to other tasks, but for some reason, someone wanted rid of Shaw’s notes. Shaw, himself?”
“He was only a DC at the time,” said Michelle.
“Right. What could he have to hide? There must have been something in his notebooks that incriminated someone else. Maybe Harris or Proctor.”
“The notebooks could have been missing since Harris retired in 1985,” Michelle said. “They could also have been taken before Proctor’s death in 1978, I suppose.”
“But why? Nobody’s had reason to look at them for years. Graham had been missing since 1965. Why mess with the paperwork unless there was some compelling reason? And what could that be except that his body’s been found and the case is open again?”
“True enough,” said Michelle.
“The actions would show us how the investigation was managed,” Banks mused. “Most of them probably came from Jet Harris himself. They’d show the direction the investigation took, or didn’t take, the shape of it.”
“We keep getting back to this blinkered approach,” Michelle said. “DS Shaw even hinted they all knew Brady and Hindley did it.”
“That’s a load of bollocks,” said Banks.
“The timing’s right.”
“But that’s all that’s right. You might just as well say Reggie and Ronnie did it.”
“Maybe they did.”
Banks laughed. “It makes more sense than Brady and Hindley. They operated miles away. No, there’s something else going on. Something we can’t figure out because there are still too many missing pieces. Another?”
“I’ll go.”
Michelle walked to the bar and Banks sat wondering what the hell it was all about. So far, all they had was an investigation that had conc
entrated on only one possibility—the passing pedophile. Now they had Bill Marshall’s relationship with the Krays and with Carlo Fiorino and Le Phonographe, and the fact that Banks remembered Graham often had money enough to pay for their entertainment. And now the missing records. There were links—Graham, Bill Marshall, Carlo Fiorino—but where did it go after that? And how did Jet Harris fit in? It was possible that he’d been on the take, paid by Fiorino to head off trouble. Jet Harris, bent copper. That would go down well at headquarters. But how did it relate to Graham and his murder?
Michelle came back with the drinks and told him about Donald Bradford’s death and the pornography that had been found in his flat. “There might be no connection,” she said. “I mean, Bradford could have been the victim of a random break-in, and plenty of people have collections of pornography.”
“True,” Banks said. “But it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.”
“What if Bradford was using the newsagent’s shop as an outlet for distributing porn?” Banks suggested.
“And Graham delivered it?”
“Why not? He always seemed to be able to get his hands on it. That’s another thing I remember. A bit of Danish submission with your Sunday Times, sir? Or how about some Swedish sodomy with your News of the World, madam? Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘Sunday supplement,’ doesn’t it?”
Michelle laughed. “Maybe he just found out about it.”
“Is that worth killing someone for?”
“Who knows? People have killed for less.”
“But all we’re assuming is that Bradford was a minor porn dealer.”
“He had to get it from a wholesaler, didn’t he? Maybe Bradford was working for someone with even more at stake?”
“Someone like Carlo Fiorino?” suggested Banks. “And Harris was on Fiorino’s payroll? It’s possible, but still speculation. And it doesn’t get us a lot further with the missing notebooks.”
“Unless Proctor and Shaw inadvertently hit on the truth during their interviews, and it was recorded in Shaw’s notebooks. I don’t know how we’d find out, though. It’s not as if we can talk to Harris or Proctor.”
“Maybe not,” said Banks. “But we might be able to do the next best thing. Were they married?”
“Harris was. Not Proctor.”
“Is his wife still alive?”
“As far as I know.”
“Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something. Think you can find her?”
“Piece of cake,” said Michelle.
“And let’s delve a little deeper into Donald Bradford’s domain, including the circumstances of his death.”
“Okay. But what about DS Shaw?”
“Avoid him as best you can.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult these days,” Michelle said. “He’s off sick half the time.”
“The booze?”
“That’s what I’d put my money on.”
“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Banks finished his drink. “Another?”
Michelle looked at her watch. “No. Really. I’d better go.”
“Okay. I suppose I should go, too.” Banks smiled. “I’m sure my mum’ll be waiting up for me.”
Michelle laughed. It was a nice sound. Soft, warm, musical. Banks realized he hadn’t heard her laugh before. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked.
“Oh, no. Thank you,” said Michelle, standing up. “I’m just around the corner.”
“I’ll walk with you, then.”
“You don’t need to. It’s quite safe.”
“I insist. Especially after what you’ve just told me.”
Michelle said nothing. They walked out into the mild darkness, crossed the road and neared the riverside flats, close to where Banks had parked his car. Michelle had been right; it really was within spitting distance.
“This is right across the river from where they used to have the fair when I was a kid,” he said. “Funny, but I was just thinking about it as I was driving down.”
“Before my time,” said Michelle.
“Yes.” Banks walked her up to her door.
“Well,” she said, fumbling for her key, giving him a brief smile over her shoulder. “Good night, then.”
“I’ll just wait and make sure everything’s okay.”
“You mean until you’re sure there are no bogeymen waiting for me?”
“Something like that.”
Michelle opened her door, put on the lights and did a quick check while Banks stood in the doorway and glanced around the living room. It seemed a bit barren, no real character, as if Michelle hadn’t put her stamp on it yet.
“All clear,” she said, emerging from the bedroom.
“Good night, then,” said Banks, trying to hide his disappointment that she didn’t even invite him in for a coffee. “And take care. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She gave him a smile. “Tomorrow.” Then she closed the door gently behind him, and the sound of the bolt slipping home seemed far louder than it probably was.
It was all very well for Gristhorpe to tell Annie to get a good night’s sleep, but she couldn’t. She had taken more paracetamol and gone to bed early, but the pain had returned to her mouth with a vengeance. Every tooth ached, and now two of them felt loose.
The blow from Armitage had shaken her more than she had cared to admit to either Banks or Gristhorpe because it had made her feel the same way she had felt when she was raped nearly three years ago: a powerless victim. She had sworn afterward that she would never allow herself to feel that way again, but down in the cramped, dank space of Norman Wells’s book cellar, she had felt it, the deep, gut-wrenching fear of the female powerless against male strength and sheer brute force. Annie got up, went downstairs and poured herself a glass of milk with shaking hands, sitting at the kitchen table in the dark as she sipped it. She remembered the very first time Banks had been to her house. They had sat in the kitchen and eaten dinner together while the light faded. All the while Annie had been wondering what she would do if he made a move. She had impulsively invited him into her home, after all, offering to cook dinner instead of going to a restaurant or a pub, as he had suggested. Had she known right then, when she did that, what was going to happen? She didn’t think so.
As the evening wore on, their mood had got more and more mellow, thanks partly to liberal quantities of Chianti. When she had gone outside into the backyard with Banks, who wanted a cigarette, and when he had put his arm around her, she had felt herself tremble like a teenager as she had blurted out all the reasons about why they shouldn’t do what they were about to do.
Well, they had done it. And now she had ended the affair. Sometimes she regretted that and wondered why she had done it. Partly it was because of her career, of course. Working in the same station as the DCI you’re screwing was bad policy. But maybe that was just an excuse. Besides, it didn’t have to be that way. She could have worked in another station, somewhere where the opportunities were just as good, if not better than at Western Area Headquarters.
It was true that Banks still seemed tied to his past, to his marriage, but she could have handled that. It was also something that would have waned in time. Everyone had emotional baggage, including Annie herself. No, she thought, the reasons for what she did were within herself, not the job, not Banks’s past. Intimacy had felt like a threat to her, and the closer she had got to Banks, the more she had felt suffocated and tried to pull away.
Would it be like that with every man she met? Was it to do with the rape? Possibly, she thought. Or at least partly. She wasn’t sure she would ever completely get over that. What happened that night had certainly damaged her deeply. She didn’t think she was beyond repair, just that she had a long way to go. She still had occasional nightmares, and though she had never told Banks this, sex had sometimes been an effort for her, had even hurt at times. Sometimes the simple act o
f penetration, however consensual and gentle, had brought back the surge of panic and the feeling of sheer powerlessness she had first experienced that night. Sex certainly had its dark side, Annie knew. It could be demonic, close to violence, pushing you into dangerous and vaguely imagined desires and dark areas, beyond taboo. It was no wonder, then, she thought, that the idea of sex was so often mentioned in the same breath as violence. Or that sex and death were so intimately linked in the words and works of so many writers and artists.
Annie finished her milk and tried to laugh off her morbid thoughts. Still, they seemed to be the only kind she had at night, alone and unable to sleep. She put the kettle on for tea and went into the living room to browse through her small video collection. In the end, she settled on Doctor Zhivago, which had always been one of her favorite films, and when the tea was ready, she lounged on the sofa in the dark with her steaming mug, legs tucked under her, and gave herself up to the haunting theme music and the epic story of love in a time of revolution.
Banks walked down the stairs and tried to shake off his sense of disappointment. It was just as well, he told himself; the last thing he needed right now was to make a fool of himself over yet another woman. And Michelle had her own demons, whatever they were. Everyone did, it seemed. You couldn’t get to a certain age without attracting a lot of clutter. But why did it always have to get in the way? Why couldn’t you just shrug it off and get on with life? Why was misery so easy to embrace and joy so bloody elusive?
Just around the corner from the flats, he stopped to light a cigarette. Before he got his lighter out of his pocket, he felt something thud into him from behind. He staggered forward and turned to face whoever had hit him. He got only a quick glimpse of a pug nose and piggy eyes before a blow to the face upset both his vision and his balance. Another blow knocked him to the ground. Next he felt a sharp pain in his ribs and a kick to his stomach made him retch.
Then he heard a dog barking and a man’s voice shouting beyond the walls of pain, felt rather than saw his attacker hesitate, and heard him whisper, “Go back where you came from, or there’ll be more of that,” before he ran off into the night.
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