Strange Affair (20 page)

“It’s true,” said Ian Hunt. “He did look up to you, especially when you were children. You just never paid him any attention. You ignored him. He felt neglected, rejected, as if he always let you down.”

“He was my little brother,” said Banks.

Hunt nodded. “And always in the way.”

Banks remembered when he was going out with Kay
Summerville, his first serious girlfriend. Roy was about twelve at the time, and whenever their parents went out for a night at the local pub and Banks invited Kay over to listen to records, among other things, he would always have to pay Roy to stay in his room. So maybe Roy was always in the way, Banks thought, but he found the means to profit from it.

“Anyway,” Banks said, “I wasn’t aware that he looked up to me in any way. He certainly never let it show.”

“I’m not saying Roy isn’t competitive. You were good at sports, for example. He wasn’t, so he worked hard at what he did best. He compensated.”

Good? Banks had been a tolerable fly halfback then, fast and slippery. At cricket he hadn’t been much cop as a batsman but had been a decent mid-pace bowler. Roy had been an overweight, bespectacled and unattractive child, not at all athletic, and at school the other kids teased him and called him a swot. Once the bullying got serious enough that Banks stepped in and put an end to it, so no one could say he never did anything for Roy. But he certainly hadn’t done enough.

“Even now he looks up to you,” Hunt went on.

“That I find even harder to believe,” said Banks, wondering what there was to look up to: a failed marriage and a thankless job. Especially when Roy had it all: the flash car, woman falling at his feet, the mews house. But they were all
things
, Banks realized, all material possessions. Even the women, to some extent, were status symbols.
Look at me with a beautiful young woman on my arm.
All for show. Roy’s three marriages had ended in divorce, and not one of them had produced any children. He had even broken off his engagement to Corinne. Banks at least had Brian and Tracy.

He saw that Hunt was standing, ready to leave. “Sorry,” said Banks. “Just thinking about what you said.”

“That’s all right,” said Hunt. “I should go. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be of more practical help. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate. It’s St. Jude’s, just down the street.”

“Thanks. Oh, hang on a minute.” Banks fetched one of the digital photos and showed it to Hunt. “Do you recognize either of those men?”

Hunt shook his head.

“You’ve never seen Roy with either of them?”

“No, never.”

Banks shook his hand again and Ian Hunt left.

Maybe the mistake Banks had made in trying to figure Roy out was to dismiss his spiritual and emotional sides. Now he had discovered that Roy had become a regular churchgoer, it changed things, added a dimension he hadn’t suspected. Did it help him figure out what had happened to Roy? Perhaps not, but it might affect the way in which he conducted his investigation. Previously, he’d been looking for something dodgy that Roy had been connected to, something he had perhaps run away from; now, though, the field was wide open. Possibly Roy had stumbled over something he shouldn’t have done, or perhaps he had become a threat to people he had once worked closely with, and instead of turning a blind eye he had planned on blowing the whistle? But on what, on whom?

Gaps in the cloud let through bright lances of light and the western sky turned vermilion and violet. The crowds queuing for the sunset ride on the London Eye shifted restlessly in the downpour and people on Westminster Bridge watched the huge Ferris wheel from under their umbrellas and rain hoods.

Eight-year-old Michaela Toth had been excited all day about the promised ride. It was to be the highlight of her first
ever weekend in London – even better than Madame Tussauds and the zoo – and her mum and dad were letting her stay up late especially. Even the rain didn’t dampen her spirits as she stood in the queue hopping from foot to foot, clutching her yellow plastic handbag with the pink flower on it. It seemed as if they would never get there, edging forward at a snail’s pace like this. Michaela could hardly believe that the Eye was so much bigger than she had imagined, or that it never stopped turning, even when you got on and off. The thought made her just a little bit scared, but nicely so.

Inch by inch, they moved forward. As soon as the cars emptied, they filled up again. A squat red tugboat chugged down the river leaving its arrowhead wake in the darkening water. It was still light enough to see the men standing on the deck and Michaela noticed one of them point in her direction. At first she thought he was just pointing at the Eye, but more men joined him and the tug changed direction, heading for the bank.

Michaela tugged on her father’s hand and asked him to take her to the wall to see what the men were pointing towards. At first she thought he wasn’t going to, but then she could tell he got curious too because he asked her mother to keep their place in the queue and said they’d be back in just a moment.

The tug was getting close to the embankment as they got to the railings beside the Eye. The people on Westminster Bridge were pointing their way now, too, and Michaela wondered if they’d seen a dolphin, or even a whale, though she didn’t really believe there were any whales or dolphins living in the River Thames. Maybe one had escaped from an aquarium. Or maybe someone had fallen in the river and the men on the tugboat were going to rescue him.

Holding her father’s hand, Michaela strained to see over the embankment wall. She was just tall enough to manage it. The tide was very low and a shingle bank stuck out of the water like a whale’s back just below the wall. Lying on the shingles was the sprawled figure of a man. A dark shape, he was lying on his stomach and his arms were stretched out in front of him, his lower half in the water. Michaela’s father pulled her away quickly.

“What is it, Daddy?” she asked, frightened. “What’s that man doing there?”

Her father didn’t answer; he simply led her away. When they rejoined her mother in the queue, her father spoke and Michaela heard the words “dead body.” Soon, others started drifting towards the wall. One woman screamed. Michaela worried she might not get her ride after all. If there was a dead body down there, perhaps the London Eye would even stop turning.

After the Reverend Ian Hunt had left, Banks put away the golf club, feeling rather foolish, locked up the house and went upstairs with the remains of his wine. He rang Julian Harwood, who confirmed that he was managing director of the Berger-Lennox Centre but said he had never actually been to the place and had never heard of Jennifer Clewes. Banks had no reason to disbelieve him.

Banks felt a sudden urge to listen to some music before bed. He found a CD he had never heard before: mezzo-soprano Lorraine Hunt Lieberson singing two Bach cantatas. Roy’s top-of-the-line stereo system brought out the rich timbre of the strings, and when he closed his eyes Banks could imagine himself in a room surrounded by the small ensemble. And the
voice was sublime, almost enough to make you believe in God. He thought of Penny Cartwright singing “Strange Affair.” Different, but another wonderful voice.

Banks sipped his wine, feeling a pleasant buzz, let the music roll over him and thought about Annie, Roy, Jennifer Clewes and the Berger-Lennox Centre. He would like to have been invited to go along with Annie in the morning, but she was right – it wasn’t his case, and he was a bit of a mess. When he examined his feelings, it was curious how little her comments really hurt. At the time, they had stung, but they had quickly sunk in, and he knew they were true. He had let things go. If he wasn’t as bad as the hapless fellow in one of his favourite Nick Lowe songs, he had been getting there.

Perhaps a few months ago, before the Phil Keane business, Annie would have welcomed his company, but now she didn’t quite seem to trust him. And she was right not to do so. The last thing he had on his mind was going back up to Yorkshire.

The CD finished and Banks looked for something else to put on. Roy didn’t have the Mahler songs, but he did have Strauss’s
Four Last Songs
, one of Banks’s favourite pieces of music, so he put that on. As it turned out, he wasn’t far into the second song when he heard the phone ring in Roy’s office. Putting his glass down, he hurried across the landing to answer it.

The London Eye towered over the scene, a huge dark semicircle against the moonlit clouds. It was closed for the night now, but still turning slowly, always turning. Nearby, on the stone steps that led down to the hump of shingle bared by the tide, the SOCOs came and went like ghosts in their protective clothing. It was a precise ballet in which every dancer knew his steps. Despite the occasional shout and chatter or static
over police radios, there was an odd hush about the scene, and no sense of hurry, as if the mighty heart of the city were lying still. Even the media beyond the taped-off area were strangely quiet. Arc lamps lit rough slimy stone, shingle and greasy water alike, and a police video camera recorded everything. The rain had stopped, and from Westminster Bridge a few curious onlookers watched over it all, silhouettes against the light dying in the west.

When Banks arrived at the taped-off area, Burgess was already waiting for him, a grim look on his face. He had explained to Banks over the telephone that when he saw on the news that the body of a white male about Roy’s age had washed up by the London Eye, his alarm bells had gone off. They had found no identification on the body, so there was no evidence yet that it
was
Roy, and indeed he hoped it wasn’t, but it might be worth Banks’s coming along and having a look.

Banks hadn’t needed asking twice.

Burgess took him by the arm and led him over to a thick-set man with a red, moon-shaped face. “DI Brooke, Lambeth North,” said Burgess. “Meet DCI Banks, North Yorkshire Major Crimes.”

The two men nodded at one another. “DI Brooke?” said Banks. “You’ll be the chap Annie Cabbot’s working with on the Jennifer Clewes case?”

“Annie and I go back a long way.”

Banks gestured towards the river. “Is he still down there?”

“The police surgeon’s pronounced death, but the SOCOs haven’t finished yet. They’ll have to move fast, though, because the tide’s coming in.” Brooke paused and looked down at his feet. “Look, Superintendent Burgess here told me he thinks there’s a possibility it might be your brother down there?”

“I hope to God it’s not,” said Banks, “but it’s a possibility, yes. He’s missing.”

“Sorry to have to put you through this.”

“Better than not knowing,” said Banks. “Can we go down?”

“There’s some extra overalls in the SOCOs’van. And mind your step, those old stone stairs are worn and slippery.”

Kitted out in protective clothing, Banks and Burgess showed their identification to the officer guarding the scene, ducked under the tape and approached the steps. The landing at the bottom didn’t quite reach as far as the exposed shingle, so the SOCOs had already set up a makeshift bridge made of planks. It wobbled a little as Banks and Burgess crossed. Once, Banks almost lost his footing and he became suddenly aware of how much he had had to drink that day. Water lapped gently against the stone wall.