The Price of Love and Other Stories (31 page)

“I agree,” said Hatchard. “Let’s make sure there are no leaks, everyone.”

“Right now,” Banks went on, “all we can do is the usual. We’ve found nobody who admits to seeing Pamela and her killer enter the
building, or her killer leave. Someone must have seen something, though. Even though it’s a fairly quiet side street, there are cafés, pubs and lots of street traffic around the corner. We can put an appeal out in the media. We can also follow up on any known perverts in the area, ask around the clubs and massage parlours about anyone who’s been behaving oddly.”

“But he wouldn’t necessarily have been behaving oddly, would he?” said Albright. “From what I’ve read, people like him often appear normal on the surface.”

Some of the others laughed, but Banks said, “That’s true enough, Ozzy, but he might have let something slip to someone. Maybe one of the girls will remember a bloke who worried her, someone who talked crazy or tried some weird stunt. And there are a couple of points to remember. First, he must have gone prepared. We found no Sellotape at the scene, so he must have brought it with him. Which probably means he knew what he was going to do with it.”

“Or he found some there and took it with him,” said Albright.

“Possibly,” Banks agreed.

“And the second point?” Hatchard asked.

“Well, if she didn’t just pick up a bloke from the street, then this meeting was probably arranged, and if that’s the case, there’s a damn good chance someone arranged it for her, or at least
knew
about it. Anyway, I’ve got actions for all of you, and enough interviews to keep you going for a while.”

The DCs groaned in chorus.

“And you, Alan?” said Hatchard.

“After we’ve had a quick word with the parents, I think Ozzy and I should pay a visit to Matthew Micallef,” said Banks. “He was Pamela’s pimp and he owns the building where she died. Maybe he knows who she was meeting there.”

—

Banks had discovered from Verity that Micallef liked to hold court most afternoons in a Chinese restaurant on Gerrard Street, so he and Albright headed over there after speaking briefly with Pamela’s parents. Banks learned little from them. Her mother had sniffled the whole time, and her father had maintained a monosyllabic stoicism. The only time he showed any emotion at all was when Banks handed him the photograph he had found in Pamela’s handbag, upon which Mr. Morrison uttered a gruff, hasty thank you and made a quick exit.

Chinatown used to be in Limehouse, close to the docks, and to Banks it evoked images from his adolescent reading: pea-soup fogs, Sherlock Holmes, inscrutable orientals, and the ne’er-do-well sons of the gentry idling away their lives in opium dens. But the modern-day reality wasn’t like that at all, if it ever had been. Most of the Chinese immigrants had moved after the blitz destroyed much of the East End. They settled in Soho in the 1950s and spilled over into an area between Shaftesbury Avenue and Leicester Square in the 1970s. It wasn’t a very large Chinatown, but the streets were ornamented with pagodas and arches, and the place was full of Chinese restaurants, supermarkets and shops overflowing with exotic and often unfamiliar Asian produce, little white delivery vans all over the place.

Albright glanced around keenly at the activity and sniffed the exotic air. “I always liked this place,” he said to Banks. “Do you know where the biggest Chinatown in the world is? Outside China itself, that is, sir.”

“You’ve got me there, Ozzy.” Banks sidestepped a few leaves of decaying bok choy.

“San Francisco.”

“Is it, indeed?” said Banks. “Now that’s a city I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“It’s not the one in the film. That was Los Angeles. Talking about films, sir, did you see
A View to a Kill
? I must say, I think Roger Moore is getting a bit long in the tooth to play James Bond. And that Grace
Jones … I’m not sure I’d want her in
my
bed. Some very nasty habits she’s got, sir.”

“You should be so lucky,” said Banks. “Here we are, I think.”

The façade of the restaurant was painted black and red, and the signage was lettered in gold. The windows were smoked, the glass etched and covered with net curtains, so it was impossible to see inside.

Banks hadn’t really formed a plan, but he had told Albright just to play it by ear, see how Micallef reacted to the questions they asked him, and note down any uncertainties and obvious lies to return to later, perhaps in the more formal surroundings of the station, if they felt he warranted bringing in.

Albright was a good head taller than Banks and had to stoop slightly as they went in. A doorbell pinged. When their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Banks noticed it was a relatively large room, and several tables were occupied. He scanned the diners, thinking Micallef would probably be sitting with a couple of bruisers. But there were no bruisers. Most of the clientele looked like businessmen. The maitre d’ approached them, and Banks asked for Mr. Micallef. The maitre d’ gave a slight bow and walked over to one of the tables. He spoke to a fair-haired man who glanced at Banks and Albright, still standing in the foyer. The maitre d’ came back and led them over to the table. There were no plates of food, just an almost empty bottle of white Burgundy.

Banks and Albright introduced themselves.

“Please, sit down,” said Micallef. “My meeting’s over, anyway.” He gave a signal to the two men and a woman who were sitting with him, and they left.

Banks could have sworn that Micallef had been expecting their visit, and perhaps he had. He would know about the murder and, whether he was guilty or not, he would also know that the police would quickly make the connection between him and the dead girl.

“Can I tempt either of you to a drink?” Micallef offered. “Or is it a duty call?”

“Duty,” said Banks as he and Albright sat down.

Micallef smiled in a slightly lopsided way, head tilted in amusement. “Pity.” He emptied the Burgundy into his glass. “It’s a very fine vintage.”

“Then it would probably be wasted on a dull plod like me,” said Banks. He lit a cigarette.

“Oh, come, come. I’m sure you do yourself an injustice. What do you say, sergeant?”

“It’s true that 1983 was a very good year for white Burgundy, but I still think it could benefit from another couple of years in the cellar.”

Micallef laughed, then stopped as abruptly as he had started. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I happen to be a very impatient man. And busy.” He looked at his watch, a chunky Rolex. “Shall we get down to business, or do I need my solicitor present?”

“No need for that,” said Banks. “Just a friendly chat.” Since the Police and Criminal Evidence Act had been passed the previous year, criminals had more rights than ever before. The police, Banks included, hadn’t quite got used to the shift of power yet, so they were nervous and usually erred on the side of caution. Even so, unless Micallef was going to confess to murder, he hardly had need for a lawyer, and he was probably too shrewd to give anything away. What else would they charge him with? Living off immoral earnings?

Micallef spread his hands. “So what can I do for you?”

Banks had to admit that the man had taken him by surprise. Despite what he had already heard from Verity and from Jackie Simmons, he had still expected a swarthy barrel-chested man surrounded by gorillas. But what he got could well have been, to all intents and purposes, an ex–public schoolboy, a lock of blond hair hanging over his left eye, a fair complexion, an air of natural superiority, a haughty demeanour and an easy exercise of power. His mother was English, Banks knew, so he had obviously inherited his
looks from her: slightly effeminate, but of a kind that is attractive to women. His accent was pure Eton and Oxford. But Banks also knew that behind this veneer of civilized urbanity was a vicious streak and the morals of a common criminal – a pimp, no less and it was this image he tried to keep in his mind as he spoke with Micallef.

“It’s about the murder of Pamela Morrison,” Banks began.

“Yes, I heard. Tragic business.”

“Word has it that you knew the girl.”

“I wouldn’t say I
knew
her. Certainly not in the carnal sense. I’ve seen her around the clubs, that’s all.”

“You frequent many clubs in Soho?”

“
Many
? There aren’t many left,” said Micallef. “Not since the City of Westminster started its Soho clean-up campaign. But I think vice will always flourish in such an environment, don’t you, Inspector?” Micallef shrugged in a man-of-the-world sort of way. “Anyway, I frequent one or two of the handful that remain. I’m a red-blooded male. What can I say? You have some very beautiful women here in London.”

“Where are you from?”

“Valletta. Malta. Though I was educated here. My mother insisted. Harrow and King’s College, Cambridge. I read mathematics, if you’re interested.”

“I see you put your education to good use,” Banks said.

“I’m a property developer,” Micallef announced proudly, “and I like to play the stock market. I find a little background in arithmetic doesn’t go amiss.”

“What about your other business?” Banks asked.

“What would that be? I have a number of side interests.”

“The girls. Pimping.”

Micallef wagged his finger. “You should know better than that, Inspector. That’s illegal, and I don’t do anything illegal.”

“You own the building where Pamela Morrison’s body was found.”

Micallef swirled the wine in his glass. “My company owns it, as you are obviously aware. Are you saying that makes me responsible?”

“No. I’m saying she was found dead in a room you let her use – or rented for her use – to entertain men for money. Who had Pamela arranged to meet in that room, or take there, two nights ago?”

“How should I know? As I said, what she did in the room was her business. I have nothing to do with such things. Even if I did let this woman use the room, as you suggest I did, or rented it to her, I had no idea what she did in it. How could I? I don’t spy on my tenants, Inspector.”

“What about the other rooms in the building? What are they used for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps it could be called a brothel?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Don’t you think you should take a closer interest in your business affairs.”

“I employ others to do that for me. That’s why I have nominees.”

“Who are they? Will you give me some names?”

Micallef smiled. It was a reptile’s smile. “Help the police with their inquiries? Of course. No doubt you already have some, or you wouldn’t be here making these wild accusations. Talk to Benny on your way out.” Micallef gestured towards the entrance, and Banks noticed that one of the men who had been sitting at the table earlier was now chatting and laughing with the maitre d’ near the front desk. Perhaps he wasn’t a gorilla, but “Benny” certainly had the appearance of a minder: broad chest, arm muscles bulging none-too-discreetly under his tight-fitting Armani suit. Micallef glanced at his watch again. “I have to leave. Why don’t you stay here and enjoy Yuan’s excellent hospitality? I assume I’m free to terminate this interview at any time?”

“Of course,” said Banks.

“Then I’m sure you understand that I really have nothing more to say on the matter.”

Micallef stood up to move away, but Banks grabbed his wrist. He noticed Benny stiffen over by the door, and he also noticed the subtle shift in position and sudden alertness that meant Albright was ready for action. Nobody else moved as Banks slowly pulled Micallef towards him. Though the Maltese was tall, he was not especially strong. “Mr. Micallef,” said Banks. “Do you have any idea who Pamela Morrison met in that room two nights ago? Or do you know the name of anyone who might know?”

“No, I don’t,” said Micallef, gently freeing himself from Banks’s grip and dusting off his cuff with his hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run.”

And with that, he was gone.

“Well, that went well, sir, didn’t it?” said Albright.

“About as well as can be expected,” said Banks, smiling. “At least we’ve rattled his cage. Come on, let’s go. There should still be somewhere open around here where we can get a decent pint.”

It was shortly after closing time when Banks got back to the Kennington flat that evening, and Sandra was waiting up for him. He poured a large Scotch then flopped next to her on the living room sofa and lit a cigarette.

“Do you really need that?” she said, meaning the whisky.

“It’s been a rough day.”

“It’s always a rough day. But by the smell of you, you’ve been in the pub most of the evening already.”

“What if I have?”

“Oh, Alan, come on. You know what I’m saying. Stop acting like a spoiled child. You’re never home anymore. You never spend any time with
us
.”

“What do you mean?”

“
Us.
When was the last time you saw Tracy or Brian? Remember them, your children?
Our
children.
Us.
”

“Last night. I looked in –”

“I mean
really
saw them. Talked to them. Found out what they’re doing at school, what they’re interested in, what’s happening in their lives. When’s the last time we ever did anything together as a family?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t bloody know. A day at the zoo or something. That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“That you just don’t seem like you want to be a member of this family anymore. You just don’t care. You’d rather hang out boozing with your cop cronies or visit the Soho clubs watching strippers and talking to pimps and prostitutes. What kind of life is that?”

“It’s my life, Sandra. It’s a copper’s life. It’s –”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap, Alan. I’ve heard it all before. You should know better than that. It’s worse now than when you worked undercover. At least then we never saw you at all. Now you just pop up whenever you feel like it, whenever you need a place to sleep or eat, like some eccentric down-and-out uncle. And
sleep
is the right word. I can’t remember the last time we made love. God knows where you’ve been till all hours. You could have another woman for all I know.”