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“Can you elaborate on that?”
“Lauren came to see me in my office shortly after Christmas. A family problem. Her father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and she was upset, needed some time off. I put an arm around her, just to comfort her, you understand, and Rose chose that moment to come barging in with some family matter. It’s one of the disadvantages of being the head of the school your daughter attends. Rose was usually pretty good about observing the boundaries, but on this occasion… Well, she misread the situation and went ru
“I see,” said A
“No. No, thank God. I managed to talk to her. I’m not sure she quite believed in my i
“And that’s the root of her animosity toward Lauren Anderson?”
“I should imagine so. Maybe she had a crush on Luke Armitage, too, at one time, but believe me, I’d have known if there was more to it than that.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“You were attracted to Lauren, though, weren’t you? What did you call her? A Pre-Raphaelite beauty?”
“Yes. As I said, I’m only human. And she is a very attractive woman. You can’t arrest a man for his thoughts. At least not yet. The damn thing is, I’d done nothing wrong, but because I wanted it, I felt as guilty as if I had, anyway.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Fu
“Yes,” said A
“Well, if it isn’t our two lovebirds,” said Ben Shaw, opening the door to Banks and Michelle. “What the fuck do you two want?”
“A few words,” said Banks.
“And why should I want a few words with you?”
“Des Wayman,” said Michelle.
Shaw squinted at her, then shut the door, slid off the chain and opened it, walking away from them, leaving Banks to shut the door behind them and follow.
The house was far neater than Banks had expected. He had pegged Shaw as an alcoholic living alone, and that usually meant chaos. At least Shaw probably hired a cleaning lady, and his personal habits seemed tidy enough. The only booze in sight was a half-empty bottle of Bell’s on the living room table, a full glass beside it. Shaw sat down and took a slug without offering his guests anything. Well, Banks thought, why should he?
Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite was playing on the radio, another surprise for Banks. He wouldn’t have guessed Shaw to be a man of classical tastes. Or maybe it didn’t matter what was on as long as there was sound.
“So what porkies has Mr. Wayman been telling today?”
“Stop pissing around,” said Banks. “You told Wayman and a mate to work me over and get me out of the picture. It backfired.”
“If he told you that, he’s lying.”
“He told me, sir,” said Michelle, “and with all due respect, I think he was telling the truth.”
“All due respect? You don’t know the meaning of the term.” Shaw lit a cigarette and Banks felt a wave of pure need surge inside him. He was already feeling light-headed and edgy from not smoking, but this… this was ten times worse than he’d imagined. He took a grip. “Wayman’s nothing but criminal scum,” Shaw went on. “And you’d take his word over mine?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Banks went on. “DI Hart has done a bit of digging into your Regan and Carter days with Jet Harris, and we were just wondering how much the two of you took in from Carlo Fiorino.”
“You bastard!” Shaw lurched forward to grab Banks’s lapel but he was already a bit unsteady with drink, and Banks pushed him back down into his chair. He paled, and a grimace of pain passed over his face.
“What is it?” asked Banks.
“Fuck you.” Shaw coughed and reached for more whiskey. “John Harris was worth ten of you. You’re not worth the piss stains on his underwear.”
“Come off it, Shaw, the two of you were as bent as the day is long. He might have had a good excuse for it, but you…? You couldn’t remove every scrap of evidence from the archives. All your arrests were for burglary, assault, fraud and the occasional domestic murder. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“What, smart-arse?”
“That all the time Carlo Fiorino was ru
Shaw said nothing, just sipped more whiskey.
“Fiorino fed you his opposition,” Banks went on. “He had eyes and ears out on the street. He knew what jobs were going down. Small-fry, or competition. Either way it made you look good and deflected attention from his own operations, which included supplying Rupert Mandeville with as many bodies as he wanted for his ‘parties,’ male and female.”
Shaw slammed the tumbler down on the table so hard, the whiskey slopped over the side. “All right,” he said. “You want the truth? I’ll tell you. I’m not stupid. I worked with John for too many years not to have my suspicions, but – know what? – I never took a fucking pe
“And that’s why you’ve been doing everything in your power to scupper DI Hart’s investigation into Graham Marshall’s murder? To protect your old pal’s memory. To protect Jet Harris’s reputation. To do that you get someone to break into her flat, try to run her down, have me beaten up.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
He looked at Michelle, then back at Banks, a puzzled expression on his face. “I certainly never had anyone intimidate DI Hart in any way. I wasn’t worried about her. It was you I was worried about.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re the loose ca
Banks and Michelle exchanged glances, then Banks moved on. “Are you asking us to believe that you worked with Harris all those years and you hadn’t a clue what he was up to?”
“I’m saying I had my suspicions, but I buried them. For the sake of the force. For John’s sake. Listen, squash a bug like Fiorino and another one takes his place. You can no more stop prostitution, porn and drugs than you can stop sex and drinking. They’re always going to be there. Policing was different then. Sometimes you had to rub shoulders with some pretty nasty bedfellows to do the job.”
“And what about Graham Marshall?”
Shaw looked surprised. “What about him?”
“Did you know what really happened to him? Have you been covering that up all these years, too?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Shaw’s voice was little more than a whisper now.
“Well, let me tell you a story,” said Banks. “We can’t prove it, but this is what DI Hart and I believe happened. Donald Bradford most likely killed Graham. He owned the kind of knife that was used, and Graham trusted him. All Bradford had to do was drive down Wilmer Road around the time Graham would be heading for the other side and tell him something else had come up, to get in the car. That’s why he took his bag of newspapers with him. He thought he would be going back to finish his round later.”