Strange Affair

“No,” said Banks. “And the more I find out, the less I know.”

“That’s the universal paradox of knowledge”

“Maybe so,” said Banks, “but at the moment I’m interested in more practical knowledge. I don’t suppose you have any idea where Roy might be?”

Hunt blinked. “I was the one who came here looking for him, remember?”

“Even so.”

Hunt looked at Banks with curiosity in his eyes. “I can see you’ve been trained not to take anything at face value,” he said. “No, I have no idea where he is.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I told you. The meeting. It’s not like Roy not to even leave a message.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Last Sunday.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“We chatted briefly after the service.”

“How did he seem?”

“Fine. Quite normal.”

Banks got the milk from the fridge, giving it a quick sniff to see if it was still all right, poured the tea, then sat down opposite Hunt. “I don’t mean to seem so abrupt,” he said, “but I’m concerned. Roy left a rather disturbing message on my answering service, and when I came down here to see him he’d disappeared and the front door was unlocked.”

“I can see why you would be concerned,” said Hunt.

“So the two of you chatted often?”

“Yes,” said Hunt. “We’d often spend an hour or two together, usually at the vicarage, sometimes over lunch.”

Roy lunching at the vicarage was an image Banks found very hard to visualize. “Did he open up to you? I mean, did he…”

“I know what you mean.” Hunt shifted in his chair. “Yes, I’d say he opened up about his feelings. At least to some extent.”

“Feelings about what?”

“Many things.”

“I’m afraid that’s a bit too vague for me,” said Banks. “Do you think you could be more specific? It’s not as if you took his confession or anything.” Banks realized that he hadn’t ascertained what denomination Hunt represented. “I mean, you’re not Catholic, are you?”

“Church of England. But I don’t know how much I can help you. Roy never went into great detail about anything he did.”

“I don’t suppose he would,” said Banks. “But did you get any idea why he started attending church on the sixteenth of September, 2001, other than some vague sense of unease about the way the world was going?”

“It wasn’t that.” Hunt took a deep breath. “It’s my feeling that your brother had lost his moral compass, had become so engrossed in the making of money that how he made it no longer mattered to him.”

“He’s not unusual in that,” said Banks.

“No. But it’s my guess that what happened in New York on the eleventh brought it home to him in no uncertain terms.”

“You’re not saying he was somehow co

“Oh, no,” said Hunt. “No, you’re missing the point entirely.”

“What, then?”

“Didn’t he tell you? He was there.”

Banks had to pause a moment to take this in. “Roy was in New York when the attacks took place?”

Ian Hunt nodded. “According to what he told me, he had an appointment with a banker in the second tower. He was ru

“Jesus Christ,” said Banks. “Sorry. He never told me this.”

“But you’re not close, are you?”

“No.”

“Anyway, it gave him pause for thought – the enormity of it all, fate, how everything was co

Banks remembered what Burgess had said about the arms deal. Roy had found out that a shipment he had brokered had found its way into the wrong hands. Had Roy really been so naive as to think that arms dealing was just a business like any other? He probably hadn’t given it too much thought, Banks decided, lured by the money and the excitement. Warned off by Special Branch, he had backed away from that line of work immediately, but he had witnessed the attacks on the World Trade Center and he was stricken by conscience, by the fact that guns or missiles he had exported could have been used in something like this. Roy realized he had crossed a line and he didn’t like what he saw on the other side.

Suicide bombers in distant desert places are one thing, but being there, in New York, on the eleventh of September, 2001, and witnessing what happened must have been devastating. It certainly made it impossible for Roy to remain willfully ignorant of the kind of things terrorists intended to do to the West, given the means and opportunity. And, unknowingly or not, Roy had once helped out with the means. Hence the guilt. Roy had turned to the church for absolution.

This was a new perspective on his brother, and one that would take Banks a little time to get used to. It certainly didn’t match the Roy he remembered from the last time he had seen him just eight months ago, but then that had been Roy-at-home, a careful image he projected for his parents. Had Roy even told their parents what he had seen? Banks doubted it. Despite his religion, though, Roy had continued to make money; he had hardly given it all to charity and taken a vow of poverty, or chastity, for that matter. Clearly guilt only went so far and cut so deep.

So what had happened to him? Had he lost his moral compass again? The making of money, perhaps even more than the money itself, was an addiction to some people, like gambling, heroin or cigarettes. Banks had given up smoking the previous summer when he found out that an old schoolfriend had died from lung cancer, but he had started again after a fire took his home, his possessions and, almost, his life. Where was the logic in that? But such is the nature of addiction.

“Has anything in your recent conversations given you any reason to think Roy might have got into some sort of dangerous gray area again?” Banks asked.

“No,” said Hunt. “Nothing.”

“He didn’t mention his business activities?”

“We didn’t talk about business. Our conversations were mostly of a philosophical and spiritual nature. Look, I know Roy’s not a natural man of religion, and I very much doubt that he’s a saint, even after what happened, but he does have a conscience and sometimes it troubles him. He’s still a hard-nosed businessman, the kind of person you’d expect to cut a corner or two and not always ask too many questions, but I’d say he’s a lot more careful these days. He’s drawn his own lines.” Hunt paused. “He’s always looked up to you, you know.”

“You could have fooled me.” Growing up, Banks had done everything wrong. He had stayed out too late, got caught shoplifting and smoking, got into fights, neglected his school-work, and, the final insult, he had turned away from business studies and chosen a career of which neither of his parents approved. Roy, on the other hand, from five years behind, had watched his brother’s progress and learned what not to do.

“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.