Strange Affair

“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 Bank 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 flashy car, women 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 Cori

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.”

They shook hands 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 co

Gaps in the clouds 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 Tussaud’s 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 toward. 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 pebbly shingle bank stuck out of the water like a whale’s back just below the wall. Lying on the shingle bank 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 toward 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-Le

Banks felt a sudden urge to listen to some music before bed. He found a CD he had never heard before: 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 Pe

Banks sipped wine, feeling a pleasant buzz; he let the music roll over him and thought about A

Perhaps a few months ago, before the Phil Keane business, A

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 favorite 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.