Strange Affair

Brooke had gone out of his way to protect the identity of the victim from the media. As soon as Banks had told his parents, he had to ring Brooke and tell him it was done; the rest would follow. He remembered he had also promised to keep Cori

After some relatively gentle questioning – very gentle, given the circumstances – Banks had handed over Roy’s mobile, the USB drive and the CD to Brooke and tried to get some sleep. The effects of the wine were fast wearing off, leaving him with a throbbing head, and sleep had refused to come. Luckily, there wasn’t much of the night left by then, and the dawn came early in June. At six o’clock, Banks was in the shower, then it was time to go pick up his car from where he had left it last night, near Waterloo Station, pick up a coffee for the road, and head for home.

Progress was slower than Banks remembered, or expected, and a journey that should have taken under two hours took almost three. Every time the news came on the radio, no matter what station he tuned into, there was the story about the mystery body fished out of the river Thames just below the London Eye last night. In the end, Banks turned it off.

When he finally pulled up outside his parents’ house in Peterborough, it was close to ten o’clock. Back in London, the murder investigation would be following its natural course: the technical support unit experts would be going over Roy’s mobile and the SOCOs would be tracking every piece of evidence retrieved from the crime scene. DCs would be out on the streets asking questions and Brooke would be sifting through it all, looking for that promising line of inquiry.

The front door was painted green, Banks noticed, which was surely different from his last visit. The tiny lawn looked a little overgrown and some of the flowers in the bed didn’t look in peak condition. That wasn’t like his mother. He knocked and waited. His mother answered and was, naturally, surprised to see him. She had lost weight, Banks noticed, and looked tired and drawn, with dark crescents under her eyes. God only knew what the news of Roy’s murder would do to her.

He could tell that she knew something was wrong by her ceaseless nervous chatter as she led him into the living room, where his father sat in his usual armchair, newspaper on his lap.

“Look who it is, Arthur. It’s our Alan come to call.”

Maybe it was Banks’s imagination, but he thought he sensed just the slightest air of neglect about the place; a patina of dust on the TV screen, a picture frame out of alignment, a teacup and saucer on the floor beside the settee, a slight bunching of the rug in front of the fire.

“Hello, Son,” said Arthur Banks. “Just happened to be passing, did you?”

“Not exactly,” said Banks, perching on the edge of the sofa. His mother fussed about, heading for the kitchen to put on the kettle for that great English cure-all, tea. Banks called her back. There would be time and need enough for copious quantities of tea later. On his way he had rehearsed what he was going to say over and over, how he was going to handle it; but now the time had come, he couldn’t remember what he had decided would be best.

“It’s about Roy,” he began.

“Did you find him?” Ida Banks asked.

“In a way.” Banks leaned forward and took his mother’s hand. This was even harder than he had imagined it might be; the words seemed stuck deep inside him and when he spoke they came out as little more than a whisper. “He wasn’t at home and I looked for him all weekend. I did my best, Mum, honestly I did, but I was too late.” He felt the tears brim in his eyes and let them course down his cheeks.

“Too late? What do you mean, too late? Where’s he gone?”

“Roy’s dead, Mum.” There, he’d said it. “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

“Are you sure?” Ida Banks asked. “Maybe he’s only joking.”

Banks thought he’d misheard. “What?” he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Ida Banks laughed and touched her hair. “Don’t you understand?” she said. “It’s a joke. Our Roy’s a great practical joker, isn’t he, Arthur? He’s playing a joke on us.”

Arthur Banks said nothing. Banks noticed he had turned pale and seemed to be clutching the newspaper tightly by its edges. It was already ripped. “Dad, can I get you anything? Do you need a pill or something?”

“No,” Arthur Banks managed. “Nothing. I’m all right. Go on. What happened?”

“There’s not much more to say,” Banks said, turning back to his mother. “They found him last night in the river.”

“Swimming in the river?” Ida Banks said. “But surely the water’s too dirty to swim in? I always told him he had to be careful. You can get terrible diseases from dirty water, you know.”

“He wasn’t swimming, Mother,” said Banks. “He was dead.”

His mother took a sharp breath. “Don’t say that,” she said. “You shouldn’t say things like that. Tell him, Arthur. You’re only trying to upset me. You never did like Roy. If this is supposed to be some sort of joke, then it isn’t very fu

“It’s not a joke.”

Arthur Banks stood up with some difficulty and shuffled over to his wife. “I think we’d better have that tea now, love,” he said, “then our Alan can explain it all over a nice cuppa.”

Ida Banks nodded, happy to have a purpose in life. “Yes,” she said, “that’ll be best. I’ll make some tea.”

When she had gone to the kitchen, Arthur Banks turned to his son. “There’s no mistake, then?”

“Sorry, Dad.”

His father grunted and glanced toward the kitchen. “She’s not been well. She’s got to go in for tests and stuff. We didn’t want to worry you. Doctors haven’t figured out what’s wrong with her yet, but she’s not been well. She’s not eating properly. She gets confused.” Arthur Banks pointed to his newspaper. “It’s that story in the paper, isn’t it? The body pulled out of the Thames. It’s on the front page. That’s our Roy, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “We’ve managed to keep his identity from the media so far, but it’ll have to come out. It’s going to get worse, Dad. Our Roy was shot. We don’t know why yet. But it’s a big story. Reporters will be around.”

“Don’t you worry, Son, I’ll soon send that lot packing.”

“It might not be as easy as you think. I’ll get in touch with the local police, if you like.” Banks knew his father’s attitude to the police, had suffered it all his life, but the need to protect his parents was stronger even than his respect for the old man’s opinion.

“Whatever you think’s best. I just don’t know. I can’t seem to think straight. Our Roy… dead. It’s a terrible thing when your children die before you do. Shot? No. I can hardly believe it.”

Banks felt a sudden chill, a premonition of what he would feel like if anything happened to Tracy or Brian, and it gave him a stronger sense of empathy with what his parents were suffering. For him it was the loss of a brother, perhaps one he never particularly liked and never really knew, but family nonetheless, and it hurt. For his parents, it was the loss of their favorite son.

“I know, Dad,” he said. “And I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you, but I just didn’t want you to find out any other way.”

“I appreciate that,” said Arthur Banks, looking at his son. “It can’t have been easy. Will we have to identify the body?”

“It’s been done.”

“What about the funeral?”

“I’ll deal with all that, Dad; don’t worry yourself.”

“What was he… I mean, would it have been quick?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “He wouldn’t have felt a thing.” Except the fear, the anticipation, he thought, but didn’t say.

“The paper said he was in the river.”

“Yes. He was spotted on a shingle bank just below the London Eye.”

“You don’t know where he went in?”

“Not yet. The tides and currents are pretty strong, especially with the rain we’ve been having. It’s for the experts to figure out.”