Strange Affair

“Did you notice any logos, ornaments, that sort of thing?”

“Sorry, no.”

“It’s okay. You’re doing fine. I don’t suppose you got the number, did you?

“No.”

“Did you get a good look at the driver?”

“Just a glimpse when the door opened and the inside light came on for a second. It was further back, out of the range of the street lamp.”

“Can you describe him?”

“All I could really see was that he had short fair hair. Really short. Cropped. Then the door shut, the light went off and they drove away.”

“What direction?”

“South. Toward the river. Not long after that I heard the kids talking and the car door slam. I just caught a glimpse of them, then they were gone. I know I should have called the police right there and then. Maybe then that poor boy wouldn’t have died. But I didn’t know what was going on and it doesn’t pay to get too involved unless you really have to.”

“It’s not your fault,” said A

“Even so, I feel badly.”

“Mr. Seaton. Alf,” DI Brooke cut in, “do you think you would be able to work with a police artist on a sketch of the man you got a good look at?”

“I think so,” said Seaton. “I mean, I’ve got a fairly clear picture of him in my mind. It’s just a matter of getting it down.”

“That’s what the artist’s for. With a bit of luck, we might be able to get him here by tomorrow morning. Would that be all right?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. I’ll make the arrangements. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

Seaton thought for a moment, then said, “No, I don’t think so. It all happened very quickly, and as I said, I didn’t know what was going on. Why would a man abandon a nice car like that in a neighborhood like this unless he wanted it to be stolen?”

“Exactly,” said A

Banks fetched fish and chips from the Chinese chippie over the road for lunch, but his father just picked at them. He didn’t even complain the way he usually did that they tasted of chop suey, his only notion of Chinese food. After a cup of tea Banks was seriously thinking of heading back to London, but he sensed that he should stay. Not that his father asked him, or ever would, but it seemed the thing to do. The family should be together, at least for now.

He felt restless, though, cooped up, so he drove into town and wandered aimlessly around Cathedral Square and the Queensgate Centre. While he was there he remembered that he had left his mobile back in Gratly and he had given Roy’s to Brooke. If he was pla

It was a cloudy afternoon, holding the threat of rain. A group of buskers was playing jigs and reels in the square, a small crowd gathered around them. A steady stream of tourists entered the Cathedral precints.

When Banks found himself wandering by the Rivergate Centre flats he thought of Michelle Hart, who used to live there, on Viersen Platz. On the opposite side of the river was Charters Bar, an old iron barge moored near Town Bridge, and Banks remembered the blues music he’d heard issuing from it on weekends he had stayed with Michelle.

Banks stared into the murky water and wondered if he should have tried harder with Michelle. He had let her slip away far too easily. But what could he do? Her career was important to her, and when the opportunity in Bristol came up, he could hardly plead with her not to go. Besides, there had been problems with the relationship well before the move, so many that Banks had often thought the new job was at least partly an attempt to put more distance between them.

He walked back to his car and just sat there for a while with the windows open, smoking. How bloody ironic it was, he thought, that he had only come to know his brother after his disappearance. If Roy had died two, three years ago, Banks would have grieved, of course, but he wouldn’t have felt the loss in such a personal way. Now, though, it actually hurt, squeezed at his heart. Now there was someone to miss, not just a distant memory.

It wasn’t so much that he had revised his opinion of Roy as that he had put it in a larger context. Roy was a rogue, no doubt about it; he had about as much sense of business ethics as a flea and he was a bastard to women. That he’d made a fortune, driven a Porsche and had women falling all over him was only a testament to one of those grim truths of life: that the bastards thrive. Maybe they get their just desserts in the afterlife, maybe they come back as cockroaches, but in this life, they thrive.

Roy’s crisis of conscience after witnessing the horror of 9/11, his turning to the church, had probably sharpened what moral instinct he had to some degree Had he stumbled across something in that last week that offended his sense of right and wrong? Had he gone through a struggle of conscience before ringing his policeman brother? Or had it been business much as usual? Throughout his life Roy had probably stolen, cheated and lied without giving a damn for the consequences, or a moment to worry over those whom he had hurt in the process. Had he changed that much? Banks wouldn’t find out in Peterborough, he knew that, so tomorrow he would have to head back to London and start digging again.

Banks thought it might be a good idea to let a few people, especially his children, know he had a new mobile number, so he turned on the engine, plugged the phone in the car charger and rang to leave messages. To his great surprise, Brian actually answered in person.

“Dad. Nice to hear from you. We’re on a break. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner but we were in the studio. I was going to ring tonight.”

“It’s okay,” said Banks. “I’ve been out a lot. How’s it going?”

“Good. Slowly, but good.”

“And how’s Dublin?”

“Great.”

“Tried the Gui

“A pint or two. Look, what is it, Dad? Why did you want to talk to me? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Banks, thinking, Here we go again, then taking a deep breath and plunging in. “Your Uncle Roy’s been killed. It’ll be all over the news in a while, so I wanted you to know.”

“Uncle Roy? No. I mean, I never really knew him, but… he always sent cards and stuff. I can’t believe it. Why? What happened? Did he have some sort of accident?’ ”

“I’m trying to find out what happened,” said Banks. “But, no, it wasn’t an accident. He was shot.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Look, I’m sorry, Brian, really. I can’t think of an easier way to break the news. Anyway, there’s nothing you can do. I’ve told Tracy, and she’s going to tell your mother. Just get on with your recording.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. And be prepared for reporters.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“You’ll let me know how it goes? Keep me informed?”

“I’ll let you know,” said Banks. “I’ll be back in London in a day or so, probably staying at Roy’s house if the police have finished with it. Do you want the address and phone number there?”

“Sure. Might as well. Shot… Jesus.”

Banks gave him Roy’s address.

“Thanks, Dad,” Brian said. “And I’m really sorry.”

“Take care,” said Banks, then he broke the co

Banks sat there for a moment longer thinking he’d probably gone and ruined his son’s big recording session, then he stubbed out his cigarette and set off back to his parents’ house.

Victor Parsons shared a flat with two other young men in Chalk Farm. When A