Past Reason Hated

‘What about your records?’

‘Records? What you talking about?’

Banks nodded towards the filing cabinets. ‘You must keep clear and accurate records, Tuffy – cash flow, wages, rent, bar take. For the taxman, remember?’

Telfer cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, well, what if I do?’

‘You could look her up. Come on, Tuffy, we’ve been through all this before, years ago. I know you keep a few notes on every girl who passes through here in case you might want to use her again, maybe for a video, a stag party, some special-’

Telfer held up a hand. ‘All right, all right, I get your drift. It’s all above-board. You know that. Cedric, see if you can find the file, will you?’

One of the bruisers opened a filing cabinet. ‘Cedric?’ Banks whispered, eyebrows raised.

Telfer shrugged. His chins wobbled. They sat silently, Telfer tapping his short fat fingers on the desk while Cedric rummaged through the files, muttering the alphabet to himself as he did so.

‘Ain’t here,’ Cedric a

‘You sure?’ Telfer asked. ‘It begins with a ‘aitch – Hartley. That comes after “gee” and before “eye”.’

Cedric grunted. ‘Ain’t here. Got a Carrie ‘Eart, but no Caroline ‘Artley.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ Banks said. ‘She might have used a stage name.’

Telfer nodded and Cedric handed over the file. Pi

The one piece of information that Banks hoped he might find was at the end, an address under her real name: ‘Caroline Hartley, c/o Colm Grey.’ It was old now, of course, and might no longer be of any use. But if it was Colm Grey’s address, and he was poor, he might well have hung on to his flat, unless he’d left the city altogether. Also, now Banks had his last name, Colm Grey would be easier to track down. He recognized the street name. It was somewhere between Notting Hill and Westbourne Park. He had lived not far from there himself twenty years ago.

‘Got what you want?’ asked Telfer.

‘Maybe.’ Banks handed the file back to Cedric, who replaced it, then finished his Scotch.

‘Well, then,’ said Tuffy with a smile. ‘Nice of you to drop in. But you mustn’t let me keep you.’ He stood up and shook hands. His grip was firm but his palm was sweaty. ‘Not staying long, are you? Around here, I mean.’

Banks smiled. ‘No.’

‘Not thinking of coming back to stay?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Good. Just wanted to be sure. Well, do pop in again the next time you’re down, won’t you, and we’ll have another good old natter.’

‘Sure, Tuffy. And give my love to Mirabelle.’

‘I will. I will, Mr Banks.’

The bruisers stood aside and Banks walked out of the office and down the corridor unscathed. When he got back to the noisy smoky club, he breathed a sigh of relief. Tuffy obviously remembered what a pain in the arse he’d been, but working on the edge of the law, as he did, he had to play it careful. True, plenty of his operations were above-board. It was a game – give and take, live and let live – and both sides knew it. Banks had come close to breaking the rules once or twice, and Tuffy wanted to be sure he wouldn’t be around to do that again. Questions that sounded like friendly curiosity were often, in fact, thinly veiled threats.

‘Another drink, dear?’ the mammarially magnificent barmaid said as Banks passed by.

‘No, love. Sorry, have to be off now. Maybe another time.’

‘Story of my life,’ she said, and her breasts swung as she turned away.

Outside, Banks fastened his overcoat, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and walked along Greek Street towards Tottenham Court Road Tube station. He had thought of taking a taxi, but it was only midnight, and Barney lived a stone’s throw from the Central line. At Soho Square he saw a drunk in a tweed overcoat and trilby vomiting in the gutter. A tart, inadequately dressed for the cold, stood behind him and leaned against the wall, arms folded across her chest, looking disgusted.

How did that poem end? Banks wondered. The one Veronica had quoted earlier that evening. Then he remembered. After its haunting summary of the horrors of lust, it finished, ‘All this world well knows; yet none knows well / To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.’ Certainly knew his stuff, did old Willie. They didn’t call him ‘the Bard’ for nothing, Banks reflected, as he turned up Sutton Row towards the bright lights of Charing Cross Road.

THREE

The next morning, after a chat with Barney over bacon and eggs, Banks set out to find Colm Grey. He had arranged to have lunch with Veronica, and had asked Barney to check Ruth Du

The rush-hour crowd had dwindled by the time he got a train, and he was even able to grab a seat and read the Guardian, the way he used to.

He got off at Westbourne Park and walked towards Notting Hill until he found the address on St Luke’s Road Five names matched the bells beside the front door, and he was in luck: C. Grey was one of them, flat four.

Banks pushed the bell and stood by the intercom. No response. He tried again and waited a couple of minutes. It looked like Grey was out. The way things stood at the moment, Grey was hardly a prime suspect, but he was a loose end that had to be tied up. He was the only one who knew the full story about Caroline Hartley’s child. Just as Banks started to walk away, he thought he heard a movement behind the door. Sure enough, it opened and a young man stood there, hair standing on end, eyes bleary, stuffing a white shirt in the waist of his jeans.

He frowned when he saw Banks. ‘Wharrisit? What time is it?’

‘Half past nine. Sorry to disturb you.’ Banks introduced himself and showed his identification. ‘It’s about Caroline Hartley.’

The name didn’t register at first, then Grey suddenly gaped and said, ‘Bloody hell! You’d better come in.’

Banks followed him upstairs to a two-room flat best described as cosy. The furniture needed re-upholstering and the place needed dusting and a damn good tidying up.

‘I was sleeping,’ Grey said as he bent to turn on the gas fire. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ When he came back he had washed his face and combed his hair and he carried a cup of instant coffee. ‘Want some?’ he asked Banks.

‘No. This shouldn’t take long. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Be my guest.’

Grey sat opposite him, leaning forward as if hunched over his steaming coffee cup. He was lanky with a long pale face pitted from ancient acne or chicken-pox. He needed a shave and a trim, and his slightly protruding eyes were watery blue.

‘Is it bad news?’ he asked, as if he were used to life being one long round of bad news.

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘Obviously, or I wouldn’t be asking. Well?’

Banks took a deep breath. He had assumed Grey would have read about the murder in the papers. ‘Caroline Hartley was murdered in Eastvale on December the twenty-second,’ he said finally.

At first, Grey didn’t seem to react. He couldn’t have been much paler, so losing colour would have been no indication, and his eyes were already watery enough to look like they were on the verge on tears. All he did was sit silent and still for about a minute, completely still, and so silent Banks wondered if he were even breathing. Banks tried to imagine Grey and Caroline Hartley as a couple, but he couldn’t.