Like a Virgin

An Inspector Banks Novella

Banks held the letter between his thumb and forefinger and tapped its edge against the palm of his hand. He knew who had sent it and what it was about, but not exactly what it would reveal, what it might change. A phone call would have been quicker and easier, perhaps, but there was something more solid and satisfying about the formal sheets of paper Banks knew were neatly folded inside the white envelope. And the post only took a day. After this long, there was no hurry, no hurry at all.

As he gazed out over Eastvale’s cobbled market square—the ancient cross, the squat church, the castle on its hill in the background, children dashing to school, socks around their ankles, delivery vans making their rounds, shops opening—he realized that he had been there for over twenty years and that when he had first arrived his life had been in every bit as much of a mess as it was now.

That was a sobering thought for a man in his midfifties. In those twenty plus years, he had lost his wife to another man, his children had grown up and moved away, lovers had come and gone, and he had lost much of his faith in his fellow man. He had suffered betrayal more than once, by those closest to him and by strangers in secret, shady offices in Westminster. He had failed many and perhaps given some slight solace to others. But all in all, he felt that the tally sheet was woefully weighted down on the side of his failures and shortcomings, and it was hard to believe in the job anymore.

Now here he stood contemplating a temporary flight, as if he might perhaps leave himself behind and start again. He knew that couldn’t happen. It hadn’t happened the last time he had tried it, but some things had changed after his move up north, and many of them for the better. It was years since he had thought about those final days in London, and when he did, they had the quality of a dream, or a nightmare. His conversation with an old colleague the previous week had brought it all back with a vengeance.

Banks leaned his forehead against the cool glass. His hair had been a bit longer then, touching his collar, without the streaks of gray, and he had believed he could make a difference. He had been full of romantic idealism and knightly vigor, ready to tilt at windmills and take on the world without even noticing at first that he was breaking apart under the weight of it. If he closed his eyes, he could see it all as it had been: Soho nights, the late summer of 1985…

 

In the soft light of the red-shaded bulb that hung over the center of the room, the girl’s body looked serene. She could easily have been sleeping, Banks thought, as he moved forward to get a better view of her. She lay on her back on the pink candlewick bedspread, covered from neck to toe by a white sheet, hands clasped together above the swell of her breasts in an attitude of prayer or supplication, her long dark hair spread out on the pillow. Her pale features were delicate and finely etched, and Banks imagined she had been quite a beauty in life. He wondered what she had looked like when she smiled or frowned. Her hazel eyes were devoid of life now, her face free of makeup, and at first glance there wasn’t a mark on her. But when Banks peered closer he could see the petechial hemorrhages, the tiny telltale dots of blood in her conjunctiva, a sign of death by asphyxia. There was no bruising on her neck, so he guessed suffocation rather than strangulation, but Dr. O’Grady, the Home Office pathologist who knelt beside her at his silent ministrations would be able to tell him more after his in situ examination.

The room was small and stuffy, but the Persian-style carpet and striped wallpaper gave it a homely touch. It seemed well maintained, despite its location on the fringes of Soho. No sleazy backstreet hovel for this girl. The window hadn’t been open when Banks arrived, and he knew better than to tamper with the scene in any way, so he left it closed. There wasn’t much space for furniture—a small dressing table with mirror, washstand in the corner, next to the cubicle WC, and a bedside table, on which stood a chipped enamel bowl where a facecloth floated in discolored water. In the drawer were condoms, tissues and an assortment of sex aids. Did she live here? Banks doubted it. There were no clothes and no cooking facilities.

The victim could have been anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five, Banks thought, and her youth certainly added to the aura of innocence that surrounded her in death. Whether she had appeared that way in life, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think so.

Someone had clearly gone to great pains to make her look innocent. Her legs were stretched out straight together, and even under the sheet she was fully dressed. Her clothes—a short skirt, patent-leather high heels, dark tights and a green scallop-neck top—were provocative, but not too tarty. Much more tasteful than that. So what was it all about?

Her handbag contained the usual: cigarettes, a yellow disposable lighter, keys on a fluffy rabbit’s foot ring, makeup, tampons, a cheap ballpoint pen and a purse with a few pounds and some loose change. There was no address book or diary and no credit cards or identification of any kind. The only item Banks found of any interest was a creased photograph of a proud, handsome young man in what looked like his best suit, bouncing a little girl on his knee. There was a resemblance, and Banks guessed it was the victim and her father. According to the girlfriend who had found her, Jackie Simmons, the victim’s name was Pamela Morrison.

Banks went back to stand in the doorway. He had soon learned that the fewer people who had entered the room before the SOCOs got to work, the better. He was on detachment from Soho Division to the West Central Murder Squad. Everything was squads and specialists these days, and if you didn’t find your niche somewhere pretty quickly, you soon became a general dogsbody. Nobody wanted that, especially Banks. He seemed to have a knack for ferreting out murderers, and luckily for him the powers that be in the Metropolitan Police Force agreed. So here he was. His immediate boss, Detective Superintendent Bernard Hatchard, was officially in charge of the investigation, of course, but he was so burdened by paperwork and public relations duties that he rarely left the station and was more than happy to leave the legwork to his DI and his oppo DS Ozzy Albright—as long as he got regular updates so he didn’t sound like a wanker in front of the media.

Banks liked the way things were, but lately he had started to feel the pressure. It wasn’t that there were more murders to deal with, simply that each one seemed to get to him more and take more out of him. But there was no going back. That way lay a desk piled with papers or, worse, traffic duty. He would just have to push on through whatever it was that was dragging him down, keeping him awake at nights, making him neglect his family, drink and smoke too much…the litany went on.

Harry Beckett, the police photographer, was next to arrive, and he went about his business with the usual professional detachment, as if he were photographing a wedding. Dr. O’Grady, who had been called from a formal dinner at the Soho Club, not far away, finally finished his examination, stood up and gave a weary sigh. His knees cracked as he moved.

“I’m getting too old for this, Banks,” he said. And he was looking old, Banks thought. Neat but thinning gray hair, the veins around his nose red and purple, perhaps due to his known fondness for fine claret.

“Any idea when she might have been killed?” Banks asked.

“Somehow, I knew you’d ask me that first,” the doctor said. “None of this is written in stone, mind you, especially given the temperature in the room, but judging by the rigor I’d say she’s been dead since last night, say between ten and one in the morning.”

“Know how she was killed?”

“I’ll have to get her on the table to make sure, of course,” said O’Grady, “but barring any hidden stab wounds or bullet holes, not to mention poison, it appears very much like suffocation. You can see that the pillow next to her had been scrunched up and creased, as if someone had been holding it, pressing it down. No doubt your SOCOs will be collecting the trace evidence, but there seems to me to be a drop of blood on it. There will certainly be saliva if it was used on her.”

“Her blood, or her killer’s?”

“There’s no way of knowing yet. Her nose might have bled, or she could have bitten her lip. Perhaps she scratched him as she struggled? I’ll know more later. You might also have noticed,” he went on, “that one side of the pillow was smeared with a number of colored substances.”

“I noticed,” said Banks. “Any theories?”

“Again, it’s impossible to say accurately at this point—you’ll have to carry out forensic tests—but at a guess I’d say it’s makeup. Mascara, red lipstick, blue eyeliner or eye shadow.”

“But she isn’t wearing any makeup,” Banks said.

“Ah, I know,” said O’Grady. “Interesting, isn’t it? I think I need a bit of fresh air. Seen enough?”

Banks nodded. He had seen enough; every inch of the scene was imprinted on his memory. It was like that with all of them, and they came back to haunt him every night, even the ones he had solved.

Before Banks and O’Grady could leave the room, DS Ozzy Albright appeared at the top of the stairs outside. “The SOCOs are here, sir.”

“OK, send them up,” said Banks. “Where’s the girl? I asked you to stay with her.”

“I left her with WPC Brown, sir. They’re in that Italian café just around the corner, on Old Compton Street. She’s in a bit of a state, sir. We thought she needed a cup of tea or something.”

“OK.”

“Er…there’s someone else.”

“Oh?”

A dark, bulky figure mounted the stairs slowly and appeared behind Albright, gasping and wheezing from the climb, a sheen of sweat on his brow. Detective Chief Inspector Roland Verity. With his round face and ruddy complexion, and the shock of ginger hair, he had always reminded Banks of a farmer, but there was a coldness and a calculating glint in his eyes that were bred of the back alley and the boardroom, not the meadows and pastures.

Verity patted his chest and grinned. “I’ll have to give up smoking,” he said. “Or climbing stairs.”

“Roly, what brings you here?” said Banks, as if he didn’t know. Though Verity technically outranked Banks, a DI didn’t have to call a DCI sir, and they knew each other well enough to be on first name terms.

“Word gets around,” said Verity. “Suspicious death in a knocking shop on my turf.”

To say this was his turf was no more true than to describe the building they were in as a knocking shop, but Banks knew there was no point challenging him. Roly Verity worked Vice, and they also had their headquarters at West End Central, in Savile Row. The proximity to Soho, for many years London’s red-light district, was certainly no coincidence, and it couldn’t be denied that Verity might have a legitimate interest in the investigation. Banks only hoped he wasn’t going to throw his considerable weight around too much and get in the way. From what Banks knew, though, Verity was more interested in power and politics than in the mechanics and techniques of a murder investigation. He also had a reputation as an honest copper, but Banks had never fully trusted him.

Verity stood in the doorway, practically filling it with his bulk, and took a cursory glance at the victim, then he gave a world-weary nod toward Dr. O’Grady and turned back to Banks. “On your way out, were you?” he asked.

“The doctor would like a little air,” said Banks.

“And I’d like a pint,” said Verity. “There’s a decent enough boozer just around the corner. It’s warm enough to stand outside, so we can all get what we want. What say?”

Banks and O’Grady followed Verity down the creaky stairs.

“Stay here and deal with the SOCOs,” Banks said to Albright. “I’ll be back.”

“Sir,” said Albright, managing to put as much disbelief into the simple word as he put disappointment at being denied a pint himself.

 

It was a relief to get outside. Even though the evening was warm and close, the air was fresh and not tainted with the smell of stale sex and death, only with cigarette smoke and the occasional whiff of cigar or marijuana. The building was on a side street, a little off the beaten track, but even so a small crowd had gathered, and the PCs on duty had their work cut out moving people on. It was just an ordinary black door with a brass knocker, stuck between a sex shop and a sixties-style boutique, that led up to a number of rooms on the first, second and third floors, but there was already so much police activity, cars parked at odd angles, or in no-parking areas, and uniformed officers milling around, that people couldn’t fail to know something was amiss.

Banks turned the corner and walked a few yards up Old Compton Street, one of the busiest streets in Soho, where he saw WPC Brown and Jackie Simmons sitting outside at the Italian coffee shop over the street. “I’ll catch up with you,” he said to Roly and O’Grady, then dashed over, dodging the traffic, to join the women.

“Sir,” said WPC Brown, standing up to leave when Banks sat at the table.

“No, it’s all right,” he said. “Sit down. Finish your coffee. I want you to stay.”

“All right, sir.” She sat down again and sipped from a cup of frothy liquid. It left a little white moustache on her upper lip, which she licked off and blushed when she saw that Banks was watching her. Banks just smiled.

Jackie Simmons wasn’t drinking anything, though a full cup of tea stood just beside her.

“I’d have some of that if I were you,” Banks said. “Hot sweet tea. Nothing like it when you’ve had a shock.”

She sniffed and shook her head, then wiped her eyes with a tissue. It was already damp and falling apart and Banks wished he had a fresh handkerchief to give her. He handed her a paper serviette instead. She took it and thanked him, then she blew her nose. “Sorry,” she said. “It just hit me, really. We were flatmates, Pam and me.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “I’m going to need to ask you a few questions, and then WPC Brown here will take you home. I’ll send DS Albright with her, and they’ll need to have a look at Pamela’s room, at her things, if that’s all right?”

“She doesn’t have much, but it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“It could be important, that’s all. Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Pamela?”

“No. No one.”

“Ex-boyfriend, prospective boyfriend, or someone like that?”

“She had a boyfriend back home in West Yorkshire. Castleford. But she hasn’t seen him since she came here.”

“Is that why she came? To get away from him?”

“I don’t think so. She just said he was a lazy sod and they were going nowhere fast.”

“How old are you, Jackie?”

“Me? Twenty-one.”

“And Pamela?”

“She was nineteen.”

“When did she come here?”

“Early in the new year. I can’t remember the exact date, but it was when it was really cold, like minus twenty or something. Poor thing didn’t even have a proper winter coat.”

“Where do you share a flat?”

“Shoreditch.”

“What did Pamela do for a living?”

Jackie seemed embarrassed. There was nobody sitting next to them and the people at the other tables were deep in their own conversations. “I think you probably know that already, if you saw her,” she said finally. “She did what she had to do to make a living.”

“I want you to tell me. Exotic dancing? Prostitution?”

“It sounds so ugly when you put it like that.”

“How else should I put it?”

Jackie looked down at her clasped hands. She was playing with a ring on her thumb. “No, I don’t mean it’s wrong to call it what it is.” She gave him a brief smile, and he saw in the split second it took what a sweet beauty she was, and what intelligence there was in her eyes. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, and her silky long hair had covered most of her features, her slightly upturned nose and almond-shaped eyes a little red from sniffling and crying, but she was certainly an attractive young woman. “It’s just that we none of us like to admit the truth if we don’t have to,” she said. “We talk about dancing and dates as if taking your clothes off and sleeping with strange men for money were a perfectly normal thing to do.”

“Well, it is the oldest profession,” said Banks, “so I imagine there must be something in it.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I suppose I do. But that doesn’t concern me right now. It’s Pamela and what happened to her that interests me.”

“God, I saw her,” said Jackie. “What could he…I mean, why…?” Her eyes filled with tears again.

“She was posed in an unusual way,” said Banks. “Any idea why?”

“No. How could I? It was like one of those carved figures you see on old stone coffins in churches. It was spooky.”

“We don’t know why she was posed that way, either, yet. And we don’t want anyone else to know that she was. This is very important, Jackie. These are the sort of details we like to keep out of the papers. I’m sure you wouldn’t want what you’ve just seen to be splashed all over the front pages in a lurid way.”

“God, no. I won’t say anything.”

“What can you tell me about Pamela?”

“She was a good person. I liked her. Not terribly bright, perhaps, but good-natured, good-hearted. She’d do anything for you.”

“Where did she dance?”

“Different places. Mostly Naughty Nites. Other places, too, but that was the main one.”

“And you?”

“I helped get her the dancing job.”

“And the other work?”

Jackie buried her face in her hands. “Yes,” she whispered. “God forgive me.”

Banks touched her lightly on the arm. “It wasn’t your fault, Jackie. There’s nothing to forgive. I need to know about the room, then you can go home. How did you know about it? How did you know where to find her? What happened there?”

“I think you can guess what happened there,” Jackie said. “It was a room she used for…for entertaining men friends.”

“How did she find these men friends?”

“Well, she didn’t walk the streets. Just people she met, I suppose, at the clubs…you know. She danced at some of them, and in others she…you know, she was a hostess. She chatted with the customers, drank with them, made them feel good.”

“She rented the room?”

Jackie shrugged.

“Who did she rent it from?”

“Dunno.”

“Who takes care of her, Jackie?”

“I don’t know. Really, I don’t.”

Banks could tell she was lying by her slight hesitation and the way she averted her eyes, but he decided to leave it for the moment. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out. “OK,” he said. “How did you know she would be in the room? Did she have a date?”

“Last night. Yes. She didn’t come home all night or all day, which wasn’t too unusual, but when she didn’t turn up at the club tonight, I got worried. You get fined by the owner for being late, you see, and Pam couldn’t afford that. The room was the only place I could think to look, really. The door wasn’t locked, nobody answered, so I went in and found her there.”

“Do you know who the date was with?”

“No. She didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t touch anything?”

“Nothing. I ran straight out and rang the police.”

“Thanks for doing that,” said Banks.

She glared at him. “I might be a whore, but I’m not a fool,” she said.

Banks stood up and glanced at WPC Brown. “I’ll send Ozzy round,” he said. “Can one of you also get in touch with the local police in West Yorkshire and have someone tell her parents? We’ll need them to identify the body as soon as possible.”

 

Whether the boozer was a decent one or not didn’t really matter as O’Grady and Verity were standing outside on the pavement when Banks joined them. O’Grady was sipping a double brandy instead of his customary glass of wine. He told Banks that he’d asked the barman about the wine selection and was told that he could have red or white, sweet or dry, so he’d chosen brandy instead. Verity had a pint of lager and Banks stuck with bitter.

“So who is she?” Verity asked.

“Her name’s Pamela Morrison,” Banks told him. “Ring any bells?”

“They come and go. How and when was she found?”

Banks told Verity what Jackie Simmons had just told him.

Verity grunted. “This girlfriend a tom, too?”

“So it seems.”

“Most of them are. Any particular club connection?”

“Naughty Nites Club, mostly.”

“I know it,” said Verity. “As such places go, it’s not bad.”

O’Grady put his empty glass down on the window ledge. “Unless there’s anything else,” he said, “I’m off. Busy day tomorrow. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to start. Oh, what about the parents?”

“They’ll be told tonight,” Banks said, “and we’ll get a driver to bring them down from Castleford first thing in the morning.”

“Right-ho.” O’Grady wandered off toward the Tottenham Court Road tube.

“He’s looking old,” said Verity, staring after the doctor. “Another pint?”

“Better not,” Banks said. “I should get back and see how the SOCOs are doing.”

“They won’t thank you for it.”

Banks laughed. “Don’t I know it? Maybe some other time.” He turned to leave. Before he had moved away he felt Verity’s hand tighten around his upper arm, almost circling it completely. “I might be able to help you on this,” Verity said. “The bloke you want to talk to is called Matthew Micallef. Maltese.”

“And he does what?”

“He’s a pimp.” Verity gestured toward the house. “If this Pamela Morrison was connected to Naughty Nites and she was on the game, it’s likely she was one of his. He does the rounds, takes the pick of the crop. Just trying to save you a bit of legwork.”

“Thanks, Roly,” said Banks. “I appreciate it.”

“And this Micallef…”

“Yes?”

“Tread carefully. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Keep me informed.”

 

The Naughty Nites Club was just getting into its swing when Banks arrived there close to midnight. A doorman built like a brick shithouse tried to block his way, but Banks flashed his warrant card and was reluctantly waved in. A well-endowed young black girl in white bra and panties was going through the motions onstage to an old Stones number while punters watched from tables or bar stools. Booths around the walls offered some privacy, and Banks noticed a couple of groups of businessmen—or gangsters, perhaps—involved in intense discussions. In most booths, though, a girl or two would be having drinks with customers and maybe negotiating terms for a little extra entertainment later. The lighting was such that everything white glowed like an advert for Daz. The black girl slipped out of her bra, and some audience members cheered. You wouldn’t get cheering like that in a real top-of-the-line club, Banks thought. Probably a bunch of northern oiks down for a football match.

After taking in the lie of the land, Banks ventured over to the bar. Mirrors reflected the rows of bottles, and the bar staff consisted entirely of attractive young women in low-cut tops, fishnet tights and skimpy red satin shorts. Banks caught the attention of the nearest girl and asked for the manager. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard over the music. Finally, she understood and pointed to a burly, bald man in a tight-fitting black suit near the door. Banks knew he wasn’t the manager; he was more of a bouncer or a minder, but he would do for a start. He went over, flashed his card and said, “Take me to your leader.”

The bouncer pulled a face, then gestured for Banks to follow him. They went through a door marked private and along a narrow corridor before arriving at another door at the end. It was unmarked. “This it?” Banks asked.

“This is it,” said the bouncer, and turned to leave. He seemed to be smiling to himself.

Banks tapped quickly on the door and opened it. The man he took to be the manager was slouching at his desk, chair pushed back a few feet, head tilted, breathing fast and muttering words of obscene encouragement to the woman on her knees before him. When he saw Banks, he sat up and the woman almost fell on her face. She pulled herself to her feet, fussed with the few clothes she was wearing and left the room with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Didn’t Jock tell you I wasn’t to be disturbed?” the man said.

“I’m afraid not,” said Banks.

“Bastard. Don’t think I don’t know he’s got his beady little eyes on Melissa. Well, he’ll get his bloody marching orders now.” He rubbed his crotch. “Bloody hell, that was close. Could do a man serious damage, that sort of thing. What if she’d snapped her jaw shut in panic?”

Banks smiled. “Then you’d be singing soprano, wouldn’t you, Mr….?”

“Police, I assume, by the looks of you. At least you’d better be after an entrance like that.”

Banks showed his warrant card.

“Cornell. Gerry Cornell.” The man stood up, slicked his greasy hair back and offered his hand.

“Better not,” said Banks. “I don’t know where it’s been. And maybe you should zip up your fly before anyone gets the wrong idea.”

“Oh, right,” said Cornell. “Put Percy away, eh?” He zipped up his fly, grinned and sat down again. “What can I do you for?”

“You new here? I don’t remember you.”

“Six months.”

It had been more than that long since Banks had last been called to the Naughty Nites, and then it had to do with fencing stolen jewelry, he remembered. “Just a friendly chat, for starters, Gerry. Pamela Morrison. Name ring a bell?”

“Pamela? Sure. She works here sometimes. Little bitch didn’t turn up tonight, mind you. Some of them seem to think I run a charity here. You’d be—”

“She’s dead, Mr. Cornell. Murdered. Anything you can tell me about her would be much appreciated.”

Cornell’s mouth flapped like a dying fish’s. “B-b-b-but…dead…?”

“Yes.”

“Pamela? How?”

“Maybe we could start with where you were last night?”

“Me? I was here.”

“All night?”

“Eight till three, same as always. You ask anyone. Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with it. Why would I want—”

“I don’t think anything yet,” said Banks. “It’s too early for that. I don’t have many facts, and I don’t like to speculate too much in advance of the facts.”

Cornell blinked twice and reached for a cigarette. “Right,” he said. “Drink?”

“No, thanks.” Banks wasn’t being particularly moral. He had no qualms against taking drinks from people like Cornell when they were offered. It was just that he thought he might have time to nip over to Linda’s for an hour or so to unwind before going home, and he didn’t want to spoil it by having too much to drink beforehand. He could have one there. Linda always kept a bottle of good Scotch handy. He sat down.

“Okay, Mr. Cornell,” said Banks, “even if you didn’t kill her, you might be able to tell us something about her.”

“Pamela? Not much to tell, really. She was usually reliable. Pretty. Good dancer. Not like some of them. Not a lot up there.” He paused and tapped his head. “But she really knew her stuff, like she’d had lessons, you know, ballet school or something.”

“Yeah,” said Banks. “I can imagine ballet lessons would come in really useful in a place like this.”

“No need to be insulting. You know what I mean. Not that she was cultured or anything. Had one of those northern accents you could scale a fish with.”

“When did you last see her?”

Cornell sucked on his cigarette and furrowed his brow. “Yesterday, I suppose,” he said. “She was working the lunch shift. She didn’t like it. None of them do. Lousy tips at lunchtime. But you’ve got to please the punters, and we get quite a lot of respectable businessmen in at that time of day. City gents and the like, relaxing after a tough morning wheeling and dealing. People who wouldn’t be caught dead here after dark.”

“I’ll bet you do,” said Banks. “So Pamela would have been free to pursue her other activities yesterday evening?”

“What other activities?”

“Don’t be coy with me, Mr. Cornell. We know that most of your dancers are on the game. Who runs them? You?”

“What they do in their own time is nothing to do with me. I run a respectable business here catering to—”

“Never mind the bollocks, Gerry. I know how it works. The girls make dates in the booths. They—”

Cornell stubbed out his cigarette and licked his lips. “All right,” he said. “I’m not saying it doesn’t go on. Of course it does. This is Soho. But what can you do? I turn a blind eye. Maybe some of them are on the game. But I mean it when I say that’s got nothing to do with me. I’m not a pimp. I’m a club manager. I have no desire to be a pimp. It’s an ugly business. I—”

“Matthew Micallef.”

Banks could swear that Cornell turned a shade paler. “Come again?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him,” Banks went on. “How does it work? Do you get a piece of the action? You let him use your club to prey on the dancers, see if they maybe want to supplement their measly incomes with a bit of freelance work, and in return he gives you—”

“Micallef gives nobody nothing,” said Cornell. “If you’re lucky he leaves you alone. And alive. If you’re lucky, he doesn’t slit your throat or torch your club.”

“Sounds like a nice bloke.”

“You think you’re funny He’s a big man around here, and he’s big because people are scared of him. And people are scared of him because he doesn’t make empty threats. He goes where he wants, he does what he wants and nobody—not even your lot—even thinks about trying to stop him. And you didn’t hear any of that from me.”

“Is he here tonight?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Was he here last night?”

“I didn’t see him. He doesn’t come in here, not often. He’s not interested in the clubs.”

“Only as a hunting ground?”

“Yeah, well…they’re hardly the only places these days, or even the best, especially after the cleanup campaign. But I’m telling you the truth. I haven’t seen him in…must be three or four weeks. And if I never see him again it’ll be fine with me.”

“Did you notice Pamela with anyone yesterday lunchtime while she was here?”

“No. I wasn’t really paying attention. I just had to drop by the office to pick something up, and she happened to be dancing at the time.”

“Who should I talk to?”

“Cathy Carson. Day manager.”

“A woman?”

Cornell shrugged. “It’s an equal opportunities business.”

Banks stood up. “OK, Gerry,” he said, “I’m going to rustle up a couple of DCs and they’ll have a chat with as many of your customers and dancers as they can get through tonight. Then they’ll come back and continue tomorrow.”

“Do you have any idea what that—”

“I don’t care what it will do to your business, Gerry. There’s been a murder here and somebody has to know something.”

“Fine, fine,” said Cornell, holding his palms up in mock surrender. “Do what you have to do. I’m just a poor bloke trying to make an honest living.”

“You wouldn’t know an honest living if one bit you on the arse,” said Banks.

“Can you do me a favor?” Cornell asked as Banks opened the door.

Banks turned. “What?”

Cornell scratched his ear. “Can you ask Melissa to come back in? We’ve got a bit of unfinished business.”

 

“Christ,” said Linda when Banks finally rolled off her. “You were a real animal tonight. Is that what hanging around the Soho clubs does to you?”

“Must be.” Banks reached for a cigarette, lit two and passed one to Linda. She pulled up the sheet around her throat. Why did women do that? Banks wondered. It wasn’t only in movies, but in real life, too. It wasn’t cold, and he’d seen it all before. Recently, in fact. He reached for his tumbler of Scotch on the bedside table and took a sip. The amber liquid burned his throat going down. Linda kissed him briefly, then jumped out of bed and wrapped her black and red kimono-style dressing gown around her, fastening the sash. She was a long-legged, willowy brunette in her midtwenties, and the kimono looked good on her. “I fancy a cup of chamomile tea,” she said. “Want some?”

“No, ta,” said Banks, waving the tumbler. “I’ll stick with this.”

Linda went into the kitchen and Banks sat up and worked on his whiskey. What the hell was he doing here, he asked himself, when he had a wife and two children at home? He liked Linda well enough, and the sex was good—terrific, in fact—but he had always thought of himself as the faithful, monogamous type, hardly a philanderer.

He had met her on a course at Hendon, and there had been something about her natural self-possession and air of solitariness that drew him to her. It had still taken him a long time to ring the phone number she had given him, and even longer to make the leap into her bed, but he had done it. There was no justification, no excuse; it was an unpleasant truth that he had to accept about himself. He was being unfaithful for the first time in his life. He felt guilty most of the time, but he had learned to live with it.

It had worked well enough so far. And because she was a copper, too, they understood each other. They could talk about things he would never even think of mentioning to Sandra. In fact, they could talk about anything with a level of understanding that amazed him. Sometimes they didn’t even need to talk. Each knew, or sensed, the mood of the other, the kind of day they’d had. Sometimes he even carried on conversations with her in his mind when they were apart.

But they weren’t in love. That wasn’t what it was about. If the arrangement ended tomorrow, Banks knew he would miss his stolen hours with Linda—the lovemaking, the talks, the smell of chamomile tea, the swishing sound her kimono made when she walked, the untidiness of her flat—but nothing more. And she gave no signs of feeling any differently.

Linda came back in with her tea and nestled beside him on the large bed. “You’ll be leaving here soon, won’t you?” she said.

“I’ll have to go home before long, yes.”

Linda blew on her tea and watched the steam rise. “No, I don’t mean that. Here. London. You are thinking of leaving, aren’t you?”

“How did you know that?” Banks was astonished. He hadn’t told anyone of his tentative forays into North Yorkshire—only by telephone and letter so far, but even so…

“Call it woman’s intuition,” she said. “On second thoughts, you’d better not, or I’ll bash you. I can say it but you can’t.”

“No, seriously.”

“I don’t know. Just something about you these past few weeks. Something’s changed. I can’t put my finger on it. I know it sounds weird, but I feel you sort of slipping away. Not from me, so much. I mean, this isn’t personal, I’m not coming on all possessive or anything, but it’s like you’re slowly withdrawing, fading away. Soon there’ll be nothing left but your smile, like the Cheshire cat.”

Banks supposed it was a fairly accurate summary of how he was feeling, though from his perspective, perhaps Alice falling down the rabbit hole was a better image. She was a smart one, that Linda, no doubt about it. “You should be a psychiatrist, or a psychic,” he said.

“So it’s true?”

“There’s an opening coming up in North Yorkshire later this year. Retirement. It’s a DCI position, but it’s not so much the promotion I’m after. I’ve made a few inquiries, and I’ve been invited up there for an informal chat with the super.”

“You’re serious about it?”

“Yes.” Banks turned to face her. “It’s not you, nothing like that. My life is…I don’t know. It feels like it’s sort of spiraling out of control. Things are getting too weird. Maybe you’re part of it, too, my being here. I don’t know.”

She rested her hand on his bare chest. “Alan, there never were any strings or expectations. Remember that. I’ll miss you if you go away, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. I’ll survive.”

“I know you will. I didn’t mean that. It’s just me. I don’t feel grounded at all. I’m all over the map.”

“And you think moving up north will help?”

“I don’t know. It’ll be different, that’s for sure. All I know is that I feel the need to get away. From London, not you. I can still come down and see—”

Linda laughed. “Let’s not fool ourselves,” she said. “It’s been fun. Will be for a bit longer, I hope. But when you’re gone, you’re gone. Let go with both hands.”

Banks looked at her, the dark eyes, smooth pale skin, the tiny rose-patterned teacup with its gold rim pressing against her lower lip. She was beguiling, and in another life…“Maybe nothing will come of it,” he said.

“And what will you do then?”

“I don’t know.”

Linda put her cup down, and as she leaned over to do so, the top of her kimono slid off her shoulder. “Look at me,” she said, blushing, moving to rearrange it.

But Banks grasped her hand and pulled her gently toward him. “Leave it,” he said.

They kissed, then she nestled her head against his chest. “Hold me, Alan,” she said. “Just hold me for a while.”

 

While Banks was waiting for Pamela’s parents to arrive and make the formal identification the following morning, he read over the statements taken at the Naughty Nites Club, and finding nothing of interest there, he decided to pay Jackie Simmons a visit in Shoreditch. She knew more than she had told him, and perhaps a night’s sleep had altered her perspective. Albright could go to the Naughty Nites and question Cathy Carson. Not that she was likely to know anything, either.

Things had been cool at home, perhaps because he hadn’t got in until past two. Of course, everyone was asleep by then. He had glanced in on the children first, and when he got into bed, Sandra had stirred and murmured something, but he hadn’t caught it. He had turned over, wrapped himself up in his mantle of guilt and drifted off into what passed for sleep these days. Sandra had caught him at the door the next morning trying to sneak out before anyone else woke up and asked him in a frosty tone when he thought they might be able to eat dinner again as a family. He had muttered something about a new murder investigation and left in a hurry.

Now it was close to lunchtime and, as he’d had no breakfast, he was starving. He thought he might take Jackie to the local pub for a drink and a bite to eat. She might relax a bit more in that sort of environment than in the flat she had shared with her murdered friend. He had had a word with Albright at the station and the search of Pamela’s room had turned up nothing of interest.

Jackie answered the door dressed in jeans and a Eurythmics T-shirt. Banks didn’t reckon much to the Eurythmics. In fact, he didn’t reckon much to any of the pop music he’d heard in the past ten years apart from some of the punk and new wave bands—The Clash, Talking Heads, Television. As far as he was concerned you could keep your Phil Collins, Tears for Fears and Fine Young Cannibals. Even his old sixties favorites, like Van Morrison, the Stones and Dylan, seemed to have fallen into a rut. Mostly, he’d been exploring jazz and had recently become interested in opera—a whole new world to explore. But he didn’t have the free time he needed to devote to long operatic works lately, and he certainly had neither the time nor the money to go to Covent Garden.

“It’s you again,” Jackie said when she opened the door.

“Did you manage to get any rest?”

“A bit. Your lot were here until the small hours, then I took a Valium. It’s all right. I’ve got a prescription.”

“I didn’t doubt it for a moment.”

“I suppose you want to come in? I was just vacuuming the living room. Takes my mind off things.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to put it back on them. What if we go out for a spot of lunch? I’m starving.”

“As long as you’re paying.”

“I’m paying.”

“Hang on a minute; I’ll get my jacket.”

She came back a moment later in a denim jacket with a suede bag hung over her shoulder. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and along with the freckles it made her appear even younger than she was. For the first time, Banks noticed her shapely figure. He wondered if she was a good dancer, as she had told him Pamela had been.

“This one’s not bad,” she said, leading him to Punch Bowl just a hundred yards or so down the street. “Quiet, at any rate.”

And on a weekday lunchtime, away from the office crowds, it really was quiet. Banks and Jackie attracted a few glances when they went in, some disapproving, others envious. They settled at a table by the window. Someone had scratched their initials inside a heart, Banks noticed: JK = AM. He wondered who JK and AM were and what had become of them, whether they still felt the same way about each other. “What do you recommend?” he asked.

“It’s all pretty much bog-standard pub grub,” she said. “Take your pick.”

Banks picked bangers and mash and Jackie went for the chicken and chips. He lit a cigarette to go with his pint while he waited for the food. Jackie drank lager from the bottle.

“Not worried about your figure?” Banks asked.

“Should I be?” She did a little model’s wiggle in her chair.

“No,” he said.

“I seem to be able to eat what I want without putting on weight, and it’s not as if I don’t get plenty of exercise dancing.”

“I suppose so,” said Banks. “But it must get to you.”

“What?”

“You know. Dancing like that. In front of all those blokes ogling you.”

“You get used to it.”

“I can’t imagine how.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you? You’re a bloke. Probably one of those blokes who goes to the clubs, for all I know. You’re all the same. All bloody hypocrites.”

“I’m not judging you,” said Banks.

“Of course you’re judging me. Everybody does. They can’t help it. All right, I’m a stripper and I turn the occasional trick. Does that make you happy?”

“I can’t say as it does, no.”

“There you are, then. Tough.”

Banks stared at her.

She shifted in the chair. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She blew out a lungful of smoke and took another swig of lager. “If you must know,” she said, “things were crap at home, then my dad got made redundant and…well, I was going to go to university, but that went down the tubes, didn’t it, so it was a part-time job at a funeral home, for fuck’s sake, and evenings working at the local boozer to help out Mum and Dad. There are five of us altogether, but my brothers are too young to go to work. I got groped often enough by the pub manager and the funeral director that I thought I might as well make a living at it. All right? I did a bit of exotic dancing locally, like, but my mum and dad got wind of it and threw me out. In the end, what with the strike and all, and everybody at each other’s throats, calling people scabs and blacklegs, I’d had about as much as I could take up there, so I came to London to make my fortune. The trains from the north are full of us, didn’t you know? ‘Thatcher’s Children,’ they call us.”

It was the first time Banks had heard the term, but it seemed apt. It struck him what a dubious legacy it would be for a politician.

“I’m saving up,” Jackie went on, “and when I’ve got enough I’m going to live in Canada, way out on the Pacific coast, and become a marine biologist. This country’s fucked.”

“Was your father a miner?”

“Fuck, no. You wouldn’t catch him down the pit. His father was, though. Died when he was fifty-five. Lungs. No, my dad was a steelworker. We lived near Sheffield.”

“Mine, too,” said Banks. “Well, a sheet-metal worker at any rate. In Peterborough. He also got made redundant not long ago.”

“He did? Really?”

“Yeah.”

She held him with her level gaze, then held her hand out. They shook. “Life’s a bummer, sometimes, isn’t it?” she said.

“It has its moments.”

“Tell me something. Why do you do what you do? What’s in it for you?”

“I don’t know. I suppose there’s some satisfaction in putting villains away, making the world—or a little part of it—a bit safer, a better place,” Banks said. “Then there’s finding out the truth about something, trying to get justice done.”

“So you’re a romantic, really?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are. You think you can save the world. The rest of us aren’t like that. We just want to take what we can from it. You’re out of step. A throwback.”

“And you’re far too sharp to be doing what you’re doing.”

“Don’t be patronizing. Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“Two. A boy and a girl.”

She fixed him with her disconcerting gaze. “I’ll bet you have a bit on the side, don’t you? And I’ll bet you feel guilty about it. You’re just that kind of bloke.”

Banks felt himself redden. “I really do need to ask you a few more questions,” he said.

She tapped out a cigarette. “Good deflection. Back to business. I know. I know. Go on. It’s all right. Oh, here it comes.” She set the unlit cigarette down on the table beside her.

Their food arrived. Banks went to the bar and got a couple more drinks, and when he returned, Jackie was well into the chicken and chips. He started on his sausage and gave up trying to find any traces of meat pretty quickly. At least it tasted all right. Someone put Madonna’s “Into the Groove” on the jukebox. Banks groaned.

“What’s wrong?” Jackie asked. “Don’t you like Madonna?”

“I could live without her.”

“I’ll bet you like Bob Dylan and the Beatles and all that crap, don’t you? You’re just an old fogey.”

“Less of the old. When were you born?”

“Nineteen sixty-four.”

“I’m not that much older than you, then. I just have better taste in music. But enough about me. What do you know about a man called Matthew Micallef?”

Jackie paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, “You don’t mess about when you get going, do you?”

“You didn’t tell me about him last night when I asked.”

“Someone else obviously did.”

“I’ve got my sources. I must say, he’s a bit of a mystery to us, though.” Banks had also spent part of the morning trying to find out what he could about Micallef, and it wasn’t much. “He doesn’t appear to have a criminal record, though one of my colleagues thinks he’s into all kinds of nasty business.”

“He’s clever, that’s all,” said Jackie. “That’s why you haven’t caught him for anything. Or maybe he’s paying you off?”

Banks ignored her comment. “So he’s a pimp?”

“Among other things.”

“He calls himself a property developer. It took us a while to work our way through the nominees, but we finally discovered that his company owns the building where we found Pamela’s body.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I suppose it explains why she was there. He must have set her up with the place to entertain clients.”

“I suppose.”

“You didn’t use it yourself?”

“Not that place, no. Somewhere else. I thought this was about Pamela, not me?”

Banks put his knife and fork down. “Come on, Jackie. I’m trying to find out who killed your friend and you’re not giving me much help. You could be in danger yourself, you know. Have you thought about that?”

Jackie looked at him with her serious eyes again and sighed. She pushed her plate away as if she had suddenly lost her appetite, took another swig of lager and lit a cigarette.

“Another drink?” Banks said.

“Might as well if you’re paying.”

Banks went to the bar and bought two more drinks. When he came back, Jackie was smoking, staring out of the window and playing with her ponytail with her free hand.

“Micallef,” said Banks. “What do you know?”

Jackie paused, then said, “I’m sorry if I don’t seem to be very cooperative, but he’s not the sort of person who likes people talking about him.”

“How would he find out?”

“He has his methods.”

“I’m not asking you to finger him for the murder or anything. I doubt that he did that. But he might know something. I’m going to be talking to him soon, anyway. I’d just like to be forearmed.”

She shot him a nervous glance. “You’re going to question him?”

“Of course.”

“You won’t mention me, will you?”

“Of course not. Why should I? All I want is a bit of background on him.”

“I don’t know much about him. Most of us…well, we stay as far away as we can. Sometimes he takes a shine to a girl and…well, he’s very possessive. You wouldn’t want him to fix his eye on you, that’s all. He’s the kind who never gives up until he’s got what he wants.”

“Has he bothered you?”

“Me? No, I’ve managed to stay below his radar.”

“Pamela?”

“Her, too. The way it works is that Matthew befriends young runaway girls. He usually has a kindred spirit hanging around King’s Cross station to offer a bed for the night to a pretty young girl just off the train. Someone nonthreatening. Another girl with a similar story. Then Matthew comes round in a day or two and introduces himself as a friend and ends up seducing the newcomer. He’s a very attractive bloke, really. And quite young. About thirty. I know he’s Maltese, but he doesn’t look it. I mean, he’s very fair-haired and all. His mother was English, apparently. He doesn’t even have an accent. Anyway, he’s authoritative and seems to be in control. The sort of person you want on your side, someone who’ll take care of you.

“He showers her with presents, sets her up in a nice flat, takes her to the best restaurants. But there’s a price, of course. There always is. When it comes to the nitty-gritty, he doesn’t lie. He plays straight. He tells the girls he’s got some work lined up for them if they want to continue their new lifestyle—and who wouldn’t if they come from Rother-ham or Cleckheaton?—and it involves exotic dancing, hostessing, escort services, massages, and maybe even photos and movies. That could lead to the big time, of course. They all want to be film stars.

“He plays down the sex angle. He says he’ll leave the choice up to the girls, however far they want to go, but by then they don’t have a lot of choice. If someone approaches him and wants one of them, he puts on the pressure. They don’t walk the streets, none of them. They work through the clubs, escort agencies and massage parlors. That’s where the johns come from. They’re usually businessmen in town for a few days. Some are regulars, live here. And the girls usually go along with what Matthew says once he’s got them started. If nothing else, he’s persuasive. Some of the girls even fall in love with him.”

“Not you, though?”

“I like to think I saw through him the first time we met.”

“But you still work for him. He’s still your pimp.”

“You’re a real bastard, you know,” Jackie said, reaching for another cigarette. “You know that? Besides, if it wasn’t him it’d be someone else. There’s worse. I had no illusions.”

“We all have illusions at some time or other.”

“Well, I lost mine a long time ago.”

Banks paused and took a sip of beer. “Have you ever seen him behave violently toward any of the girls?” he asked.

“Only once.”

“And?”

“It wasn’t pretty. One of his girlfriends two-timed him and he found out about it. He smashed a bottle in her face. Just like that.” Jackie swung the lager bottle with a speed that surprised Banks and stopped a couple of inches from his nose. “She needed fourteen stitches. Her nose was flat against her cheek. Ruined her looks. I never saw her again after that. And he said that was someone he loved.”

Banks sipped some beer and lit another cigarette while he digested what Jackie had just told him. “Why don’t you leave?” he asked.

“Because I’m almost there. It’s good money. And I manage to stay out of his way most of the time. He doesn’t like me. He knows I can see through him. But he tolerates me because I’m a good earner.”

“What about Pamela? What was his relationship with her?”

“Purely business. There was something about Pam—maybe a touch of innocence, that northern naïveté, the ingénue in her, whatever—but it drove some men crazy. She was good business for him. Better than me. And she was a terrific dancer, too. She did have classical training, though her parents couldn’t afford to keep it up to the point where she might have made something of it.” She gave a harsh laugh.

“What?”

“She was going to have her breasts enhanced. Pam. She thought her breasts were too small. That was the sort of thing she dreamed about.”

“Did she sleep with him?”

“Pam and Micallef?” Jackie thought for a moment and shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. She would have told me. She wasn’t his type.”

“What about Gerry Cornell?”

Jackie blew out some smoke and laughed. “Blow-job Gerry? Give me a break. He’s strictly lightweight.”

“So Pamela wasn’t involved with either Micallef or Cornell, and you don’t know of any boyfriends she had down here?”

“That’s right. Only the one she dumped back up in Yorkshire. Nick, or something like that. She said he was about as much use as a spare prick at a wedding.”

“Has he been around pestering her or anything?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen.”

“Do you know if Pamela had any regular clients?”

“I’m sure she did. We all do. After all, if you like something, you go back for more, don’t you?”

“But do you know any names?”

“No. It’s a very private thing. We don’t keep lists, you know.”

“Any clients she talked about as being troublesome, violent, weird in any way?”

“They’re all pretty weird,” Jackie said “But the most trouble any of them have is getting it up. Sometimes they needed a lot of coaxing, if you know what I mean. Pam never mentioned anyone in particular.”

“What about you? Anyone who stands out as being odd in any way. Maybe someone who wants to save you? Reform you?”

Jackie gave a harsh laugh. “Christ Almighty, there’s plenty want to save me. Even you want to save me. There’s nothing weird about that.”

“Think about it, will you? Try to remember. Anything, however insignificant.”

“I can’t think clearly right now, but I’ll try. There might be a couple of possibilities.”

Banks finished his pint, contemplated another, then decided against it. There was more to be done, including the postmortem and a little visit to Matthew Micallef. “What about drugs?” he asked.

“What about them?”

“Was Pamela a user?”

“No. But some of the girls are. And before you ask, I’m not one of them.” She held her bottle up. “I like a drink or two, and I drop a Valium from time to time for my nerves, but that’s as far as it goes. I smoked pot once and got so frightened I thought I’d never be right in the head again, so I’ve stayed away from that sort of thing. And needles scare me.”

“But some of the girls use, you say. Heroin? Coke?”

“Sure.”

“Who’s their supplier? Does Micallef get them the drugs, too?”

“I really don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, like I said, I stay away from him, but I’ve never heard anything about him dealing. I suppose he could do, but I think he’s got enough other stuff going on, stuff he can make seem legal. It’s probably not worth the risk to him. He’s got quite a thing going with the Chinese, so maybe he gets stuff from them. I just don’t know. Are you sure there’s no way any of this will get back to him?”

Banks glanced around the pub. “There’s only you and me talking here,” he said, “and I’m not telling.” He took out a card from his wallet and gave it to her. “If you see or hear anything,” he said, “give me a ring. And if you’re ever in the least bit worried about something happening to you, about your safety, no matter how wildly unbelievable you think it is, call me.”

“You’re asking me to spy for you?”

“No,” said Banks. “Quite the opposite. I’m asking you to be careful and lie low until we get this sorted out. If you want my advice, you’ll pack up and leave. Take what you’ve got, cut your losses and get out now.”

She clapped her hands together. “You see? You do want to save me.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I can’t do that. Not just yet.” She held her thumb and forefinger in a circle that wasn’t quite complete. “I’m that close.”

“Then stay as far away as you can from Micallef, and don’t take any dodgy clients. At the first hint of anything wrong, get out. Don’t stop to argue. Just go. You can keep your eyes and ears open, if you insist on staying around, but don’t take any risks. Don’t go asking questions, drawing attention to yourself. From what you’ve told me, this Micallef is dangerous.”

“Do I get paid if I find out anything? Like a real police informant?”

Banks laughed and stood up. “Sure,” he said. “Next time I see you, I’ll buy you another drink. Chicken and chips again, too, if you’re lucky.”

“The last of the big spenders,” she said. “Bye.” And she waved at him as he walked away, her other hand shaking a cigarette out of the packet.

 

It was after two o’clock by the time Pamela’s parents had made the official identification, and Dr. O’Grady hadn’t even begun the preliminary task of removing Pamela’s outer clothing before Banks arrived at the autopsy suite. Banks wanted to talk to the parents, too, but they could wait till later.

He stood by and watched as Dr. O’Grady began, reciting his findings into the microphone that hung over the table, occasionally asking his assistant for some instrument or other. Banks was glad he’d had a couple of drinks at lunchtime, as he always found postmortems disturbing.

The clothes were bagged and sealed for forensic examination as they were removed, along with the pillows, bedsheets, facecloth and water from the scene. There didn’t appear to be any blood apart from a tiny spot on the pillowcase, but if there was, it would show up in the lab.

Underneath, Pamela wore silky black underwear, which Dr. O’Grady also removed. Naked, she looked even younger, though both Jackie Simmons and Pamela’s parents swore blind that she was nineteen.

Dr. O’Grady began his external examination, noting the petechial hemorrhages, first, then removing the plastic bags from her hands and pointing out the traces of blood and skin under her fingernails, some of which were broken.

“She clearly struggled for her life,” O’Grady said as he took samples.

“Lucky for us,” said Banks. “If we can identify his blood group, it should help.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

He finished with the hands and moved on, using a large magnifier suspended beside the microphone to zoom in on the details of her skin.

But he didn’t need the magnifier when he got to her thighs.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stepping back, “will you come and have a look at this?”

Banks moved in close and leaned over the body. “She’s been shaved,” he said. “That’s not so unusual with exotic dancers. It doesn’t mean the killer did it. And I think I might be able to find out.”

“Not only that.” O’Grady pointed. “This, too.”

Banks could see a strip of transparent tape between her legs. “What is it? Surely it’s not…”

“If I’m not mistaken,” said O’Grady, removing the tape carefully with a pair of surgical tweezers, “it most certainly is.” He held up a broad strip of Sellotape in the tweezers and looked at Banks. “Would you believe it?” he said. “The bastard Sellotaped her labia together.”

“Are there any signs of sexual activity?”

O’Grady bent over the body again and Banks backed away. He had no desire to watch the doctor probing Pamela Morrison’s private parts. Sellotape. He’d never seen anything like that before. Mutilation, yes. But not this. Why?

“Possibly,” said O’Grady. “I think we have traces of semen here, if I’m not mistaken.”

“She’d had sex recently?”

“Seems that way. It doesn’t have to be the killer, of course. You don’t need me to tell you. A woman in her line of work…”

“I know,” said Banks. “But I don’t think she worked the streets. I mean, I don’t think she took punter after punter back to that room. It’s possible she had only the one date that night.”

“A bit exclusive?”

“The impression I got, yes. By arrangement.”

“Should make finding him a bit easier, then.”

“Except nobody’s talking,” said Banks.

O’Grady put the strip of Sellotape into a bag and sealed it.

“Better send that over to fingerprints right away,” said Banks. “According to the SOCOs, the bastard was clever enough to wipe down the surfaces in the room, but you never know.”

“Will do.” O’Grady turned back to the body. “So what do you make of it?”

“I really don’t know,” said Banks. “But the way I’m seeing things now, our killer comes up to the room with her, or she’s already waiting there for him. They undress and have sex, then he suffocates her with the pillow, either while they’re doing it or after. Then he shaves her, or she’s shaved already, places a strip of Sellotape over her vagina, dresses her, poses her under the sheet with her hands and legs together.”

“Washes all the makeup off her face.”

“That, too.”

“Pure. Like a virgin.”

“Like a virgin,” Banks agreed.

“But what kind of nutter does that?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “But I’d hazard a guess that it’s the kind of nutter who doesn’t stop at one.”

 

“He Sellotaped her cunt shut?” said DCI Roly Verity. “I don’t fucking believe it.”

Banks was no prude, but he found Verity’s language deeply offensive on this occasion. Verity hadn’t been there. He hadn’t watched Pamela Morrison’s postmortem, hadn’t seen her cut open, smelled her insides, like raw lamb.

A couple of fresh-faced DCs lounging with their feet on the table giggled at the comment. Detective Superintendent Hatchard, nominally in charge of the meeting, puffed on his pipe and muttered something about bad taste. Banks said nothing. He still felt sick.

They were in the incident room, about ten of them in all. A coffee urn stood on a table near the door, wadded paper towel under its spout to catch the drips, and a stack of Styrofoam cups leaning like the Tower of Pisa beside it. One wall was dotted with crime scene photos, maps, floor plans and scribbled time lines. The ashtrays were already overflowing.

“The way it seems,” Banks went on, ignoring Verity, who was only present at Hatchard’s invitation anyway, a public relations exercise in interdepartmental cooperation, “and Dr. O’Grady and the lab have verified all this now, is that Pamela took her killer to the room with her, or was already waiting for him there. It was a place she used frequently for such assignations.”

Verity laughed. “Assignations? That’s a good one, that is, for what she did.”

“DCI Verity,” said Hatchard. “If you wish to remain present at this meeting, please refrain from interrupting Detective Inspector Banks in his explanation.”

Verity feigned the look of a chastised schoolboy. “Sorry, sir,” he said, turning to share a smirk with one of the DCs.

Hatchard stuck his pipe back in his mouth.

The whole exchange reminded Banks of how all Hatchard’s meetings were like a class at school with a dull teacher whose grip on discipline was tenuous, to say the least. He went on, “According to my information, she wasn’t a common prostitute, more of a middle-class call girl,” he explained. “She didn’t walk the streets trolling for johns. They came to her. Or they were sent.”

“Did they have references and all?” said Verity, to much laughter from the DCs.

Hatchard tut-tutted.

“Something like that,” said Banks. “Anyway, on the surface of it, this occasion was no different. There were no traces of forced entry, and the door was unlocked when her flatmate Jackie Simmons went there to look for her. She found the body. It says a great deal for her that she called us. A lot of girls in her position wouldn’t, as I’m sure you all know.”

Even Verity nodded knowingly at this remark.

“So it might indicate that she has nothing to hide,” Banks added.

“Or it might mean she’s guilty, sir,” said Ozzy Albright.

Banks gave him an appreciative glance. “Yes,” he conceded. “It might, at that. Except we’re pretty sure the killer was a man. Reconstructing from the evidence and what I’ve got from the doc and the lab so far, they had sex—or she had sex with someone that night. It doesn’t appear as if they used any protection, because the doctor found traces of semen in the vagina.”

“The johns pay extra for bareback,” said Verity.

“Thanks for that little gem, Roly,” said Banks, flashing him a smile. “I’m sure we’re all that much the wiser for it. Anyway, whatever he paid her, if anything, he took it away with him, because all we found in her purse was a few measly quid and some loose change. At this point, we’re assuming she had her clothes off, or most of them, at any rate. We don’t know how or why it happened, what changed things, but then he suffocated her with the pillow. When she was dead, he applied the Sellotape, put her clothes back on and washed all the makeup off her face. The lab confirms traces of lipstick and mascara on the pillowcase, so she was wearing it when he suffocated her, and the bowl on the bedside table also contained traces of the same substances, as did the facecloth. After this, we assume he arranged the body in the way we found it, covering her with a sheet from the bed. We thought he might also have shaved her pubic hair, but I checked with her flatmate, Jackie Simmons, and it turns out she shaved it herself for the dancing job.”

“Those costumes they wear are a little skimpy,” said Verity. “I can see you wouldn’t want a couple of short and curlies peeking out the sides. Spoil the effect.”

Hatchard ignored him and scratched the side of his nose. “That’s very…er…interesting, Alan,” he said “but do we have any idea why he’d go to all this trouble?”

“I think you’d need a shrink to work that one out, sir,” said Banks.

“Hmm. Might be worthwhile getting in touch with one of those specialist psychologists we hear about from time to time.”

“It might be,” Banks agreed. Like most police, he didn’t really trust the psychologists they sometimes used to work on possible profiles of criminals. It was too much like hocus-pocus to him. They might as well use a psychic. But he was willing to keep an open mind.

“What about prints?” Hatchard asked.

“I was just getting to that. It looks very much as if our killer didn’t wear gloves, but he did wipe the place. From what the SOCOs can gather, the surfaces—door, table, drawers, what have you—have all been wiped clean. One of our techs found tiny linen fibers caught on a rough wooden surface, so he probably used a handkerchief. You’d expect prints in a room like…a room used for sexual encounters, but we found none, so he did a pretty good job of obliterating everything.”

“A linen handkerchief, too,” muttered Albright. “Posh.”

“But where he did slip up,” Banks went on, “was the Sellotape. We’ve got a partial from it, and it’s not hers.”

“So if we can find a match…” Hatchard said.

“Then we may have our killer. But it’s not on file, so we’ve still got a lot to do.”

“Even so,” said Hatchard. “I’d say our SOCOs and lab did an excellent job. A partial print and traces of semen. I trust he’s a secretor?”

“Yes,” said Banks, “so we’ll be able to identify his blood group.”

“Good, good.” Hatchard puffed on his pipe. It had gone out, so he lit it again. Clouds of blue smoke poured out of the bowl and he disappeared in the fog. “I’ve already got the press sniffing around,” he said. “What should I do about them?”

“I think we should keep the evidence of the print and semen, along with the unusual details, to ourselves, sir,” Banks said. “I mean the odd posing of the body and the Sellotape. That gives us something up our sleeves when the false confessions come in. And something we can use to nail the real killer when we find him.”

“I agree,” said Hatchard. “Let’s make sure there are no leaks, everyone.”

“Right now,” Banks went on, “all we can do is the usual. We’ve found nobody who admits to seeing Pamela and her killer enter the building, or her killer leave. Someone must have seen something, though. Even though it’s a fairly quiet side street, there are cafés, pubs and lots of street traffic around the corner. We can put an appeal out in the media. We can also follow up on any known perverts in the area, ask around the girls and the clubs and massage parlors about anyone who’s been behaving oddly.”

“But he wouldn’t necessarily have been behaving oddly, would he?” said Albright. “From what I’ve read, people like him often appear normal on the surface.”

Some of the others laughed, but Banks said, “That’s true enough, Ozzy, but he might have let something slip to someone. Maybe one of the girls will remember a bloke who worried her, someone who talked crazy or tried some weird stunt. And there are a couple of points to remember. First, he must have gone prepared. We found no Sellotape at the scene, so he must have brought it with him. Which probably means he knew what he was going to do with it.”

“Or he found some there and took it with him,” said Albright.

“Possibly,” Banks agreed.

“And the second point?” Hatchard asked.

“Well, if she didn’t just pick up a bloke from the street, then this meeting was probably arranged, and if that’s the case, there’s a damn good chance someone arranged it for her, or at least knew about it. Anyway, I’ve got actions for all of you, and enough interviews to keep you going for a while.”

The DCs groaned in chorus.

“And you, Alan?” said Hatchard.

“After we’ve had a quick word with the parents, I think Ozzy and I should pay a visit to Matthew Micallef,” said Banks. “He was Pamela’s pimp and he owns the building where she died. Maybe he knows who she was meeting there.”

 

Banks had discovered from Verity that Micallef liked to hold court most afternoons in a Chinese restaurant on Gerrard Street, so he and Albright headed over there after speaking briefly with Pamela’s parents. Banks learned little from them. Her mother sniffled the whole time, and her father maintained a monosyllabic stoicism. The only time he showed any emotion at all was when Banks handed him the photograph he had found in Pamela’s handbag, upon which Mr. Morrison uttered a gruff, hasty thank-you and made a quick exit.

Chinatown used to be in Limehouse, close to the docks, and to Banks it evoked images from his adolescent reading: pea-soup fogs, Sherlock Holmes, inscrutable orientals, and the ne’er-do-well sons of the gentry idling away their lives in opium dens. But the modern-day reality wasn’t like that at all, if it ever had been. Most of the Chinese immigrants had moved after the blitz destroyed much of the East End. They settled in Soho in the 1950s and spilled over into an area between Shaftesbury Avenue and Leicester Square in the 1970s. It wasn’t a very large Chinatown, but the streets were ornamented with pagodas and arches, and the place was full of Chinese restaurants, supermarkets and shops overflowing with exotic and often unfamiliar Asian produce, little white delivery vans all over the place.

Albright glanced around keenly at the activity and sniffed the exotic air. “I always liked this place,” he said to Banks. “Do you know where the biggest Chinatown in the world is? Outside China itself, that is, sir.”

“You’ve got me there, Ozzy.” Banks sidestepped a few leaves of decaying bok choy.

“San Francisco.”

“Is it, indeed?” said Banks. “Now, that’s a city I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“It’s not the one in the film. That was Los Angeles. Talking about films, sir, did you see A View to a Kill? I must say, I think Roger Moore is getting a bit long in the tooth to play James Bond. And that Grace Jones…I’m not sure I’d want her in my bed. Some very nasty habits she’s got, sir.”

“You should be so lucky,” said Banks. “Here we are, I think.”

The façade of the restaurant was painted black and red, and the signage was lettered in gold. The windows were smoked, the glass etched and covered with net curtains, so it was impossible to see inside.

Banks hadn’t really formed a plan, but he had told Albright just to play it by ear, see how Micallef reacted to the questions they asked him, note down any uncertainties and obvious lies to return to later, perhaps in the more formal surroundings of the station, if they felt he warranted bringing in.

Albright was a good head taller than Banks and had to stoop slightly as they went in. A doorbell pinged. When their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Banks noticed it was a relatively large room, and several tables were occupied. He scanned the diners, thinking Micallef would probably be sitting with a couple of bruisers. But there were no bruisers. Most of the clientele looked like businessmen. The maître d’ approached them, and Banks asked for Mr. Micallef. The maître d’ gave a slight bow and walked over to one of the tables. He spoke to a fair-haired man who glanced at Banks and Albright, still standing in the foyer. The maître d’ came back and led them over to the table. There were no plates of food, just an almost empty bottle of white burgundy.

Banks and Albright introduced themselves.

“Please, sit down,” said Micallef. “My meeting’s over, anyway.” He gave a signal to the two men and a woman who were sitting with him, and they left.

Banks could have sworn that Micallef had been expecting their visit, and perhaps he had. He would know about the murder and, whether he was guilty or not, he would also know that the police would quickly make the connection between him and the dead girl.

“Can I tempt either of you to a drink?” Micallef offered. “Or is it a duty call?”

“Duty,” said Banks as he and Albright sat down.

Micallef smiled in a slightly lopsided way, head tilted in amusement. “Pity.” He emptied the burgundy into his glass. “It’s a very fine vintage.”

“Then it would probably be wasted on a dull plod like me,” said Banks. He lit a cigarette.

“Oh, come, come. I’m sure you do yourself an injustice. What do you say, Sergeant?”

“It’s true that 1983 was a very good year for white burgundy, but I still think it could benefit from another couple of years in the cellar.”

Micallef laughed, then stopped as abruptly as he had started. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I happen to be a very impatient man. And busy.” He looked at his watch, a chunky Rolex. “Shall we get down to business, or do I need my solicitor present?”

“No need for that,” said Banks. “Just a friendly chat.” Since the Police and Criminal Evidence Act had been passed the previous year, criminals had more rights than ever before. The police, Banks included, hadn’t quite got used to the shift of power yet, so they were nervous and usually erred on the side of caution. Even so, unless Micallef was going to confess to murder, he hardly had need for a lawyer, and he was probably too shrewd to give anything away. What else would they charge him with? Living off immoral earnings?

Micallef spread his hands. “So what can I do for you?”

Banks had to admit that the man had taken him by surprise. Despite what he had already heard from Verity and from Jackie Simmons, he had still expected a swarthy, barrel-chested man surrounded by gorillas. But what he got could well have been, to all intents and purposes, an ex–public schoolboy, a lock of blond hair hanging over his left eye, fair complexion, an air of natural superiority, a haughty demeanor and easy exercise of power. His mother was English, Banks knew, so he had obviously inherited his looks from her, slightly effeminate, but of a kind that is attractive to women. His accent was pure Eton and Oxford. But Banks also knew that behind this veneer of civilized urbanity was a vicious streak and the morals of a common criminal, a pimp, no less, and that was the image he tried to keep in his mind as he spoke with Micallef.

“It’s about the murder of Pamela Morrison,” Banks began.

“Yes, I heard. Tragic business.”

“Word has it that you knew the girl.”

“I wouldn’t say I knew her. Certainly not in the carnal sense. I’ve seen her around the clubs, that’s all.”

“You frequent many clubs in Soho?”

“Many? There aren’t many left,” said Micallef. “Not since the City of Westminster started its clean up Soho campaign. But I think vice will always flourish in such an environment, don’t you, Inspector?” Micallef shrugged in a man-of-the-world sort of way. “Anyway, I frequent one or two of the handful that remain. I’m a red-blooded male. What can I say? You have some very beautiful women here in London.”

“Where are you from?”

“Valletta. Malta. Though I was educated here. My mother insisted. Harrow and King’s College, Cambridge. I read mathematics, if you’re interested.”

“I see you put your education to good use,” Banks said.

“I’m a property developer,” Micallef announced proudly, “and I like to play the stock market. I find a little background in arithmetic doesn’t go amiss.”

“What about your other business?” Banks asked.

“What would that be? I have a number of side interests.”

“The girls. Pimping.”

Micallef wagged his finger. “You should know better than that, Inspector. That’s illegal, and I don’t do anything illegal.”

“You own the building where Pamela Morrison’s body was found.”

Micallef swirled the wine in his glass. “My company owns it, as you are obviously aware. Are you saying that makes me responsible?”

“No. I’m saying she was found dead in a room you let her use—or rented for her use—to entertain men for money. Who had Pamela arranged to meet in that room, or take there, two nights ago?”

“How should I know? As I said, what she did in the room was her business. I have nothing to do with such things. Even if I did let this woman use the room, as you suggest, or rented it to her, I had no idea what she did in it. How could I? I don’t spy on my tenants, Inspector.”

“What about the other rooms in the building? What are they used for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps it could be called a brothel?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Don’t you think you should take a closer interest in your business affairs.”

“I employ others to do that for me. That’s why I have nominees.”

“Who are they? Will you give me some names?”

Micallef smiled. It was a reptile’s smile. “Help the police with their inquiries? Of course. No doubt you already have some, or you wouldn’t be here making these wild accusations. Talk to Benny on your way out.” Micallef gestured toward the entrance, and Banks noticed one of the men who had been sitting at the table earlier was now chatting and laughing with the maître d’ near the front desk. Perhaps he wasn’t a gorilla, but “Benny” certainly had the appearance of a minder—broad chest, arm muscles bulging none too discreetly under his tight-fitting Armani suit. Micallef glanced at his watch again. “I have to leave. Why don’t you stay here and enjoy Yuan’s excellent hospitality? I assume I’m free to terminate this interview at any time?”

“Of course,” said Banks.

“Then I’m sure you understand that I really have nothing more to say on the matter.”

Micallef stood up to move away, but Banks grabbed his wrist. He noticed Benny stiffen over by the door, and he also noticed the subtle shift in position and sudden alertness that meant Albright was ready for action. Nobody else moved as Banks slowly pulled Micallef toward him. Though the Maltese was tall, he was not especially strong. “Mr. Micallef,” said Banks. “Do you have any idea who Pamela Morrison met in that room two nights ago? Or do you know the name of anyone who might know?”

“No, I don’t,” said Micallef, gently freeing himself from Banks’s grip and dusting off his cuff with his hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run.”

And with that, he was gone.

“Well, that went well, sir, didn’t it?” said Albright.

“About as well as can be expected,” said Banks, smiling. “At least we’ve rattled his cage. Come on, let’s go. There should still be somewhere open around here where we can get a decent pint.”

 

It was shortly after closing time when Banks got back to the Kennington flat that evening, and Sandra was waiting up for him. He poured a large Scotch, then flopped next to her on the living room sofa and lit a cigarette.

“Do you really need that?” she said, meaning the whiskey.

“It’s been a rough day.”

“It’s always a rough day. But by the smell of you, you’ve been in the pub most of the evening already.”

“What if I have?”

“Oh, Alan, come on. You know what I’m saying. Stop acting like a spoiled child. You’re never home anymore. You never spend any time with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Us. When was the last time you saw Tracy or Brian? Remember them, your children? Our children. Us.”

“Last night. I looked in—”

“I mean really saw them. Talked to them. Found out what they’re doing at school, what they’re interested in, what’s happening in their lives. When’s the last time we ever did anything together as a family?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t bloody know. A day at the zoo or something. That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“That you just don’t seem like you want to be a member of this family anymore. You just don’t care. You’d rather hang out boozing with your cop cronies or visit the Soho clubs watching strippers and talking to pimps and prostitutes. What kind of life is that?”

“It’s my life, Sandra. It’s a copper’s life. It’s—”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap, Alan. I’ve heard it all before. You should know better than that. It’s worse now than when you worked undercover. At least then we never saw you at all. Now you just pop up whenever you feel like it, whenever you need a place to sleep or eat, like some eccentric down-and-out uncle. And sleep is the right word. I can’t remember the last time we made love. God knows where you’ve been till all hours. You could have another woman for all I know.”

“Oh, come on, Sandra—”

“No. I mean it. I don’t know what’s going on in your life—you don’t talk to me—and you don’t know what’s going on in ours. And what’s more, you don’t care.”

Banks sat up straight. “I do bloody care, if you’d just give me a chance!”

“How? Show me how you care. How much you care. What have you done lately to let us know you care? When did we last have sex?”

“I told you, things have been a bit tough, lately, I’m tired when I get home, or you’re out down at the arts center…. I—”

“Oh, bollocks, Alan. Bollocks. It’s just excuse after excuse with you.”

“I’m thinking of transferring up north,” Banks blurted out.

Sandra’s jaw dropped. “You’re what?”

Now he’d said it, there was no going back. “Well, all of us, of course. Not just me. But if I can get a transfer—”

Sandra put her palm to the side of her head and tapped gently. “Hang on a minute. Am I hearing you right? Am I missing something here? Did you ever hear me say I wanted to move up north?”

“Well, not in so many words, but you’ve complained often enough about the size of the flat here, and we’d be able to afford somewhere bigger up there. Maybe in the country. We—”

“I complain about the flat because it is too small for the four of us. Maybe it’s not a bad thing that you are out all the bloody time. Makes the place seem less crowded.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Anyway, since when have you been entertaining this idea?”

“I heard about a position coming up. DCI. It’d mean more money, too. Maybe fast track to superintendent. I’d be home more. Stands to reason. Smaller place, less crime.”

“Where is this Shangri-la?”

“Place called Eastvale.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s on the map. North Yorkshire. I’m going up there. Sort of informal interview with the super.”

“When is this? You never told me.”

“It’s all very recent. I just haven’t had time. This murder and all…. Couple of days, anyway. When I can get a break from the case. The weekend, maybe, if I can get away.”

“But, Alan, we’re supposed to be having Charlie and Rose over for dinner on Saturday. Don’t you remember?”

Banks didn’t. “Of course. I’ll go Sunday,” he said. “I can get there and back in a day if I leave really early. I don’t mind the driving. Maybe you can come? Maybe we can all go?” He stood up, excited by the idea. “I’ll drop you off in the town center while I go for my chat—he lives out of the town—then pick you up later on the way back. We’ll have a nice drive in the country, a pub lunch.”

“It’s not exactly my idea of a perfect Sunday out,” said Sandra. “That’s a lot of hours in the car, and you know Tracy gets carsick.”

“She can take a Kwell.”

“They just put her to sleep. But I’ll see. You must promise you’ll be here on Saturday evening for dinner, though. It’s Rose’s birthday.”

“I’ll be here.”

Sandra ran her hand through her hair. “Christ, your job is turning me into a bloody shrew,” she said. “I never used to be like this before. It’s just that I don’t know where we stand anymore. All we ever seem to do when we are together is argue. And I’m not sure moving is the answer. I don’t know about moving up north. I don’t know the north. You should have asked me first.”

“Nothing’s been decided yet. I might not get it even if I do apply. And, of course, if you don’t want to move…”

“I know. I know. It’s just so sudden. The way you sprung it on me. It’s just…well, I like London. I like the galleries, the parks, the pubs, the restaurants, the theaters. I just want to do it all with you, that’s all. Can’t you see that? You’re like a stranger to me these days. Is there someone else, Alan? Is that what it is?”

Banks put his arm around her. “Of course not,” he said. “Of course there’s no one else. It’s the job, love. It’s just the job.”

 

There were no developments over the next few days. One possible lead—a man Pamela had been seen talking to a couple of times in Naughty Nites—got everyone excited, then fizzled out when it turned out that he was in Barcelona on business at the time of the murder. The other girls Pamela worked with were interviewed, along with Micallef’s nominees and employees, then club owners, bouncers, johns, pub managers and local shopkeepers, all to no avail. Pamela Morrison had met her death in a cramped room in Soho and nobody seemed to know a thing about it. Except her killer.

The psychologist Banks and Albright spoke with didn’t have much to add at such an early stage, either, but he stressed the ritualistic element and that however odd the actions seemed, the killer would be able to justify them to himself. The killer was controlled, too, he said, and the way the body was posed not only accorded with his idea of innocence but hid the reality of what he had done from himself. In a way, he couldn’t face his acts. There was a strong chance, the psychologist said, that the killer could unravel before long, but there might be other victims first. The press was kept briefed and up to date, but Hatchard was as good as his word and careful not to let slip any of the unusual details: the posing of the body, the Sellotape, the makeup wiped off.

Saturday’s dinner was a success, and Banks was only three-quarters of an hour late. He had a nagging hangover early on Sunday morning when they set off through the deserted London streets toward the M1. Brian was quiet, gazing out of the window, and Tracy was sleepy after taking her Kwell. The old Cortina moved along smoothly and Banks slipped in a cassette of Bags Groove. Miles Davis, Monk and Milt Jackson. Nice music for a peaceful, sunny morning in London. It could have been a sound track for the opening of a movie. Tracy didn’t stir and nobody else complained, so Banks left it on. Soon, he felt worlds away from Soho, Pamela Morrison, Jackie Simmons and Matthew Micallef.

The journey up the M1 was easy enough, not so many lorries, but a few Sunday drivers slowing down the lanes, crawling a mile or two from one junction to the next to visit their children or grandchildren. Banks had a bit of trouble negotiating the stretch between the M1 and the A1—he left the motorway too soon—and he found himself passing road signs to Normanton, Featherstone, Pontefract, Castleford and Knottingley. He passed through some small mining communities and realized he was in Pamela Morrison’s part of the world. None of them had ever been farther north than Peterborough before, so everyone was very excited, the kids with their noses pressed against the car windows.

But soon everyone became quiet.

Banks hadn’t really known what to expect; he had only seen images on the news, usually of miners fighting pitched battles with the riot police. The reality was grim, even in the sunshine of a beautiful summer’s day, from the rows of grimy back-to-back terrace houses to the newer redbrick council estates put up in the sixties and already shabby, and the weed-covered patches of waste ground where groups of children organized makeshift games of football, using their jackets to mark the goalposts. He drove past rows of shops, most of them boarded up or advertising closing-down sales, the rest selling secondhand clothing or market-stall-priced household cleaners and utensils.

There was an aura of gloom about the place, but it was the gloom of poverty and despair, not lack of sunlight. The same bright sun shone on the soot-blackened civic buildings up here as it did on the majestic architecture of Westminster or the dome of St. Paul’s. The few people Banks noticed on the streets seemed to shuffle along, hands in their pockets, heads hung low, avoiding eye contact with anyone else. Across a field, Banks saw a still pit-wheel silhouetted against the blue sky and a slag heap covered in weeds. In the distance, smoke poured from the huge cooling towers of Ferrybridge power station.

Banks couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be a miner. Certainly the long hours, claustrophobic conditions, the danger and filth of it put him off. But people did it. Generation after generation. And they fought long and hard for such basic rights as showers at the pit-head and permission to use them after their shifts. Now it was gone, wiped out. You could argue all you wanted about the economic necessity of closing the pits, he thought, but none of that took into account the level of human misery it caused in some of these communities. It was more than just the loss of jobs, of income, as if that weren’t bad enough. It was the loss of a community’s identity, its way of life, traditions, history and culture. He felt as if he were driving through a vanishing world.

Banks found the A1 just beyond Fryston and Fairburn and carried on north past Wetherby, turning off just north of Ripon. Nobody had spoken much since the detour through industrial West Yorkshire, but the general consensus was that lunch was in order. Banks stopped at the first village they came to on the Eastvale road. He had arranged to go and see Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe at his home in a village called Lyndgarth at two thirty, which gave them plenty of time to enjoy a pub lunch in the country.

They sat at a wooden bench outside a seventeenth-century limestone pub, looking out over the village green and enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. Beyond the green and the houses on the other side, Banks could see the beginnings of the Dales, humpbacked hills that rolled into the hazy distance like giant frozen waves.

Because he was driving and attending an interview, however informal, Banks was off the booze for the day, and he drank warm fizzy lemonade instead. The kids had the same, while Sandra asked for a half pint of cold lager. It was good to see her relaxing and unwinding for a change, Banks thought. Years of care seemed to slip off her shoulders as she smoked a rare cigarette and smiled mischievously at him, sipping her lager and gazing at the view. She even got out her camera and took a few photos.

When they had finished their roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, they set off for Eastvale. It seemed like a pleasant market town, with a cobbled square, church and ancient market cross, a ruined castle looming over it all, a sign pointing down a hill to the river. It was worlds away from what they had seen in West Yorkshire. None of the shops were boarded up, and those that weren’t open were closed only because it was Sunday. The darkness that had swallowed up much of the rest of the country beyond the Home Counties didn’t seem to have cast much of a pall up here.

There were quite a few tourists about, many kitted out for walking. The outside tables at the pubs were busy, and it was impossible to find a parking spot in the square. Banks just dropped Sandra, Brian and Tracy off outside a Tudor-fronted building that appeared to be the police station, and said he’d pick them up at the same spot in a couple of hours. They waved good-bye as he drove away. Just like a real family.

 

Banks pulled up outside the isolated farmhouse at the end of the rutted drive and turned off his engine. He got out of the car and stood for a moment and just took in the countryside, silent but for the sounds of the birds and someone hammering in the distance. The farm stood outside the village of Lyndgarth, about halfway up the northern dale-side, and it commanded a magnificent view down the slope toward the winding, wooded river, then across and all the way up the other side, green fields marked out into odd shapes by drystone walls—a teacup, a milk churn, a teardrop. Sheep grazed on the lower pastures, and higher up the green paled to a dry brown, and outcrops of limestone broke through the rough grass. At the very top was a long limestone scar, which gleamed like a row of giant teeth in the sunlight. Banks thought he could see a line of walkers moving along the top, tiny dots in the distance.

Banks next took in the façade of the house. Built of limestone, with cornerstones and lintels of gritstone, and a flagstone roof, it was a bit austere for his taste, perfectly symmetrical, with two downstairs and two upstairs windows on each side of the red door. Over the doorhead a date and some initials had been chiseled into the stone: ADH 1779. Banks could imagine a farmhouse in such a wild and isolated place needed to built like a fortress. It was probably windswept and lashed by rain for much of the year.

“Three foot,” said a deep voice beside him.

Banks turned, startled. He hadn’t heard anyone approach him, had been so lost in his contemplation of the view and the house that he hadn’t noticed the man come around the side and stand by the corner.

“I mean, if you were wondering how thick the walls are,” the man said. “And the initials are the original owner’s, the date probably when the house was built, or the commemoration of an important family marriage. It’s also the year that state prisons were first authorized, but I don’t really think that has a lot to do with the owner’s reason for carving it there, do you?” He walked over to Banks and rubbed his hands on the sides of his jeans. “I’m Gristhorpe, by the way.”

They shook. His hand was dry and calloused. “Alan Banks.”

“Good journey?”

“Excellent.” Banks gestured around him. “I’ve never been…I mean, I hadn’t realized how beautiful it is up here.”

Gristhorpe laughed. “You should pay us a visit in December before you make your mind up about that. Or talk to one of the local farmers.”

“I suppose so.”

“Come round the back. You’ll probably be wanting a drink?”

“No thank you,” said Banks. “I’m driving.”

“Most admirable, but I was thinking of tea. You wouldn’t believe how refreshing it is on a hot day.”

“Tea would be fine,” said Banks, following him around the side of the house to the back.

Two fold-out chairs awaited on a stone patio beside the back door. Beyond stretched Gristhorpe’s garden, or “acreage” as they would probably call it up here. It was certainly too big to be a garden, though there was a vegetable patch next to one of those drystone walls that seemed so common in the area. This one seemed to have collapsed in a couple of places.

“I’ll ask Mrs. Hawkins to rustle up some tea for us. She won’t mind.”

Gristhorpe disappeared for a moment, then came back and sat opposite Banks. He was a tall and solidly built man of about fifty, well padded some might say, with a shock of unruly silver hair, a ruddy pock-marked complexion and a bristly gray moustache. The most disconcerting thing about him, Banks thought, was not so much the dungarees and collarless striped shirt he was wearing, but his eyes. Set under bushy eyebrows, they were wide, deep blue and guileless, like a child’s. It would be hard lying to this man, Banks sensed immediately, or at least it would be hard to believe that he would believe your lies.

Even though they were outside, Banks asked for permission to smoke and Gristhorpe granted it. “I see you’ve had an accident,” Banks said, gesturing to the wall. “Storm?”

Gristhorpe followed Banks’s gaze and frowned. “No,” he said. “Practice. It’s a hobby of mine. I build a wall, then I take it down again and build it differently.”

“So it’s not a wall around anything, really?”

“That’s right.”

“Or to keep anything out?”

“No.”

“And it’s not really going anywhere in particular?”

Gristhorpe beamed at him. “You’ve got it.”

Banks was beginning to wonder what sort of weird yokel he’d got here. A man with baby blue eyes who builds walls that don’t go anywhere and don’t wall anything in. Were they all like that north of the Trent? Or the Wharfe? Maybe it was something in the water.

Mrs. Hawkins came out with the tea on a tray, along with a plate of scones. Banks was still full from lunch, but he had learned to eat when it’s offered, so he took one. It was still warm. He made appreciative noises as Gristhorpe poured the tea. That done, the superintendent said, “So what is it that makes you want to come and work up here?”

“Well,” said Banks, searching for the answer he had prepared in his mind. “It seems to me that in today’s force, if a man is at all ambitious, he has to move around. You know that promotion within the same station, even region, is discouraged. This is a great opportunity for me. A step up.”

Gristhorpe hadn’t been looking at Banks while he was talking. Banks fancied he’d been staring at his drystone wall and wondering where to put the next stone. The silence stretched, then Gristhorpe said, “So you’d say you’re an ambitious man, would you? I must admit, you do have that lean and hungry look, but I put it down to deprivation rather than overweening ambition. Missing too many meals, I’d say. Eating on the run.”

Banks wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but he realized the interview, or conversation, was taking off in a direction he hadn’t reckoned on. “Well, you know what it’s like,” he said “The job. Sometimes you just forget to eat.”

“So it is hunger, rather than ambition? Have another scone.”

“Sorry, sir? No, thanks, I’m full.”

“Hmm,” said Gristhorpe. “I don’t see advancement within the Met as a problem. It’s big enough, surely, to offer all the variety and specialization you need on the job these days?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so, it’s just…”

“Yes?” Gristhorpe stared at him with those guileless blue eyes.

Banks felt himself wading deeper into the quicksand. “I fancy a change, that’s all, sir. I heard about DCI Varley retiring and…well…I thought I’d give it a go. A change is as good as a rest.”

“So you need a rest? A holiday?”

“No, sir. I was speaking metaphorically.”

“Ah, I see. That’s admirable,” said Gristhorpe. “Of course, you know it’s not up to me, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, sir, but I rather thought…”

“Yes?”

“Well, as it’d be you I’d be working for directly…”

“That with us being such a small and insignificant outpost, I could put a word in, and the chief constable would just rubber-stamp it?”

“No. No, sir, I didn’t mean that at all.”

“Then what did you mean? Why are you here?”

Banks put his cup and saucer down. “I told you, sir. I fancy a move and a promotion. I thought I was here for an informal job interview,” he said, starting to stand up, “but I—”

“Oh, do sit down,” said Gristhorpe, waving his hand impatiently.

Banks saw the ghost of a smile on his face and sat down. “Sir.”

Gristhorpe leaned back in his chair, which seemed dangerously close to falling over, linked his hands behind his head and contemplated Banks, brows furrowed. “Let me tell you what I think, Alan, if I may call you that?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t get the impression, either from reading your personnel files or from meeting you in person, that you are an especially ambitious person. You’re an old-style copper, and you probably always will be. That’s why a move to a rural backwater like this for the sake of moving up one grade, from DI to DCI, doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I think what we’ve really got here is a case of burnout. Or near burnout. Look at yourself, man. You’re chain-smoking, your fingernails are bitten to the quicks, you’ve got bags under your eyes big enough to pack for a six-week holiday, and I’d bet a pound to a penny you’ve got a drink problem, too. I think you’re after a spot of gardening leave, but you don’t want it to read that way on your service record. Am I close?”

“Not at…” Banks started to answer but tailed off, noticing Gristhorpe’s expression. There was no point trying to bullshit this man, he realized. He might as well leave right now. But something about the place, the view, the birdsong, the useless drystone wall, and about Gristhorpe himself, kept him sitting where he was. There were other reasons he wanted this change. Yes, a lot of what Gristhorpe had said was true, but he hadn’t known until he had driven up north just how much he wanted to get away from what his life had become in London.

“Well? Cat got your tongue?”

Banks lit another cigarette, self-conscious that he was doing so. “You’re right in a way. It would be hard to deny that I’ve come to a sort of turning point and I need to make some serious choices. But this is one of them. I can do the job down there. I could stay and carry on just as I am now. Maybe in six months or a year I’d crack up, run off and join a private security firm, whatever, or maybe not, maybe it would just pass. But I don’t think I’d realized until a few days ago, and especially not until today, just how much I want the change.”

“Why? We must lead pretty boring lives up here compared to those action-packed days you blokes have in London.”

“I don’t know about that, sir,” said Banks.

“And if it’s gardening leave you want, or a desk job—”

“No,” Banks protested. “I want to do my job. I’m a detective. A good detective. That’s what I want to do. I want to work cases. I don’t want to just sit behind a desk.”

“You can do that down in London, just as you are doing now.”

“I know. But it…”

“We don’t get a lot of murders up here, but we do get the occasional missing sheep or post office robbery. A lot of your work would probably be routine.”

“It already is,” said Banks. “But as long as I can get out on the streets…”

“Country lanes. No mean streets here.” Gristhorpe smiled. “Well, maybe one or two in Eastvale.”

“Right. As long as I could get out, get among people, try to sort out the villains from the rest, follow leads…”

“You’d be at a bit of a disadvantage, being a Londoner.”

“I’m from Peterborough.”

“Same difference up here.”

“People are people everywhere.”

“Aye, they are that, all right. But they’re a rum lot around these parts.”

“I can do the job. I want to do the job.”

Gristhorpe held his gaze and Banks sensed his own resolve strengthening for the first time since he had considered moving, becoming real, solidifying into a need to come here, to prove himself to this insufferable, all-seeing, inscrutable detective superintendent sitting placidly in the chair opposite him as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “Mebbe you do. Got time for a walk?”

 

“Sir, you’d better come quick. There’s been another one. There’s a car waiting outside.”

Banks had only been back from Yorkshire for three days when Albright came over to his hutch at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. It had just stopped raining and the traffic was still a nightmare. Banks sweated even with the window open as he sat in the back and smoked, getting the scant details from Albright as the car crawled up Regent Street: a woman’s body found in a flat off Charlotte Street by a cleaner. Scene secured.

At least his hangover wasn’t too bad, he thought, as they went outside and got into the waiting car. After another evening in the clubs following leads in the Pamela Morrison case that twisted into thin air and disappeared like smoke, he had rung Linda and, getting no reply, had gone to Ronnie Scott’s alone, sat at the bar and sipped a double Scotch while he listened to the last set by an up-and-coming American jazz singer he’d never heard of. He liked the intimacy and warmth of Ronnie Scott’s, the small stage surrounded on three sides by tables, the soft lighting, plumes of smoke, a long bar stretching across the back. The singer was good, a slightly husky voice, expressive phrasing and a good range. She also sang some of his favorites: “Fine and Mellow,” “Summertime,” “I’ll Look Around,” and a version of “The Other Woman” that sent shivers up his spine.

At Oxford Circus, the driver went straight on, toward Broadcasting House, but turned right on Mortimer Street. They finally arrived at the flat, one of six in a narrow three-story building, signed in with the officer guarding the door and went inside, careful to follow the route mapped out by the SOCOs, who had got there just before them, along with DCI Roland Verity.

The actual crime scene was in the bedroom, but police tape had also been fixed across the door to the flat and across the front and back doors of the building itself, sealing off the whole place. For the moment, nobody but the SOCOs and the photographer, Harry Beckett, were allowed in the bedroom. A young police surgeon also stood in the living room looking pale, as if this were his first dead body. He told them that he had certified death, most likely caused by asphyxiation, and taken the body temperature, which indicated that she had died between midnight and three in the morning. The rest would be up to Dr. O’Grady, who was otherwise occupied in performing a postmortem, but would take over when the body reached the mortuary. It was the property of the coroner now, and when the various experts had finished, he would give the order to take it away.

Banks sent Albright to talk to the other tenants in the building, if any of them were home, and find out what he could about the victim’s comings and goings, and especially if anyone had noticed anything between midnight and three in the morning. Then he turned to Verity.

“Roly,” he said. “What brings you out here?”

“I was on a call across the street,” Verity said, “and I saw all the activity. Copper’s curiosity.”

The SOCOs were as territorial as usual about the crime scene and all Banks and Verity were allowed to do was stand at the bedroom door behind the tape and watch them at work. Banks cursed under his breath. Though he wasn’t supposed to do it, he always enjoyed a quick look at the scene, alone if possible, or at least without the officious presence of the technical support experts. Still, you couldn’t fault them on their work. There wasn’t much they missed.

The flat itself was certainly bigger and better appointed than the one where Pamela Morrison had been found, and Banks guessed that the victim probably lived here. It was nicely furnished with a leather-upholstered three-piece suite, drinks cabinet, glass-topped coffee table and sheepskin rug in front of the fake fireplace. She had an expensive TV and stereo system, a collection of pop LPs—Culture Club, Style Council, Duran Duran and Depeche Mode, among others—alongside some late-night romantic jazz—Sarah Vaughan, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett. A call girl, perhaps? Certainly a step up from Pamela Morrison and her tiny room off Old Compton Street.

Whatever the case, she lay there very much as Pamela had, and just as young, covered by a white sheet up to her neck, hands together in an attitude of prayer over her chest, pale face and dark hair, no makeup, her eyes staring up sightlessly at the ceiling. Beside her was a crumpled pillow smeared with black and red marks. Banks was also willing to bet that under her clothes they would find her pubic hair shaved and a strip of Sellotape between her legs. But that was for Dr. O’Grady to discover later.

Banks wandered around the living room and opened the door to the bathroom. It was spacious, sparkling clean, with gold-plated taps and pink porcelain. The bath was big enough for two and was surrounded by colored candles in heavy cut-glass holders. Banks sniffed at one of them. Musk.

In the washstand lay a damp facecloth. Banks didn’t touch it, but he could see that it was smeared with mascara and lipstick. A woman’s disposable razor sat beside the tap, hairs curling from under its blade. He went back out and mentioned it to one of the SOCOs, who responded immediately by taping the bathroom out of bounds, too.

“It’d probably be pretty quiet around here between midnight and three on a Wednesday, wouldn’t it?” Banks asked Verity. “With all the pubs and restaurants closed.”

“There’s a few clubs,” said Verity. “And University College isn’t far away. Students seem to be up at all hours.”

“We’ll canvass the area, as usual. It’s amazing how nobody sees anything.”

“They don’t want to get involved,” Verity said. “Happens all the time in Vice. People don’t even want to be remotely connected with anything that smells of Soho gangsters and kinky sex, let alone a loony bloody murderer on the loose. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Doesn’t help us much, though, does it?” said Banks. He nodded toward the bed. “Know her?”

Verity bristled. “What do you think I am, a fucking john?”

“No, Roly, you’re a Vice Squad cop. It’s your job to know what’s going on, put names to faces.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Do we know her name?” Banks asked the room at large.

One of the SOCOs heard him and came over with an envelope in a plastic bag. “Maureen Heseltine, according to this,” he said, then produced another bag. It held a book of matches from the Bunch of Grapes Club, showing a large-breasted woman holding a bunch of plump, ripe purple grapes, her tongue out, as if to lick them suggestively. Banks hadn’t heard of the place. “There was also a drawer full of condoms, all shapes, flavors and sizes. Ribbed and plain. Lager and lime and curry seemed to be her favorite flavors. French ticklers, too. And sex aids. Butt plugs, cock rings, dildos, handcuffs, vibrators. And you should see some of the outfits in her wardrobe. Leather, studs, satin, silk.”

“You know your sex aids,” Banks said.

“Comes with the territory.” The SOCO grinned and walked back to join the others.

“Bunch of Grapes,” said Banks to Verity. “Know it?”

“I know it. It’s pretty new. We’re still keeping an eye on it. Could go either way.”

“Looks like it’s already gone one way to me.”

“That book of matches might have nothing to do with what happened here. It could have been lying around for weeks.”

“It was beside the ashtray,” the SOCO said over his shoulder from the bedroom. “And there are fresh tab ends.”

“Even so,” said Verity.

“Any connection with Micallef?” Banks asked him. “The Bunch of Grapes?”

“He’s been known to drop in on occasion. But he drops in at lots of places. How do we know for sure she’s a working girl?”

“We don’t,” said Banks. “And maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s just not fussy about where she picks up her men, or her matches. Or maybe the bloke she brought back here gave her them. But I’d say there’s a good chance she is. Either way, there’s a connection. Dead girl made up to look like a virgin. Bunch of Grapes Club. Matthew Micallef. It merits another chat, at any rate.”

“Christ,” said Verity. “Surely you can’t think Micallef’s behind this?”

“I don’t think anything yet, but he is connected. And I’m damn sure he knows a lot more than he’s saying.”

“We’re done here, lads,” said the head SOCO. “You can go in now.”

 

“Maureen Lillian Heseltine from Oldham, Lancashire,” said Banks to Jackie Simmons in the back room of the Dog and Duck, a small, narrow, Victorian-style pub at the corner of Frith and Bateman streets. “Do you know her?”

It was six o’clock, and Jackie had said on the telephone that she had to head into the West End to work, so they had picked somewhere on her way. The usual crowd milled around the bar, or outside, drinking, smoking and sharing jokes about their day at the office. The sky was still overcast and the humidity lingered. Banks’s shirt clung to his skin.

“What? Just because we’re all whores from up north you think we know one another?” said Jackie.

“I’m trying to find connections,” Banks said, sipping his Timothy Taylor’s Landlord. The pub was all dark panels and smoked glass, most of the tables occupied by noisy groups. Nobody paid any attention to Banks and Jackie in their intimate corner at the back.

“Sorry. I didn’t know her.” Jackie swept a long tress of hair back and stuck it behind her ear. She had tiny, pink ears, Banks noticed, delicate, the skin translucent where the light shone through. She had applied some makeup, but it didn’t quite cover the smattering of freckles, or the darkening bruise beside her left eye.

“Who did that?” Banks asked. “The club owners used to fine girls for coming to work with bruises.”

She put her hand to her cheek self-consciously. “Walked into a door.”

“What was this door called?”

Jackie shook her head. Banks could swear her eyes filled with tears, but they were gone as soon as they came, reabsorbed into the sponge of flesh. “An unsatisfied customer,” she whispered.

“I can’t imagine you having any of those.”

Jackie regained her composure, tilted her head to one side and almost smiled at him. “Are you flirting with me?”

Banks flushed. “No…I…”

Then Jackie laughed and patted his arm. “That’s sweet of you to say, very gallant of you to defend a lady’s honor like that, but you don’t really know, do you?”

“Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time? Odd clients. Violent. Disturbed. A little crazy?”

Jackie pointed to her eye. “Like the door that did this?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a nonstarter, in more ways than one. But I did think about it.”

“And?”

Jackie frowned. “Well, as I said before, you get a lot of weird people in this business. You expect it, learn to deal with them. And some of them are weird in a nice way.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, they fall in love with you, want to marry you, take you home to meet mother. Take you on a cruise around the world. You name it. But the point is, they’re harmless.”

“Not the man who killed Pamela and Maureen.”

“OK, no, I get your point. All I’m saying is just because a john’s weird it doesn’t mean he’s likely to be violent. You have to go a lot on instinct in this business, on gut feelings.”

“It didn’t do Pamela or Maureen much good, did it?”

“They probably realized too late.”

“Is there anyone—”

Jackie held her hand up. “Please, let me finish.” She lit a cigarette and swigged some lager from the bottle. “You have to develop a sort of built-in radar if you’re to survive.” Then she smiled and touched her cheek. “And even that doesn’t always work. But this was normal. I don’t expect you to understand, let alone accept, but it’s an occupational hazard.”

“As is murder?”

“Not quite. I know it seems the air’s full of it right now, but it’s really very rare, even in our business. So my radar’s tuned in such a way that if I feel a shiver up my spine, if my breath catches in my throat, if I just feel for no obvious reason that I have to get away, get as far away from a john as possible, money or no money, then I follow that instinct.”

“And has this happened recently?”

“It was a few weeks ago. Long enough before Pam’s death that I’d put it out of my mind. You have to move on, don’t you? But when you asked me to think back, and when I found myself dwelling on what had happened to Pam, well…”

“You remembered.”

“Yes. There was a bloke. Ordinary bloke. Perhaps a cut above the average. A gent, you might say. Nice tailored suit. None of your off-the-rack trash for him. Handmade leather shoes. Posh accent. Polite. Gentle, even. Anyway, to cut a long story short, afterward he just didn’t want to leave. He was talking about innocence and stuff, telling me I should stop being a whore and become innocent again, that he could help me. I told him it was probably a bit late for that, but he wasn’t having any of it. He said it’s never too late. He could show me. Perhaps I’d like to see him again and he would show me how my innocence could be restored. That’s the word he used. Restored. Well, you get a pretty high creep factor in this job, but quite honestly this bloke was freaking me out. It wasn’t anything he did, or even what he said—as I told you before, I meet plenty of johns who want to save me and reform me—but it was something about the way he spoke, the soft, insistent voice. Have you seen that film about Reginald Christie?”

“Ten Rillington Place?” said Banks. “Yes. Ages ago.”

“It was like that. His voice. The way Richard Attenborough says, ‘Just a little gas,’ as if it’s the nicest, most natural thing in the world. It was his icy calm and that one-track way he just wouldn’t let go that started giving me the signals. Innocence. Purity. Virginity. As if they were holy mantras or something. Anyway, we’d finished our business—”

“Was that-”

“He didn’t have any problems, no. Except he didn’t want to use a condom. I insisted and he didn’t like it, but I gave him no choice. He wasn’t violent or forceful in any way.”

“Pamela—”

“Pamela was a fool. Just because she was on the pill. I’m sorry if that sounds a bit harsh, but…It’s not as if it’s only the clap you have to worry about these days, is it? You hear about that new one, AIDS, and it doesn’t sound as if there’s a cure.”

“How did he react when you contradicted him?”

“That’s just the thing,” Jackie said. “He never got angry. He would just…he had this sort of faraway smile…and his manner would get even milder. He would chastise me like you’d tick off a wayward child, but gently, out of a desire for correction, not anger. I think that was what set off my warning bells in the end. That he just didn’t get angry.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m still here, aren’t I? In the end, he left. I’d agreed to see him again just to get rid of him, but I had no intention of ever being alone in a room with him again.”

“Did you see him again after that?”

“Once or twice. Around the clubs. But he left me alone.”

“Did you see him go with any of the other girls?”

“No. But I wasn’t watching.”

“Pamela?”

“I never saw them together.”

Banks leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Another drink?”

“Sure,” said Jackie. “But will you be much longer? I have to go soon.”

“As long as it takes you to have one more drink.” Banks made his way to the bar and picked up another lager and a pint. He noticed it was raining outside now and most of the people had come in.

When he got back to the table, he asked Jackie to describe the man. About medium height, she told him, not much hair, and what there was, fuzzy around the ears and sides, was silvery. He was perhaps a little overweight, a bit of belly, and she would put his age at around fifty, maybe a little older.

“Distinguishing features?”

“Yeah, he was hung like a horse.”

Banks gaped at her.

“Only joking. No, none. I don’t even know if a horse is hung or not.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No. He never told me, and if he had I wouldn’t have believed him. They all lie.”

“How did you meet him?” Banks asked finally.

“I didn’t. I mean, not before, you know, in the room.”

“So what made him choose you? Was it just blind chance?”

“It’s rarely that. Unless that’s what the john wants.”

“Then what?”

Jackie examined the dregs of her bottle, stubbed out a cigarette and finished off the lager. Her eyes darted around the pub before she leaned slightly forward and looked Banks in the eye. “He’s a business colleague of Matthew’s,” she said finally. “He saw me dance and wanted to meet me. Matthew said to be nice to him.”

 

“Mr. Micallef,” said Banks. “Good afternoon.”

Micallef swiveled in his chair. “It’s you again. Inspector Banks, isn’t it? Nice to see you. And your sergeant, too. That’ll be all, Benny. You can leave us alone now. What can I do for you this time, gentlemen?”

They weren’t in the Chinese restaurant, but in Micallef’s office above a music shop on Denmark Street. The building was old, but the second floor had clearly been gutted and refurbished. One of those new Macintosh computers sat on Micallef’s desk. Banks had read about them in a Sunday supplement but didn’t know what he would do with one if he had one. He supposed it was useful for running a business. He could see Albright’s eyes practically bulging out of their sockets at the sight of it. On the wall were framed, signed photographs of Micallef with a showbiz personality, Micallef with minor royalty, Micallef with a championship heavyweight boxer, and Micallef with a lot of people Banks didn’t recognize.

“The wall of infamy?” he said.

Micallef laughed. “I’d hardly say that, Inspector. Some of those people are pillars of the establishment.”

“I’ve often thought the establishment was built on very shaky ground.”

“Well, that’s very interesting, and it would make a fascinating argument sometime, but I’m a busy man. What do you want? Do I need my solicitor?”

“Not unless you’re going to confess to murder, sir,” said Albright.

“Very funny, Sergeant. That’s definitely not in the cards.”

“Just another friendly chat,” said Banks.

“About?”

“Maureen Heseltine.”

Micallef feigned a frown. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name.”

“Well, it’s a strange coincidence,” Banks said, “but her body was found in yet another building you own just off Charlotte Street.”

“I own several buildings. I don’t know my tenants personally.”

“Nor would I expect you to know the name of every girl who works for you,” said Banks. “But it’s getting to be a bit of a habit, isn’t it? Girls getting murdered in your buildings. Perhaps one may be seen as simple bad luck, but two…?”

“What happens in my buildings isn’t my problem.”

Banks reached for his briefcase, pulled out a photograph and dropped it on the desk in front of Micallef. “Maureen Heseltine. Perhaps this might serve as an aide memoire.”

Micallef glanced at the photograph. It showed Maureen when she was alive and smiling. “She does look rather familiar,” he said. “A dancer, you say?”

“I didn’t say, but I do believe she tripped the light fantastic from time to time, between entertaining men in the flat she rented from you.”

“Then it’s possible I came across her in a business capacity,” said Micallef. “You know I have an interest in several local clubs as a property owner. But I certainly don’t recognize her.”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“I’ve been out of town,” said Micallef. “Just got back this morning. I had some business in Paris.”

“How long were you away?”

“Three days. Why? Does that give me an alibi?”

“If it can be verified.”

“Oh, it can. Besides, I don’t believe you would see me as a suspect anyway, given the kind of accusations you bandy about. If I’m what you say I am—which I very strenuously deny—then I’d hardy be likely to kill my own girls and Sellotape their cunts shut, would I?”

The expression had a familiar ring to it, thought Banks. Hadn’t Roly Verity used exactly the same words just a few days ago? Still, it was part of Verity’s job to hobnob with villains like Micallef, and a man like Roly Verity would probably be so proud of coining such a phrase that he would be bound to go around repeating it to all and sundry. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything of the kind,” said Banks. “We all know exactly what you are and what you do, so why don’t we just cut the crap and you answer some questions?”

Micallef looked at Banks through narrowed eyes and made a steeple of his fingers, then he glanced at Albright. “Is he always like this?”

“Almost always when a young girl gets murdered, sir,” Albright replied.

Banks dropped another picture on the desk in front of Micallef, this one a photofit re-creation of the man Jackie Simmons had described. “Recognize this man?”

“I don’t know him,” said Micallef.

“Well dressed, posh, not short of a bob or two.”

“Still don’t know him.”

“Mr. Micallef,” Banks said slowly. “We believe that this man indicated an interest in one or more of your girls, and that you set him up with dates. We’re trying to find him in connection with two murders. Right now, he’s about the only lead we’ve got. If you can help us at all, then I think you should seriously consider doing so.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you. I would if I could. But I don’t have any girls, as you put it. I don’t even know what you could possibly mean by that. And I don’t recognize this man. Maybe it’s just a poor likeness, or maybe your witness was mistaken? I’m sorry. I wish I could help. Is there anything more?”

“I don’t think so,” said Banks, putting away the photos. “Not for the moment.”

 

“Another whiskey?” Linda asked.

“Please,” said Banks. It was late. He had spent the evening with Albright and Roly Verity going around the clubs and bars showing the photokit to dancers, doormen, bouncers and managers. If anybody did know who the mystery man was, they were saying nothing. One or two thought they had “seen him around,” but that meant nothing. They could say that about Banks, too. Nobody admitted to seeing him with Micallef or with either of the murdered girls, and that was a problem. Even if Banks could identify the man, he still needed a witness to tie him to Pamela and Maureen.

There was one weak link, a frightened hostess at the Cat & Mouse. She knew something, Banks was certain; she had either had an experience with the man, like Jackie, or she had seen him with Pamela or Maureen. She wasn’t talking, but Banks thought a little more pressure, even if he felt like a bully exerting it, might loosen the floodgates.

Linda came back with the whiskies and sat on the bed beside him. “It’s getting to you, this one, isn’t it?” she said.

“How did you guess?”

“You’re distracted.”

“How we can let someone like Micallef go about doing the things he does when we know exactly what he is and who he preys on?”

“It’s always been like that,” Linda said. “You know as well as I do. It’s the devil you know. That’s the way Vice likes to think of it. With Micallef in place, they know what’s going on. He feeds them scraps and gets to operate without interference. All to Micallef’s advantage, of course, but to ours, too.”

“You scratch my back…?”

“Exactly. And if we took him down, we’d create a vacuum, and God knows what would get sucked into that. You can be sure there’d be a turf war, bloodshed, mayhem. Just like the old days.”

Banks lit a cigarette. “You’re right, of course. We’ve all heard stories about the old days. Jack Spot, Billy Hill, the Sabinis, the Messinas. Nobody wants those days back again. I think maybe if I could just get to the bottom of these murders I’d be satisfied, but I’m going nowhere fast. I don’t think Micallef’s the killer, but I’m damn sure he’s got a good idea who is. Either he’s protecting someone, or it’s someone he hired in the first place. Maybe there was a reason he wanted these girls dead?”

“From what you’ve told me,” Linda said “it sounds more like someone with serious psychological problems.”

“It could just be made to appear that way, a nut job?”

“Could be, I suppose, but that’s not the way it sounds to me. What about forensics?”

“Slow,” said Banks. “We’ve got a print from the Sellotape at both scenes, and it matches, so we know we’re dealing with the same killer. We just don’t have it on file. And he shaved this one himself. Used her own disposable razor.”

“Patience, Alan. Patience.” She refilled his glass. “In the meantime, tell me all about Yorkshire. Is it really as primitive as they say it is? Do they all have orange teeth up there? Will I be losing you soon?”

Banks touched her cheek with his palm. He knew he had to leave her. Not just because he felt so guilty every time he left her flat, but because…well, it just wasn’t fair to carry on. Not fair to Linda. Not fair to Sandra. Not fair to the kids. Not fair even to himself. But it was hard. She had become a big part of his life this past while, the long hours, the seediness, the sadness, the clubs, the late nights, the alienation from his family. Sometimes he thought she was the only thing that kept him sane. He put his glass down and reached for her. “Not yet,” he said. “Not for a while yet.”

 

Banks didn’t like being driven through the London streets without any clue as to where he was going or what he was to expect when he got there. At least he knew where he was as the driver went past Marble Arch on to Bayswater Road. Not that that helped him a lot. It was one of the better days of the week, and Hyde Park and Kensington gardens were busy with people flying kites, throwing sticks for their dogs, sailing model boats on the Serpentine, or just lying on the grass reading in the sun, lovers touching and kissing. Ordinary things. Why did Banks always feel there was an invisible screen between himself and these ordinary things of life? It was another world, slightly blurred, and he couldn’t get into it no matter how loud he hammered at the glass. Nobody heard. He was outside. Nobody inside paid him any attention. He’d had dreams like that and woke up in the early hours sweating, heart pounding.

The car continued on as Bayswater Road became Notting Hill Gate, then Holland Park Avenue. Finally, it turned down a broad, tree-lined street of elegant Victorian houses, and into a narrow mews, where the old coach houses and stables had been converted into small homes, most of them with whitewashed exteriors livened up by the occasional splash of bright color on a door, a garage or window frames. Some of the houses had hanging baskets or window boxes of red, yellow, purple and pink flowers.

The car came to a halt and Banks got out. The uniformed officer on guard opened the door and a familiar figure beckoned Banks inside. It was Superintendent Hatchard, pipe firmly clamped between his teeth, but not lit. When Banks’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light in the neat, tiny living room, he saw there was someone else present.

“I’d like you to meet someone, Alan,” Hatchard said, after removing his pipe. “This is Detective Superintendent Burgess. He’s Special Branch. Or something like that.” It was clear to Banks that Hatchard didn’t approve of whatever Burgess stood for, but that his hands were tied in the matter: he was only obeying orders. As for Burgess, he didn’t seem overly concerned with such delicacies. He wore a leather jacket over his open-neck checked shirt, despite the heat, blue denim jeans and white trainers. He was about six feet tall, in good shape, handsome, in a macho sort of way, with a strong jaw, slightly crooked teeth and cynical gray eyes. He can’t have been much older than Banks, but his hair was touched with gray at the temples.

“Banksy, pleased to meet you,” he said, as if they were old friends, sticking out his hand.

Banks shook. He was sure he had seen Burgess before and was trying to place him when the man himself did it for him. “About two or three years ago. Recent Falklands veteran, bit of a war hero, got himself into a scrape at a nightclub.”

“Beat up one of the girls and stabbed a doorman, you mean?”

“That’s the one. Can’t have our heroes looking like villains in the national press, can we? Especially when they’re shell-shocked.”

“So you’re the one they send around when they need a cover-up?”

Burgess laughed. “Very good. Very astute of you.” He put his hand on Banks’s elbow. “Come with me. I’ve got something to show you. Soon as that’s done we’ll get the team in and head down the road for a nice drink, just you and me.”

Curious, Banks followed him up the stairs, along a corridor and through the door into the bathroom. It was just about big enough to hold the two of them.

It was obvious to Banks the moment he crossed the threshold that something was terribly wrong. The blood spatter on the cream tiles certainly wasn’t part of the decor, and there was a cloying smell, as if something sweet had been marinating for too long. Before Banks even saw the corpse in the bathtub, he knew what he was in for.

Burgess just stood there as Banks took in the scene: the balding man with silvery wisps of hair around his ears, a deep gash visible in the wrist that rested on the side of the bathtub, the murky red-brown water up to his neck, the empty bottle of pills beside the almost empty bottle of whiskey on the floor.

“The doc’s been, confirmed death, and the photographer’s finished. We’re still waiting on the SOCOs, so don’t touch anything. His cleaning lady found him like this two hours ago.”

“Who is he?” Banks asked.

“The Right Honorable Norman Stafford, MP,” said Burgess. “This man’s a member of HM Government, Banksy. Was. Not one of the high-profile crowd, the ones you see on the telly, but a backroom boy. A hard worker, tireless supporter of his constituents, aggressive committee man, nonetheless. Nobody’s heard of him, nobody would recognize him in the street, but they also serve…”

“Suicide?”

“Oh, yes, I would say so, wouldn’t you?”

Banks shrugged. “These things can be arranged.”

“Cynic. Follow me. There’s more. Had enough? Ready to move on?”

“I’m ready,” said Banks. He followed Burgess back into the corridor and they crossed over to the master bedroom.

“He wasn’t married, Mr. Stafford,” said Burgess. “Not anymore. Married to his job, you might say. This is where he slept.”

Banks gazed around the room. There were framed prints and photographs everywhere, each and every one of them showing the pure, the innocent and the virginal. Joan of Arc. The Virgin Mary. Saint Bernadette of Lourdes. Saint Margaret of Antioch. There were actresses playing parts—the young Nastasia Kinsky in Tess and Brooke Shields in Pretty Baby—and countless unrecognizable photos of young innocent girls clipped from magazines and newspapers, their pure, trusting eyes burning into him, making him squirm.

On the bedspread lay a handwritten sheet of paper.

“Read it, Banksy,” said Burgess. “Read but don’t touch.”

Banks read. “‘To Whom It May Concern, I, Norman Archibald Stafford, wish to confess to the murders of two young girls in Soho. So there may be no mistake and no doubt as to the sincerity of this confession, I will outline in exact detail what I did and how I did it.’” And he did. The ritual washing, the shaving of the second victim, the Sellotape, the posing. All the elements that only the killer could know. The only thing he didn’t explain was why. The closest he got was the mention of the first time he felt the strong urge to kill to preserve the innocence of a young woman. He had no Sellotape, he wrote, and imagined there would be none in the small room, so he hatched the plan to equip himself and come back later. Somehow or other, the same girl knew to avoid him, so he chose someone else. Banks realized that the girl was Jackie Simmons, and that Stafford’s next choice was Pamela Morrison.

So it was over. No need to push the frightened dancer any further or make Jackie Simmons go over her story again. Or was it?

“I’d say he had a bit of an obsession, wouldn’t you, Banksy?”

“Seems that way.”

“Word has it that he was married once. They had a beautiful daughter. Age-old story. She fell in with a bad lot. Drugs. Sex. Crime. Ended up a prostitute in Glasgow and died of a drug overdose. It doesn’t explain it all, but it gives you a context, I think.”

“He wanted to re-create innocence, virginity in his victims.”

“Even after he’d had sex with them,” added Burgess. “I’ve read the case file. Aren’t people just endlessly fascinating? And mostly unknowable? Anyway, none of that really matters,” he went on as they walked back downstairs. “Bit of an anticlimax, really, isn’t it?”

Hatchard was still waiting in the living room, staring into space, having obviously seen it all before Banks had. “Well?” he said.

Burgess put his arm around Banks’s shoulders. “Let’s me and DI Banks here go for a nice drink, get the taste of death out of our mouths and see if we can work out a satisfactory solution to this little mess. Bernard, I take it you know what to do now?”

“I know.” Hatchard gave Banks a sheepish look, stuck his pipe back in his mouth and slunk out of the door.

 

Burgess hammered on the locked door of the pub on the corner.

“I told you, they’re closed,” said Banks. “Won’t be open for another hour or more.”

Burgess ignored him and kept on knocking. Eventually, a young man appeared behind the glass, scowled and pointed at his watch. Burgess thrust his warrant card in his face. The door opened.

“Important police business, sonny,” Burgess said. He pointed to a corner that couldn’t be seen from the street. “We’ll sit over there. And I’ll have a pint of lager. Banksy?”

“Bitter, please.”

“Got that?”

The boy nodded, mouth open.

“Can’t drink that real ale stuff, myself,” Burgess said, putting his hand to his stomach. “Gives me gas.” He shouted after the boy. “And bring us a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and some pork scratchings!”

They settled in the corner with their drinks and snacks, Burgess smacked his lips and took a long swig of ice-cold lager. “Ah, aren’t we just living in wonderful times, Banksy?” he said. “Can’t you smell the change?”

“All I can smell is last night’s stale cigarette smoke,” said Banks, lighting up.

Burgess took out a Tom Thumb cigar and lit it. “You’ve no imagination, that’s your problem,” he said, thrusting the cigar in Banks’s general direction. “It’s all there. There for the taking. And don’t think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, either. I came up the hard way. My old man was a barrow boy. I’ve got no time for all these whiners and moaners. If you can’t do well for yourself in this day and age, then you’re well and truly fucked. Great times to be alive, Banksy.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks. “We’re midway through the eighties. All we’ve had so far are race riots, a pointless war and a long miners’ strike. Even the music’s crap.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective. You’re just not looking at it the right way. We won the race riots, we won the war and we won the fucking miners’ strike. That’s the way to look at it! And what’s wrong with Madonna, apart from those hairy armpits?” He gestured over to the boy, who was hovering nervously by the bar. “Another two of these,” he said, raising his glass. “And put some Madonna on the jukebox.”

Oh, God, not again, thought Banks, when “Into the Groove” started up. “Let’s agree to differ,” he said. “Why have you brought me here? Not that it isn’t a pleasure to drink fine ale and argue politics on a summer afternoon. With a body lying in a bath of blood round the corner.”

Burgess tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “You have a way of putting things, Banksy,” he said, “that could put a bloke right off his stroke.”

“Norman Stafford, MP,” Banks reminded him. The barman scurried over with two more pints and apologized for spilling a drop of Burgess’s lager.

“It’s all right, son,” Burgess said. “You can make it up next time. And…” He gestured to the boy to lean in and lowered his voice, “we’re depending on you to keep an eye open. Nobody gets in until we’ve finished here, right? Hush, hush.”

The boy returned to the bar like a man with a mission.

“It’ll give him something to talk to his mates about,” Burgess said with a wink. “Now, where were we?”

“Stafford.”

“Ah, yes.” He tapped a length of ash from his Tom Thumb.

“You believe it’s suicide?”

“I do,” said Burgess. “And the police surgeon agreed, too. I’m sure the forensic evidence will confirm it.”

“So there is to be an investigation?”

“Of course. Where do you think we are? Russia?”

“Only I got the impression there were certain things you wanted to hush up.”

Burgess rubbed the side of his nose. “As I said, Stafford wasn’t a major player. Mostly he worked behind the scenes. Committees. Planning. That sort of thing. Very important job these days, nonetheless, what with all the new developments in and around the city. But he was an MP and I think even you would agree that the last thing we need right now are headlines in the papers screaming, ‘Tory MP in Soho sex murder scandal!’ or something along those lines. Especially in the aftermath of all the bad press the government’s been getting over the miners’ strike.”

“So what do you propose?”

“A simple solution. Your case goes down as solved. You know who did it. I know who did it. The public at large just knows that a minor MP has committed suicide. Been suffering depression on and off for years, ever since his daughter died and his wife left him. That sort of thing. Get him a lot of sympathy. Apparently it wasn’t his first suicide attempt, you know.”

“Only his first successful one. But how will the public know the case is solved? How do the girls know to stop worrying? How do they know justice has been done?”

“Interesting concerns,” mused Burgess. “I’m not saying I’d voice them myself, but interesting.”

“And?”

“Well, strictly speaking, you won’t have a name to name. That’s a given. But it won’t be the first time, will it? Remember when everyone thought Freddie Mills killed himself because he was Jack the Stripper, the bloke who killed all those prossies in the midsixties?”

“A bit before my time,” said Banks.

“Mine, too. But don’t you know your history? The point is, officially he didn’t leave a note, but there’s a myth around the Met that he did, and that he confessed to the killings.”

“That doesn’t help us, though, does it? Not if you’re going to whitewash Norman Stafford.”

“Oh, don’t be so awkward. As I said, you won’t have a convenient name to tie a hidden confession to, but don’t underestimate the powers of rumor, Banksy. Word of mouth. Especially around Soho. All it takes is for word to get out from someone in the know that we were on to chummie and he fled to the continent, where he committed suicide, or got shot by the Froggy police or whatever. People love conspiracy theories. It wouldn’t be five minutes before everyone in the Soho porn trade breathed easy and felt all self-righteous again.”

“That’s preposterous,” said Banks. “We’ve got our killer—if the note can be proven to be authentic. Why not go public with it?”

“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Burgess gritted his teeth in anger. “Come on, Banksy, I’m giving you a chance here. You can claim hush-up as long as no names are named. You can use it to your advantage.”

“Do you think people are so stupid that they won’t link Stafford’s suicide to your proposed cover-up?”

“Yes, I do. Who was it said nobody ever went broke underestimating the stupidity of the British public?”

“H. L. Mencken,” said Banks. “And it was underestimating the taste of the American public.”

“Smart-arse.”

“So back to my original question. How are you going to do this?”

“I’m not, Banksy. You are. In fact, it’s already done. Signed, sealed, stamped and delivered. This is just me being polite and treating you to a couple of drinks. As far as we’re concerned, that’s the Metropolitan Police, including your boss and his boss, all the way up to the assistant commissioner, and as far as the home secretary is concerned, too, it’s a done deal. Norman Stafford committed suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed due to depression, and he will be duly mourned. They’re already printing off the results of the coroner’s inquest. The nut job who murdered two prostitutes in Soho has disappeared overseas under hot pursuit, is believed dead, and can’t be named for legal reasons. Never the twain shall meet. By the time you get back to your office, West End Central will be buzzing with the rumor.” He finished his drink, stood up and loomed over the table. “And if I were you, Banksy, I’d have my end-of-case celebration tonight, just like normal, get pissed as a newt and forget all about it. Hell, I might even drop by for a pint, myself. I could do with a night on the town.”

And with that, he was gone. Banks lit another cigarette and swirled the remains of his drink. It wasn’t so bad, he supposed. There were worse things than a little misdirection. Plenty went on that the public didn’t know about, and it wouldn’t necessarily do them any good if they did. He balked at it in principle but, in his way, Burgess was right; it didn’t matter. The important thing was that the killer was dead and the killings would stop. Justice had been served, even if it hadn’t been seen to be served.

Banks liked to think himself a champion of the truth and justice, and it irked him that Norman Stafford’s responsibility for the crimes wouldn’t be made generally known for political reasons. Stafford had been a committee man, Burgess said—planning, developments—and Micallef, among other things, was a property developer, so perhaps that was how they had come into contact? What more natural but that Micallef might offer the man with the power a bit of female company, an escort, dancer or club hostess, for example, perhaps in the way of a bribe? And maybe that was exactly what had happened.

But who was to know of Stafford’s sickness? Banks thought of the images in Stafford’s bedroom, remembered what he had done to the girls—the ritual cleansing, the symbolism of the Sellotape—and he knew that it was because he was a deranged killer, not because he was out to ruin Micallef or had some sort of grudge against him. Stafford might have met Micallef through his committees, might have accepted a sweetener, but in the end it was his own perverse fantasies he had acted out.

But did Micallef know? Had he introduced Stafford to Pamela Morrison himself on the night she died? And the second girl, Maureen Heseltine? Banks doubted it. Micallef would try to distance himself as much from the pimping, once he had turned the girls, as much as he did from owning the knocking shops and flats where some of his girls lived. But had he suspected? Perhaps. The most likely scenario was that Stafford had noticed the girls and let Micallef know he was interested, just as Jackie had said. After that point Micallef would have arranged things without any direct contact. But it still made him guilty as sin in Banks’s eyes. Especially if he had known after Pamela, the first one, and let it happen again.

Banks came out of his reverie and noticed the boy hovering. “Yes?”

“Are you done, sir?”

“What? Oh, yes,” said Banks, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Only it’s past opening time and there are people waiting at the door.”

“Fine,” said Banks. “Better let them in. I’ll be off, then. Thank you for being so obliging.”

“Er…who’s going to pay, sir? For the drinks. Only the other man didn’t leave anything.”

Banks sighed and reached for his wallet.

 

Banks had told Sandra he would be late home, and she had made some sarcastic comment about that being nothing new. He hadn’t replied because he hadn’t wanted to start another row, but he had left the house in a thoroughly bad mood.

Now it was nearly two in the morning and the taxi was pulling up outside his flat. Banks was a little the worse for wear. Linda hadn’t answered her phone, and the other revelers had disappeared, so he had gone on to a club with Ozzy Albright and Burgess, where they had drunk expensive Scotch and flirted with the scantily clad hostesses. Burgess had picked up the tab, or so Banks believed. That certainly made up for the afternoon.

He took his shoes off and tiptoed into the flat as quietly as he could, but the door creaked, and so did the floorboards. He paused in the hall to listen for anyone stirring but heard only soft snoring sounds from the main bedroom.

He went into the living room and headed for the drinks cabinet. Another Scotch would finish off the evening nicely. Laphroaig, this time. Once he had poured himself a generous measure and the merest splash of water to bring out the flavor, he flipped through his LP collection looking for something suitable. He didn’t feel like jazz or classical, so he dug back into his rock collection. Finally, he picked Nick Drake’s Five Leaves Left, put on his headphones, stumbled briefly over the footstool, then settled down on the sofa to “Time Has Told Me.”

It had been a subdued celebration, Banks thought as he stretched out and lit a cigarette, balancing the ashtray on his chest, perhaps because there would be no public recognition that they had caught their killer. Still, it had been fun. Hatchard had stood a round and even Commander Bickley, normally known as having short arms and deep pockets, had treated the team. Albright had tried to chat up the barmaid, whom everyone except him knew happened to be a bloke. A drunken cop groupie had lifted her T-shirt and shown everyone her tits. One of the DCs had drunk too much too fast and disgraced himself by being sick on the table. Everyone had cheered, then his mate helped him to the toilet to get him cleaned up, ready to resume the celebrations. Someone had tossed a glass of wine in someone else’s face.

All in all, a good time had been had by all before things got hazy at the nightclub. Even then, Banks vaguely remembered, Burgess had been all hail-fellow-well-met and turned out to have a cache of jokes neither Banks nor Albright had ever heard before.

“Time Has Told Me” segued into “River Man” and the next thing Banks knew he could hear the telephone ringing in the distance. He opened his eyes. His Laphroaig was half drunk on the table beside him, Nick Drake had finished ages ago, and his cigarette had gone out in the ashtray on his chest, smoldered down to a length of gray ash. Banks put it on the table beside his drink.

Struggling to his feet, he slipped off the headphones. The phone was ringing. As quickly as he could, he made it over to the stand and picked up the receiver.

“I was just going to hang up, sir,” the voice said. “Sorry for waking you.” It was the night dispatch officer at the station.

“What is it?” Banks mumbled. His tongue felt thick and furry, his mouth full of dead caterpillars.

“They want you down Soho, sir. Alley off Sutton Row, back of the Astoria.”

“I know it,” said Banks. “What is it?”

“Wouldn’t say, sir. Only that it’s urgent. There’s a car on its way.”

 

Banks had taken four Paracetamol, drunk two glasses of water, brushed his teeth and cleaned himself up as best he could in the ten or fifteen minutes it took the car to arrive. Luckily it was just after dawn and there wasn’t much traffic about. Though he wasn’t a particularly literary type, even in his hungover state he found himself thinking of the poem Wordsworth composed on Westminster Bridge when the car drove over Vauxhall Bridge. He had had to learn it by heart at school and still remembered it, even now. The city really was wearing the beauty of the morning “like a garment,” the soft early light orange and blue on the slow-moving Thames, and the “ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples” catching a ray of sun here or hiding in a mantle of shadow there.

But the effect didn’t last for long. Soon they were heading through Piccadilly Circus, where there was quite a bit more traffic, heading for Shaftesbury Avenue, Cambridge Circus and Charing Cross Road.

Sutton Row was blocked off at both the Soho Square end and at the Astoria theater, so Banks got out and walked down the narrow street. Just to his right, behind the Astoria, was an alley that turned left into a dead end. There, among the dumped rubbish, the overflowing dustbins, empty bottles, cigarette ends, soggy cardboard boxes and the smell of piss, lay a body. Pale faces turned to Banks as he approached, and he recognized Hatchard, tired but still sober; Albright, who lived nearer to the scene than Banks did and was definitely the worse for wear; and a couple of other team members, including the young DC who had been sick in the pub.

“Street cleaner found the body an hour or so ago, sir,” said Albright. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Banks looked down at the crumpled shape then fell to his knees beside it.

Jackie Simmons lay on her back, hands spread out at her sides, legs at crooked angles. She wore a knee-length plaid skirt and a pearl blouse, open at the collar. That was where Banks could see the dark, thick bruising across her throat. Her eyes were open, fixed on the sky but seeing nothing, and her skin was pale, dry and cool to the touch.

Someone had placed a broad strip of Sellotape across her mouth.

Banks turned his head to look up at the others, clustered around him. Their faces blurred, started to spin. He got to his feet feeling dizzy and staggered as far away from the body as he could before throwing up against the wall. He felt a comforting arm on his shoulder and saw Albright towering over him.

“You all right, sir?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Banks. “Just give me a minute.” He took a few deep breaths and steadied himself against the wall. “Can anyone rustle up some coffee?” he called out.

Albright glanced at one of the DCs, who disappeared in the general direction of Oxford Street.

“Make it strong and black,” Banks shouted after him.

 

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. There was paperwork to be done, files to be opened. Hatchard organized the incident room, called the meetings and handed out the actions. Even Roly Verity came by and pitched in. Banks did his bit, too. Hungover or not, he had helped get a murder investigation rolling so many times before that he could do it in his sleep. Except the circumstances were different every time. And it wasn’t usually someone he knew.

Hatchard invited him into the inner sanctum at noon for an update, a pot of fresh coffee sitting on his desk, and a plate of chocolate digestives beside it.

“What have we got so far?” Hatchard asked.

“The police surgeon estimates time of death somewhere between midnight and three,” Banks said. “Dr. O’Grady’s tied up most of the day, but he’ll get to the postmortem as soon as he can. Preliminary findings indicate death due to strangulation.” He paused and glanced over at Hatchard. “It appears as if someone came up behind her and hooked his forearm around her throat.”

“Was she killed where the body was found?”

“Seems that way, sir, according to lividity. We’ll know more later.”

“Any signs of defensive wounds?”

“She got in a few scratches, broke a fingernail or two. We bagged her hands.”

“You knew her, didn’t you?”

Banks paused and helped himself to coffee and another biscuit. “I wouldn’t say I knew her, sir,” he began. “I interviewed her informally on three occasions about the murder of Pamela Morrison. They were friends and flatmates. You can see the notes I wrote up in the case files.”

“I’ve seen them. I know it’s all aboveboard. There’s obviously a connection with the other murders, given the Sellotape and all. What do you think it is? What did she tell you?”

“She didn’t really know anything, sir, but she did help put me on to Stafford. I mean, she described a man she had taken to her room who had acted in a frightening way and gone on about regaining innocence and purity, about being able to restore it to her, though he didn’t actually harm her in any way. She was able to give a decent physical description. I like to think it would have helped us catch him if things hadn’t turned out differently.”

Hatchard put a match to his pipe and a cloud of cloying blue smoke filled the air. Banks almost retched again, but he buried his face in his coffee instead. It helped. “You think this man was Stafford?” Hatchard asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m certain of it.”

“But Stafford is dead. Why do you think the girl was murdered? It could hardly be to shut her up, as she’d already spoken, and besides, it no longer mattered.”

“I think she was killed as an example, sir, a warning.”

“A warning?”

“Yes. By Micallef.”

“But—”

Banks held his hand up. “Please listen to me, sir. Micallef is in the property development business, among other things, and Stafford was chairman of an important government steering committee on development issues. I think that’s how they met, and I think Micallef made his…er…other services available to Stafford.”

“You think he knew? I mean, what Stafford was like?”

“No, sir. I don’t think so. At least not at first. I doubt that Micallef would stand for someone killing his girls like that, if only from a business perspective. I think he kept that part of the transaction at arm’s length. Stafford could meet the girls through the clubs, which is how I think it happened, and they would be made available to him in the usual manner. Micallef didn’t get his hands dirty with the actual pimping. But I do think that after the second one he was starting to realize there was something wrong. Maybe he thought someone was targeting him. Or maybe he guessed the truth. Either way, he was getting paranoid. And the girls were getting understandably jumpy.”

“What about Stafford’s suicide?”

“This is where it gets a bit nebulous, sir,” Banks admitted. “I think that Micallef realized it was Stafford soon after the Maureen Heseltine murder and went to visit him. We did get a vague description from a neighbor of a man leaving Stafford’s house around the time he probably died. Tall, fair-haired, smartly dressed.”

“But the witness didn’t see his face.”

“No, sir. That’s why I said it gets a bit nebulous.”

“But you think Micallef killed Stafford?”

“I think Micallef went to talk to him and one way or another persuaded him to commit suicide. It’s possible that Stafford was already on the verge. He’d tried it before. He’d also just got a prescription of sleeping pills a couple of days previous to his death. I think Micallef tipped the scales. I doubt that he actually killed him, but he pushed him to it. Anyway, there’s nothing can be proven there. Stafford goes down as a suicide. Micallef carries on as normal.”

“But there’s more?”

“Yes, sir. I think that Micallef also found out that Jackie Simmons had given me the description. It’s probably my fault, sir. I did talk to her on a number of occasions, and perhaps I wasn’t discreet enough. He must have seen us together, or someone did who told him.”

“You can’t blame yourself for this, Alan.”

“I wish it were different, sir. I should have been more careful. I…dammit, I liked the girl. I even told Micallef that Stafford, whose identity we didn’t know at the time, had scared one of his girls. Maybe he put two and two together and knew it was Jackie who’d told me that. Christ, maybe I even did want to reform her, save her. I don’t know. But I liked her. And it’s my fault.”

“You think Micallef strangled her?”

“Him or one of his minions. First thing we did this morning was run down his alibi, and as expected, it’s as solid as it usually is. He was playing cards with five respectable citizens in a flat near Mayfair. They could be lying. More likely he got Benny or maybe one of his Chinese Triad pals to do it.”

“Micallef’s in with the Triads?”

“As far as they’ll let anybody be. His hang-out is a Chinese restaurant on Gerrard Street known to have connections with 14K. I think it’s a drug connection but I don’t have anything to back that up.”

“But why kill the girl? What possible threat could she pose to him with Stafford dead, a suicide?”

“A statement. A warning to the others.” Banks shrugged. “A man like Micallef…it’s the way he operates. Fear.”

“So what next?” Hatchard asked.

“The usual. Keep asking around, searching for witnesses. I’ll have another friendly chat with Micallef, which will get us precisely nowhere. We’ll pull in Benny, which will get us just about as far, and maybe have a word with some of our paid informants in the Triads, see if they got wind of anything.”

“Christ, I remember things used to be a lot simpler in Soho,” said Hatchard, resting his pipe on the ceramic ashtray. “We used to know who all the villains were and where they were most of the time.”

“Ah, but that was before the city cleaned it up, sir,” said Banks.

 

“Hair of the dog, sir?” said Albright.

It was half past one and they were approaching the Pillars of Hercules down the alley beside Foyle’s, the arch ahead of them. “Why not,” said Banks.

They went inside, got a couple of pints and sat at a quiet table in the back.

“There’s this stuff called DNA they can use to identify people,” Albright said, out of the blue. He was always doing that, Banks realized, coming out with stuff he’d read. “I read an article about it in a forensics newsletter,” he went on. “Apparently this DNA is different in everyone. Completely unique. Like the body’s signature. Once you get a sample from a crime scene, you can match it against a sample from the suspect.”

Banks had heard about DNA, but he hadn’t really given it much thought. It seemed to belong to a world of the future, and he wasn’t sure he had a future. “How do you get a sample from the crime scene?” he asked.

“Trace evidence. Blood, saliva, skin, semen. Even a hair, if it’s still got the root.”

“And from the suspect?”

“You take some of his blood, semen, saliva, skin, a hair or whatever. I suppose saliva would be easiest, come to think of it. Maybe you could just use a toothbrush or something? I mean, you wouldn’t want to be taking a semen sample from a bloke, would you?”

“Jesus Christ, Ozzy, you do come up with the oddest bloody ideas.”

“Not my idea, sir. It’s science. Trouble is, it takes a long time to process, but they’ll streamline that. It’ll be all the rage soon, you mark my words. Make our job a lot easier.”

“Hmmm,” said Banks. “Get anywhere with Micallef’s alibi?”

“Just about where I expected to get,” said Albright. “They all agreed he was at an all-night card game in Mayfair, won about three hundred quid, too, from what I can gather.”

“Lucky bastard. What about his gambling companions?”

“A couple with form, the others ‘respectable.’”

“Meaning we haven’t caught them yet?”

“Something like that, sir.”

Banks downed half his drink and wiped his lips. “Pity.”

“Well, it was a long shot, sir. We never really thought he did it himself. Not his style. I don’t think he’s got the bottle.”

“Only for women.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” said Banks “Just a story somebody told me a long time ago. I think we’re pissing against the wind here.”

“I agree, sir, unless we can find an eyewitness.”

“And eyewitnesses can be bribed, or scared off. It’s not as if we can offer witness protection like they do in America.”

“I could always hide her away at my house, sir, especially if she’s a good looker.”

Banks laughed. “Good idea, Ozzy. Good idea.” He finished his pint. “And I’ve got an even better one. My shout.”

 

In retrospect, Banks thought it might have been a mistake going to see Micallef after three pints of Beck’s, but then he realized that hindsight is only reliable after the event. And what was there to lose? Feeling a little better for the hair of the dog, the two of them headed along Greek Street toward Shaftesbury Avenue. It was another fine day, and the tourists were out in Soho in force, Americans mostly, Banks noticed by the accents he overheard. People were sitting outside at coffee shops and enjoying the march of humanity back and forth. It was a long way from the area at nighttime and a world away from twenty years back.

They darted between the taxis and buses on Shaftesbury Avenue and headed into Chinatown. The odds were that Micallef would be holding court there, as usual.

When they got to the restaurant, he wasn’t there, and the maître d’, of course, knew nothing. Banks and Albright walked along Gerrard Street to the corner of Macclesfield and pondered what to do. It was then that Banks noticed the car pull up across from the restaurant. The driver got out, checked the street like a minder, and opened the back door. It was Benny. And there was Micallef, resplendent in his Hugo Boss suit, lock of blond hair flopping over his eye.

“Come on, Ozzy,” said Banks. “No time like the present.” And he headed down the street, Albright a few paces behind.

Micallef saw Banks as he was crossing the street to the restaurant. He paused on the pavement, glanced over, then smiled and ran his forefinger across his lips as if to seal them with Sellotape.

Banks ran the last few yards and he hit Micallef hard in his midriff before Benny even knew what was going on. The two of them hit the pavement, Micallef underneath, and Banks punched at his kidneys, gut and, when he got in position, at his face. Micallef for all his height and ranginess wasn’t much of a street fighter, and he flailed to protect himself. Already the blood was flowing from a split lip and broken nose. Banks could see only red, only Jackie’s crumpled body left in the alley like a piece of garbage, the bruise on her throat and the Sellotape across her lips. He knelt on Micallef’s chest and punched and punched.

After a while, he became vaguely aware of someone kicking him, first in the ribs, then a jarring blow to the side of his skull, and another. He fell over on his side. People were shouting now, someone trying to get ahold of him. Micallef had his knees drawn up to his stomach and his hands defensively covering his bleeding face, whimpering on the pavement.

Banks struggled, but it was no good. The hands holding him were strong and sure. At one point, he thought he heard Albright say, “Forget it, sir, it’s Chinatown.”

He gasped for breath as Albright helped him to his feet, and the more air he got, the more he calmed down, came out of the red mist and was able to understand what was going on. Benny and Albright had scuffled at first, but in the end they had decided to try and separate Banks and Micallef. Now Banks leaned against a lamppost and felt the side of his face all wet and numb, and the blood was pounding in his head.

Micallef sagged in a heap on the pavement and held his stomach and groaned. Then he glared up at Banks, features twisted in pain. “You’re dead!” he shouted through blood and broken teeth. “You hear me, Banks? You’re a dead man for this!”

Maybe I am, Banks thought, and maybe it doesn’t matter. The thing was, he felt like a dead man already.

 

“Well, mate, you’ve certainly been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Banks instinctively put his hand up to the side of his right eye. He could feel the rough, uneven row of stitches. Eight of them. And his ribs still ached where they were taped. “The doc says I might have a scar.”

Roly Verity brushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll look good on you. I’m told some ladies like a scar.”

“Not my wife,” said Banks.

It was ten days after the attack on Micallef and the kerfuffle had more or less settled down. Micallef had declined to press charges, more out of fear of losing face than from any benevolent feelings toward Banks. Nobody had seen anything, anyway. They never did in Soho.

“You were lucky you didn’t get suspended, you know,” said Verity. “Young Albright did a damn good job of keeping your chestnuts out of the fire.”

“Don’t I know it.”

He gestured toward Banks’s glass. “Another?”

“Why not?”

They were in the Three Greyhounds at the corner of Old Compton Street and Greek Street, and Banks was nursing the last of a pint of bitter. It was just after dark, raining outside, and the place was crowded, noisy and smoky, mostly with a young crowd. The neon signs along the street were blurred through the rain sliding down the pub windows, and from the open door Banks could hear the occasional hiss of a car splashing through a curbside puddle.

Verity returned with the pints. “What on earth were you thinking about?” he went on.

“You know damn well what I was thinking about,” said Banks.

“I know you were frustrated. Aren’t we all? It’s just something we have to live with.”

“He did it,” said Banks. “Jackie Simmons. Either that or he had it done. And he played a big part in Stafford’s suicide, too.”

“You know he did it and I know he did, but it’s what we can prove that counts, and we can’t prove a fucking thing. There are no witnesses, and he’s got five people to say he was playing cards with them. No forensics worth a damn. No prints. Blood type shared with 45 percent of the population. Including you, for all I know…. And the victim was just another tom. What’s the point in beating yourself up over it?”

Banks paused, started his fresh beer and said, “It would hardly be in your interests anyway, would it, Micallef going down for murder?”

Banks sensed Verity stiffen beside him. His tone hardened as he said, “What do you mean by that?”

“Proof, Roly, proof. I don’t have any. Not of anything.” Banks tapped the side of his head. “But I think I know what happened. I think I know what’s been going on.”

“You’re talking in riddles, man.”

“I just want to know how deep you’re in with them, that’s all.”

Verity put his drink down hard and some of it spilled over the sides. He scraped his chair back. One or two of the young drinkers gave them the once-over but averted their gaze quickly when they caught Verity’s evil eye. “I don’t have to listen to this crap.”

“True. You don’t,” said Banks. “But you want to know how much I know, don’t you? Calculate the threat level?”

Verity picked up his glass again. “One of those hypothetical discussions,” he said, smiling through crooked and stained teeth.

“You can put it that way, if you like.” Banks lit a cigarette. “The way I see it, though, Roly, is that you’ve been playing both sides against the middle, haven’t you?”

“Who was it put you on to Micallef in the first place?”

“I’ve thought about that,” said Banks. “It was you. Right from the start, just down the street from here, after Pamela Morrison’s murder.”

“And?”

“You had to, didn’t you? It was a smart move. You knew we’d get on to him eventually, either through the girls, the club or the building, so why not come out with it up front? You’re a cop, after all. You were supposed to be helping us. I can’t say you did a great deal after that, though. Not for us, at any rate.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got the impression that Micallef knew we were coming, that he had time to prepare his story. I think you warned him.”

“Bollocks. He’d have known anyway. A prossie gets killed in Soho? Course he’d expect a visit from the peelers.”

“Maybe. But it goes a bit deeper than that, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, stop playing the bloody innocent, Roly. I know you blokes at Vice. Sometimes you get so close to your villains you become one yourself, or as good as. A free taste of pussy now and then, the odd bottle of bubbly, a carton of cigarettes. I know how it goes.”

“Them’s the old days. That’s—”

“Nothing’s changed that much. Not when it comes down to graft and corruption. I can understand why you want to keep in with him, because he drops a useful crumb of good information your way once in a while. If you protect him, he’ll give up his competitors and any newcomers trying to muscle in. It’s a dangerous game, Roly, and a dodgy one, but I can understand it. I can see why you want to do that, and I applaud you for it, I really do. It’s a fine balancing act. But you’ve gone too far this time.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Norman Stafford.”

“He was a killer and a pervert. And he committed suicide.”

“All true, more or less. But I think he committed suicide with a little persuasion from Matthew Micallef. Micallef was seen leaving his house.”

“Possibly seen. Anyway, so what if he did? Saved us a lot of paperwork.”

Banks laughed. “That’s true. And he’s no great loss. But the point is that at some point before that, Micallef must have known it was Stafford killing his girls, even if he didn’t personally set up the dates. And if he knew, why didn’t you know? And if you did know, why didn’t we know?”

“This is all too complicated for me. Nobody told me anything.”

“So it was a one-way street, was it?”

“What?”

“The information. The second time I talked to Micallef, he used the phrase ‘Sellotaped her cunt shut.’ I remembered it because it disgusted me the first time as much as it did the second, and the first time I heard it was from your mouth.”

Verity raised his hands. “Fine, you don’t like the way I talk. So wash my fucking mouth out with soap.”

“You’re missing the point, Roly.” Banks counted on his fingers for emphasis. “First off, how did he know the killer used Sellotape on his victims? It wasn’t in the press, or on the telly. We kept it hush-hush. And second, why did he use that exact same phrase? Word for word. Unless he’d heard it somewhere before?”

Verity sat quietly for a moment, thinking and fidgeting with his drink. Banks smoked and watched him patiently. “I suppose you’re going to tell me?” Verity said finally.

“Well, there’s only two ways it could have happened,” Banks said. “Either he heard it from one of the team, or he was there at the scene of one, or both, murders. Take your pick.”

“Micallef didn’t kill those girls.”

“Which leaves the team. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t Albright, it certainly wasn’t Hatchard, and I doubt very much—”

“All right, all right, so I told him. Mea culpa. So what? It was tit for tat. I was hoping he might give me a lead, a name, anything.”

“But he didn’t?”

“He didn’t know anything at that point.”

“And that’s another thing, Roly. You were awfully quick on the scene at the Maureen Heseltine murder. You weren’t on a call across the street. I checked. How did you get there so fast?”

“What? I…”

“Let me tell you how I think it happened. Micallef tipped you off, didn’t he? Either Stafford came unstrung and went crying to him, or he figured it out for himself. Maybe he did arrange the dates, or at least the second one. But he wanted you on the spot. You’re in bed with him, Roly. I just want to know if you go all the way together or not.”

“That’s rubbish.”

“Is it? How did you get there so quickly, then?”

“It’s my job, or maybe you hadn’t noticed?”

“How?”

“I got the call, just like you. I got there before you, that’s all.”

“You ran all the way?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“So why did you lie about it?”

“Is this some sort of interrogation? A trap? Are you wired? Because if you’re trying to fit me up—”

“Relax, Roly. I’m not wired. Pat me down if you want, though you might raise an eyebrow or two.”

Verity shifted in his seat “All right,” he grunted. “I believe you. I told you, it was always give-and-take with Micallef. We tolerated each other.”

“I think it was more a matter of give on your part and take on his. We got nothing out of this, Roly. Nothing. What did you get?”

“I resent that.”

“I daresay you do. But you know what really gets me? It’s not Micallef. It’s not even Stafford. You can argue he deserved what he got. It’s the girl.”

“Which girl?”

“You know damn well which girl. Jackie Simmons.”

“Why? Soft on her, were you? I’ve heard tell you—”

“Enough, Roly, enough,” said Banks. “Jackie Simmons told me about a weird client she’d had, one who went on about restoring her innocence, and she gave me a good description. We got her in and produced a passable photokit. We were getting close to Norman Stafford. But you know all about that, don’t you? Now, whether Micallef didn’t want us talking to him because of their property dealings, or whether he simply wanted him out of way because he’d killed two of his girls, I don’t know. I’d say for a man like that it’s probably as easy to replace an MP as it is a girl, so let’s say he suggested suicide—”

“You can’t prove any of this. It’s nothing but idle speculation.”

“Speculation, yes, but not so idle. And the question remains: How did Micallef know that Jackie Simmons gave me a description of Stafford? How did he know she’d talked?”

“Someone must have seen the two of you together. God knows, you were practically—”

“You knew, Roly. You were in and out of the office like you belonged. You saw all the case files, had access to all the leads as soon as we got them. What did you do? Make a copy of the photokit and show it to Micallef so he could plug his leaks? Including Jackie Simmons? You told him about her, didn’t you? You signed her death warrant, Roly, and that’s what I can’t forgive you for.”

Verity stabbed Banks’s chest with his finger. “You’re so fucking holier than thou, aren’t you? Just take a look at yourself, Banks. You’re pissed half the time, hungover the rest. You go off half-cocked at Micallef in the street in broad daylight. You chat up his girls, and everybody knows you’re screwing—”

“Stop right there,” said Banks. His voice was soft but the level of menace was high, and Verity picked up on it. “Stop right there. You don’t bring me or my personal life into this. Get it? This is between you and me.”

“Oh, really? Well, I don’t give a fuck. Do you want to know the truth, Banks? Do you want to know what people think around here, what they’re saying behind your back? You don’t fit. I might as well tell you. Word is getting round. You’re a hothead. A throwback. You’re not a team player. This city needs a different kind of detective for these times. One who knows the value of good intelligence. Of not rocking the boat too much.”

Banks snorted. “And that’s you, Roly? Because if that’s the case, I’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Well, why don’t you take the chance if it comes your way? You can’t win the war, you know, only the occasional battle.”

“Maybe so, but at least I don’t have to be a collaborator.”

“Are you calling me a rat? Is that what you’re calling me?”

“Forget it, Roly,” said Banks. “You’re right. We both know Micallef did it. He’s got away with it. One day we’ll get him for something else. Everything comes around.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Karma, Roly, karma.” Banks stood up, gave him a little salute and said, “Be seeing you.”

 

And that was it, really. Over twenty years ago. Banks had walked out of the Three Greyhounds that day knowing that he was right, that Roland Verity had passed on information to Micallef that had sealed Jackie’s fate.

Matthew Micallef was shot by an underage Russian prostitute called Olga Chevenko in the alley beside the Nellie Dean in November 1996. In her defense, she said she was jealous because he had been sleeping with another woman. DCI Roland Verity came under investigation on corruption charges around the same time, something to do with smuggling illegal, and often unwilling, young girls from Eastern Europe for the purposes of prostitution. He took early retirement. Word had it that he was living the life of Riley on the Costa del Sol.

Over the years, Banks had thought often of Pamela Morrison, Maureen Heseltine and, especially, of Jackie Simmons, but he had put the rest of the business out of his mind and got on with his new life in Yorkshire. He might not have found as much peace as he had hoped for when he took the transfer, but things had been better, for a while. His marriage to Sandra had even blossomed for a while, though it eventually ended in divorce.

Like everyone else in the know, he had assumed that Pamela’s and Maureen’s killer had delivered his own judgment and carried out his own sentence on himself, with or without a little help, and that Micallef had either killed, or ordered the killing of, Jackie Simmons as a warning to the rest of the girls, though Banks couldn’t prove it.

And now, as he stood looking out on a new day in Eastvale market square, he held in his hands something that he knew might change everything he had believed. The radio was tuned to some atonal piece on Radio 3, Schoenberg or Berg, but it seemed quite fitting.

Banks opened the envelope.

It was from Commander Oswald Albright, of the London Metropolitan Police, and the rather stiff, formal note told him that as a result of a recent “cold case” reinvestigation of the Jackie Simmons murder, which had always remained officially “unsolved,” a warrant had been issued for the arrest of former Detective Chief Inspector Roland Verity, and an extradition request had been sent to the Spanish government. The Spanish authorities had already been extremely cooperative in arranging for a DNA sample and were expected to throw up no barriers to Verity’s eventual extradition.

What comes around. Karma.

Banks wondered what Verity looked like now. Sunburned, wearing shorts and a Bermuda shirt, no doubt, probably run to fat. Did he still have that ridiculous mop of hair that used to flop over his face like a careless schoolboy’s?

Curious about a few points, Banks turned off the radio and picked up his phone. After a few minutes, he was put through to Commander Albright.

“Sir,” said the younger man, now at a higher rank than his old boss.

“Call me Alan, Ozzy. And shouldn’t I be calling you sir?”

“I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you? Do you remember a conversation we once had in the Pillars of Hercules many years ago? I was telling you about an article I’d read on DNA, and you—”

Banks laughed. “All right. All right, Ozzy. You were right. You were ahead of your time, and I was a dinosaur, even then.”

“Well, it just goes to show, doesn’t it, after all these years?”

“That’s what I was wondering about,” said Banks. “You’re a bit scant with the details. Why? How?”

“Well, it wasn’t down to me, if that was what you were thinking. I just got the team’s results and thought you’d want to know. It’s funny the way these cold case things work. Not my department. God knows if it’s alphabetical or by year, or whatever system they use. Anyway, the Jackie Simmons case came up for investigation. You liked her, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I did. She was a beautiful, spirited, intelligent girl, no matter what, and she didn’t deserve what happened to her. She had her problems, but don’t we all?”

“Too true. Christ, I’ll never forget the day you went for Micallef in Gerrard Street. I thought you were going to kill him.”

Banks fingered the scar beside his right eye. “I might have done if you and Benny hadn’t stopped me,” said Banks. “Not my finest hour. Back to the cold case investigation.”

“Oh, yes. Well, anyway, one of the team got suspicious when he started checking out the personalities involved and saw Roly Verity’s name. As you might know, Verity left the Met under a bit of a cloud. Nothing proven, nothing serious, at any rate, but even so…This was in the nineties, a bit after your time. We couldn’t have known, not back in eighty-five.”

“How deep did it go?”

“A lot deeper than people had originally thought. He had serious gambling debts at the time of the Soho killings, and it turns out Micallef had bought some of them. We know Micallef himself had an alibi for Jackie Simmons, and so, it turns out, did Benny Fraser, his chief enforcer. The alibis could have been manufactured, of course, and there were others who could have done it, including the Chinese, but the young lad, a fresh pair of eyes and all, decided to have a closer look at Roly. The thinking was that he’d done it at Micallef’s request to get out of his debts and, from Micallef’s point of view, it put Roly in his power ever after, tied them together. They were already close enough, and this was the clincher. Of all the people involved, it turns out that Roly Verity didn’t have much of an alibi. He’d been at the celebration party with us, on and off, but remember he didn’t come on with us to the club, that was just you, me and…what was his name?”

“Burgess,” said Banks. “Dirty Dick Burgess.”

“Ah, yes. Burgess. How could I forget? I wonder what happened to him.”

“Counterterrorism,” said Banks. “Very hush-hush.”

“I’d never have thought it,” said Albright. “Anyway, once our bright spark found out that Verity could have done it, he started going over the forensics. And that brought us to the DNA. You remember the lab got skin samples from under Jackie Simmons’s fingernails? Anyway, she’d scratched her killer as he strangled her.”

“Will the DNA sample the Spanish took from Verity stand up?”

“The CPS says it will. All aboveboard, agreed to, witnessed, signed for, the lot. Between you and me, he didn’t have much choice. He didn’t know why they were doing it, but he thought his future on the Costa del Sol depended on it.”

“Well, in a way it did, didn’t it?” said Banks. “Well done. Good work, Ozzy.”

“As I said, it wasn’t me. The only fear is that he might not survive the journey. According to the Spanish authorities, his heart’s just about conked out.”

“Roly’s heart conked out years ago,” said Banks. “Anyway, Ozzy, you’re the bearer of good tidings. Thank you. We must get together sometime when I’m down your way.”

“Indeed,” said Albright. “I don’t drink now, so it’ll have to be Starbucks, I’m afraid. Oh, before I forget, I bumped into someone who said to say hello to you. Part of the cold case team, as it turns out.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A DCI called Linda. Linda Jameson. Says she used to know you.”

Jesus Christ. Linda. Banks felt a jolt through his chest. He tried to keep the emotion he felt out of his voice. “Yes, I believe I knew her once,” he said. “Done well for herself, then?”

“Very. She’s head of the cold case Psychological Profiling Unit. One of the few actual cops doing the job. Went to university part-time and everything. Got all the degrees.”

“Good for her,” said Banks. “I always thought she was a bright lass.”

“Course, back then we laughed at all that stuff.”

“Not you, Ozzy,” said Banks. “You had more foresight than the lot of us put together. Look, I’d better go now. Thanks for the good news. Hope to see you soon.”

Albright said his farewells and Banks put down the phone. Linda. Well, he had once told her that she ought to be a psychologist or something, and now she’d gone and done it. Had he treated her badly? He didn’t think so. He remembered their last meeting at her Waterloo flat, his home away from home. She shed a few tears, they had a bit too much to drink, a long good-bye kiss, too long, really…. It was all so many years ago, and they had never been in touch since. For a moment, he thought he could smell chamomile tea and hear the rustling of a silk kimono.

A coach pulled into the market square and disgorged its cargo of tourists. Banks remembered that he had been thinking about getting away for a while, just for a break, somewhere different. He reached for his phone to ring his travel agent and find out what was on offer, but before he could dial he heard a tap at his door.

“Yes?” he called.

The door opened and Annie Cabbot stepped in, looking good with her new short layered haircut, a few highlights here and there, tight jeans and a simple mauve top. She frowned at him. “Something wrong?”

“No,” he said. “Nothing. Just an old case. Brings back memories. What is it?”

“Stabbing on the East Side Estate. Are you interested, or do you want me to take Winsome?”

Banks looked out at the clear blue sky through his window, then back at Annie. He smiled. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “Memory Lane gets a bit stuffy sometimes. I could do with a breath of fresh air.”