“It’s not often we get visitors,” she said. “Is it, darling?”
“Hardly ever,” her husband said, glaring at Banks. “Especially policemen.”
Banks was beginning to feel as if he had wandered onto a film set, a period piece of some kind. Everything about the place was old-fashioned, from the flower-patterned wallpaper to the brass andirons. Even the teacups with their tiny handles and gold rims reminded him of something from his grandmother’s china cabinet. Yet these people were only perhaps ten or fifteen years older than he was.
“I really am sorry for interrupting your evening,” Banks said, balancing the teacup and saucer on his lap, “but this address has come up in connection with a case I’m working on back up in North Yorkshire.” It wasn’t entirely true, but the Townsends weren’t to know that Superintendent Gervaise had technically closed down the investigation and sent him packing.
“How exciting,” said Edith. “In what way?”
“How long have you lived here?” Banks asked.
“Ever since we were married,” her husband answered. “Since 1963.”
“Do you ever rent out the house?”
“What a strange question,” Edith said. “No, we don’t.”
“Do you rent any of the rooms or floors as flats or bedsits?”
“No. It’s our home. Why would we rent any of it?”
“Some people do, that’s all. To help pay the bills.”
“We can manage all that perfectly well by ourselves.”
“Have you been on holiday recently?”
“We took a Caribbean cruise last winter.”
“Other than that?” Banks asked.
“Not recently, no.”
“Did you use a house sitter?”
“If you must know, our daughter drops by every other day and takes care of the place. She lives in West Kilburn. It’s not far away.”
“You haven’t been away even for only a few days over the past month or so?”
“No,” she repeated. “Lester still works in the city. He should have retired by now, but they say they still need him.”
“What do you do, Mr. Townsend?” Banks asked.
“Insurance.”
“Might anyone else have... er... used your house, say, while you were out one evening?”
“Not to our knowledge,” Edith answered. “And we don’t often go out in the evenings. The streets are so unsafe these days.”
Banks put his cup and saucer down on the table beside his chair and reached for the envelope in his pocket. He took out the photographs and passed them first to Edith. “Do you recognize either of these men?” he asked.
Edith examined the photos closely and passed them to her husband. “No,” she said. “Should I?”
“You, sir?” Banks asked Townsend.
“Never seen either of them in my life,” he answered, handing the photographs back to Banks.
“You do agree it’s this house, don’t you?” Banks asked.
Edith took the photos again. “Well, it certainly looks like it,” she said. “But it can’t be, can it?”
She passed the photographs to Townsend, who turned to Banks without even reexamining them and said, “What on earth is all this about? What’s going on? You come barging in here upsetting my wife and showing pictures of... of I don’t know what, asking damn-fool questions.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Banks said. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone. One of our technical support officers was able to enhance the digital photographs I just showed you and read the street name. This street name. As you can see, the facade in the photos also resembles this house.”
“Couldn’t he have made a mistake?” Townsend said, handing the photos back. “After all, they’re a bit blurred and you can’t just blindly trust all modern technology, can you?”
“Mistakes are made,” said Banks. “But not this time. I don’t think so.”
Townsend stuck his chin out. “Then what’s your explanation? Eh?” Banks put the photographs back, pocketed the envelope and stood up to leave. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “But one way or another I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t be any more help,” said Edith, as she led Banks to the door.
“Have you ever heard of a man called Julian Fenner?” Banks asked. “He works in Import-Export?”
“No.”
“Laurence Silbert? Mark Hardcastle?”
“No, I’m afraid neither of those names is familiar to me.”
“Do you have a son?” he asked. “Or any other close relative who might have used the house in your absence?”
“Only our daughter.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“She’s away. In America. Besides, I can’t imagine any reason why she would think of coming here unless we asked her to. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. We can’t tell you anything more.”
And Banks found himself standing on the doorstep scratching his head.
Medburn wasn’t much more than a postwar council estate with a pub, a post office and a garage clustered around the green, where bored kids lounged on the benches and scared off the few old folks who lived there. The Red Rooster had been there first, at the crossroads, and it was one of those ugly sprawling pubs with a brick-and-tile facade that had recently been taken over by a brewery chain and tarted up a bit—long bar, family area, children’s playroom, a bouncy castle in the garden, brass numbers screwed to every table to make ordering easier. And woe betide you if you forgot to memorize your table number, or it somehow slipped your mind as you waited at the bar half an hour to order, because there was usually only one person serving, and it always seemed to be his first day on the job.
This one’s name tag identified him as Liam, and he didn’t look old enough to be serving in a pub, Annie thought. Luckily, the place wasn’t too busy around half past five on a Wednesday afternoon—it was the kind of pub that filled up later, after dinner, when the quizzes or karaoke started, and at lunchtimes on weekends—and Annie and Winsome had no trouble getting a couple of drinks and putting in an order for table 17.
“What’s all this about, then?” Winsome asked, when they sat down with their drinks. A pint of Abbot’s for Annie and a glass of red wine for Winsome. “I thought the Hardcastle business was over and done with. Superintendent Gervaise said so.”
“It is,” said Annie. “At least officially.” She debated whether to bring Winsome into the picture. If she could trust anyone else in Western Area HQ, it was Winsome, but she could also be prudish and judgmental, and she tended to do things by the book. In the end, Annie decided to tell her. Even if Winsome disapproved, at least she wouldn’t go telling Superintendent Gervaise or anyone else.
“So DCI Banks is in London following this up instead of on leave?” Winsome said, when Annie had finished.
“Yes. Well, he’s officially on leave, but... he’s not convinced.”
“And you?”
“Let’s just say I’m intrigued.”
“And he wants you to help at this end?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why we’re sitting in this lame pub in this gross village waiting for some naff food.”
Annie smiled. “That’s just about it, Winsome.”
Winsome muttered something underneath her breath.
“Want in?” said Annie.
“It looks like I’m stuck here, doesn’t it? You’ve got the car keys.”
“There’s always a bus.”
“On the hour every hour. It’s five past six.”
“Maybe it’ll be late.”
Winsome held her palm up. “Okay, all right, enough. I’m in. Unless you start crossing any serious boundaries.”
“What’s a serious boundary?”
“One you know when you’re crossing it.”