“That’s right.”
Tracy paused. “Look, Dad… I just want you to know… I mean, I know you worry about me sometimes. I know you and Mum worried about me when we were all together, but you didn’t really need to. I’m… I mean, I never did anything like that.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“No, Dad. You don’t know. You can’t know. Even if you knew what signs to look for, you weren’t there. I don’t mean to be nasty about it. I know about the demands of your job and all, and I know you loved us, but you just weren’t there. Anyway, I’m telling you the truth. I know you think I’ve always been little Miss Goody Two-shoes, but it’s not true. I did try smoking some marijuana once, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel. And once a girl gave me some Ecstasy at a dance. I didn’t like that, either. It made my heart beat too fast and all I did was sweat and feel frightened. I suppose you could say I’m a failure as far as drugs are concerned.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Banks wanted to ask if she’d been sexually active at fourteen, too, but he didn’t think it would be a fair question to put to his daughter. She would tell him what she wanted when she wanted to.
“Anyway,” Tracy went on, “I’m sure you’re very busy. And I’m sure if anyone’s going to catch him, it’ll be you.”
Banks laughed. “I appreciate your confidence in me. Take care, love. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye, Dad.”
Banks hung up the phone gently and let the silence enfold him again. He always had that same empty, lonely feeling after he’d spoken to someone he loved over the telephone, as if the silence had somehow become charged with that person’s absence. He shook it off. It was a mild enough night outside and he still had time to go to his little balcony by the falls for a cigarette and a finger or two of Laphroaig.
10
“Barry Clough,” said Detective Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess, chewing on a piece of particularly tough steak. “Now there’s an interesting bloke.”
It was Saturday lunchtime, and Banks and Burgess were sitting in a pub just off Oxford Street, the air around them laced with smoke and conversation. It was a mild day, much warmer than the last time Banks had been to London in early November. The pub was crowded with Christmas shoppers taking a break, and one brave couple actually sat at a table outside. Burgess was drinking lager and lime, but Banks had only coffee with his chicken in a basket. He had a busy day ahead and needed to stay alert.
He had phoned Burgess before leaving Eastvale that morning. If anyone could uncover information on Clough, it was Dirty Dick Burgess. He had recently got himself into a bit of trouble for dragging his feet over the investigation into the murder of a black youth. As a result, he’d been shunted off to the National Criminal Intelligence Service, where he couldn’t do so much harm. It didn’t seem to bother Burgess that he had been identified as a racist; he took it all in his stride with his usual lack of concern.
The two had known each other for years, and while they had tentatively come to enjoy each other’s company, their relationship remained mostly confrontational. Banks especially didn’t share Burgess’s strong right-wing leanings, nor did he concur with his racist and sexist opinions. In his turn, Burgess had called Banks a “pinko.” About the only thing they had in common was that both were from working-class backgrounds. Burgess, though, unlike Banks, was the Margaret Thatcher kind of working-class lad who had come to the fore in the eighties; someone who had triumphed over a deprived background, then devoted himself to the pursuit of material benefits and felt no sympathy or solidarity with any of his class who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow suit.
Banks, or so he hoped, retained some compassion for his fellowman, especially the downtrodden, and occasionally even the criminal. It was difficult to maintain such a view, being a copper all those years, but he had sworn to himself not long after finding Dawn Wadley’s dismembered body in the Soho alley that as soon as he stopped caring, he would quit. He had thought that his move from the Met to the softer patch of Eastvale would have made life easier, but somehow, without the sheer volume of human misery that had been his lot in the city, every case seemed to take more of a toll on him. It was similar to the way people found it hard to respond to the deaths of millions of foreigners in a flood or an earthquake, but fell to pieces when a kindly old neighbor was run over.
“Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind,” as John Donne had said, and Banks knew exactly what he meant.
The odd thing about working day-in, day-out against murderers, pimps, drug dealers, muggers and the rest was that you could distance yourself. Partly you did it by developing a dark sense of humor, telling tasteless jokes at crime scenes, getting pissed with the lads after attending a postmortem, and partly you just built a wall around your feelings. But in Eastvale, where he had more time to devote himself to important cases – especially murders – his defenses had been slowly eroded until he was nothing but a bundle of raw nerve ends. Each case took a little bit more of his soul, or so he felt.
Banks remembered some of the victims, especially the young ones – Deborah Harrison, Sally Lumb, Caroline Hartley. He had come to know and care about all these victims. Even Gloria Shackleton, murdered long before Banks had been born, had come to obsess him only a few months ago. And now Emily Riddle. It didn’t matter what anyone said about not becoming personally involved with cases, Banks thought. You had to be personally involved; there had to be something more at stake than mere crime statistics.
“Problem is,” Burgess went on, “we don’t really know enough about him.”
“Any form?”
Burgess sniffed. “Minor drug bust in ’74. Half a pound of Nepalese black. Said it was for his own consumption. Well, I believed him – I could go through that much in a week easily – but the magistrates didn’t. They gave him eighteen months, out in nine.”
“Is he still dealing?”
“Not that we know of. If he is, he’s not in the premier league.” Burgess pushed his plate away. “Too bloody tough for my teeth,” he said. Apart from his crooked and stained teeth, Banks noticed, Burgess seemed in better shape than the last time they had met. He had even lost a little weight. He still had his graying hair tied in a ponytail, which irritated Banks, who thought that middle-aged men with ponytails looked like prize wankers, and his gray eyes were as sharp, as cynical and as world-weary as ever.
The last time they had met, Banks remembered, was in Amsterdam over a year ago, when Burgess had got pissed and fallen in a canal. Banks had helped him out and taken him back to the hotel, and the last he had seen of him, Burgess was trailing dirty canal water across the lobby, his shoes squelching as he went, head held high, trying to walk in a straight line, with dignity. He had been wearing the same scuffed leather jacket he was wearing today.
“How does he pay for that bloody great villa of his?” Banks asked.
“Which one?”
“Little Venice. You mean he’s got more than one?”
“Sure. There’s two that we know of. The one in Little Venice and one outside Arenys de Mar, in Spain.”
“So where does his money come from?”
“He’s a gangster.”
“So I’ve heard. I didn’t know they were back in fashion.”
“They never really went away. They just adapted, changed names, switched rackets.”
“What sort of a gangster is Clough, then?”
Burgess lit one of his small cigars before answering. “First off,” he said, “he’s got a legitimate front. He owns a very successful bar in Clerkenwell. Popular with the City Boys. Gets some good bands, serves first-class food and booze. You know the type of place: ‘How about a little coke and crème caramel to end the perfect evening, darling?’ Then they go off home for the perfect shag. We know he’s into all sorts of things, but we’ve never been able to get him on anything. He runs things, delegates, doesn’t get his hands dirty. Basically, he bankrolls dodgy or downright criminal operations and rakes in a big cut. As far as we know, he made a pile of money managing and promoting bands in the music business years ago and invested it in a life of crime.”