Dare she do it? What would she say if she stepped out in front of him on a deserted footpath? What would he do? Would he get physical, perhaps even try to get rid of her permanently? Having seen him again, Annie didn’t think she need worry on that score.
But perhaps, when it came down to it, what worried her more than what he might do to her in a lonely place was what she might do to him.
The lights were blazing in Barry Clough’s Little Venice villa when Banks and Burgess arrived shortly after eight that Saturday evening. Someone had even rigged up some Christmas lights on the facade of the house and put up a big tree in the garden.
“Bit early for a party, isn’t it?” said Burgess, glancing at his watch.
“It’s never too early for this lot,” said Banks. “Their whole life is one long party.”
“Now, now, Banks. Isn’t envy one of the seven deadly sins? Thou must not covet thy neighbor’s arse, and all that.”
The iron gates were open, but a minder stood at the front door asking for invitations. He wasn’t one of the two Banks had seen on his previous visit. Maybe Clough went through minders the way some people went through chauffeurs or maids. Hard to get good help these days. Banks and Burgess showed him their warrant cards, but he clearly wasn’t programmed to deal with anything like that. The way he screwed up his face in concentration as he looked at them, Banks wondered if he even got past the photographs.
“These mean we get in free,” said Burgess.
“I’ll have to check with the boss. Wait here.”
The minder opened the door to go inside, and before he could close it, Burgess had followed him, with Banks not far behind. Banks realized he had to remember whom he was with, what a loose cannon Burgess could be, and how he’d have to be on his toes. Still, he had invited the bastard, and it was good to have company you could depend on if the shit hit the fan. Burgess wasn’t one to shirk trouble, no matter what form it came in.
There were people all over the place. All sorts of people. Young, old, tough-looking, artsy-fartsy, well-dressed, scruffy, black, white – you name it. Music blasted through speakers that seemed to be positioned, discreetly out of sight, just about everywhere. Cream’s “Tales of Brave Ulysses,” Banks noticed. How retro. Still, Clough would have been in his mid-twenties when he was a roadie for the punk band, which meant he had been in his teens when Cream came along, pretty much the same age as Banks. The air reeked of marijuana smoke.
The minder, who had noticed his mistake, elbowed his way roughly through the crowds in the hallway, upsetting one or two less-than-sober guests, whose drinks he spilled, and returned before the song finished with Barry Clough in tow.
The man himself.
“Did we come at a bad time, Barry?” Burgess asked.
After the initial cold anger had fleeted across his chiseled features, Clough smiled with all the warmth of a piranha, clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Not at all. Not at all.” The black T-shirt he was wearing stretched tight over his biceps, and other muscles bulged at the chest and shoulders. All he needed for the complete rebel look was a cigarette packet shoved up the sleeve. He wore no jewelry this time, and he was wearing his graying hair loose, tucked behind his ears on each side and hanging down to his shoulders. Banks was glad of that; he didn’t think he could handle matching ponytails. The loose hair made Clough look younger and softened his appearance a little, but there was still no mistaking the icy menace in his eyes and the feral threat in his sharply angled features.
“Tales of Brave Ulysses” segued into “swlabr.” Someone bumped into Banks from behind and muttered an apology. He turned and saw it was an attractive young girl, not much older than Emily had been. He vaguely recognized her from somewhere, but before he could remember where, she had disappeared into the crowd.
“Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?” Banks asked Clough.
Clough appeared to consider the question for a moment, head cocked to one side, as if it were his decision, a not-so-subtle way of gaining a psychological edge in an interview. It was wasted on Banks. He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Up there, for example,” he said.
Finally, Clough gave a minuscule nod and led them up the stairs. The first room they went into turned out to be occupied by a couple squirming and moaning on a pile of the guests’ coats.
“It’s unhygienic, that,” said Burgess. “I go to a party, you know, I don’t expect to go home with my raincoat covered in other people’s love juices.”
Clough twisted one corner of his tight lips into what passed for a smile. “They’ll be too fucking stoned to notice,” he said, then he turned to Banks. “You’re not drugs squad, are you?”
Banks shook his head.
“It’s just that there are a lot of important people here. Even a few coppers. Anything like that would be terribly messy. It would make the Stones drugs bust look like a vicarage tea party.”
“I remember that one,” said Burgess. “I wasn’t there, but I always wanted to meet the young lady with the Mars bar.” A skinny young girl with a joint in her hand walked past them in the hallway. “In fact,” Burgess went on, grabbing the joint from her, “some of us coppers quite enjoy a little recreational marijuana every now and then.” He took a deep toke, held the smoke awhile, then let it out slowly. “Paki black? Not bad.” Then he dropped the joint on the carpet and trod on it. “Sorry, Banks,” he said when he’d done. “Forgot you might have wanted a toke. On the other hand, you don’t strike me as the toking type.”
“That’s all right,” said Banks, who actually wouldn’t have minded trying the stuff again on another occasion. But he was keeping his mind clear for Emily. Instead, he lit a cigarette.
“I see,” said Clough, staring down at the burned spot on the carpet. He looked at Burgess. “You’re the bad cop and he’s the good cop, right?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
A muscular young man with bleached-blond hair came up to them as they walked down the upstairs hall. “Everything all right?” he asked Clough. “Only I didn’t think Mr. Burgess here was on the invitation list.”
“Yeah, everything’s fine and dandy. Maybe we should remember to add him in the future. Seems like the life and soul of the party type to me.”
“Who’s that?” Banks asked Burgess.
“Jamie Gilbert. Nasty little psycho. He’s Barry’s chief enforcer.”
Gilbert walked away laughing and Clough turned to them. “Jamie’s my administrative assistant,” he said.
“Well, that covers a multitude of sins,” Burgess shot back.
They finally found an empty room on the top floor. Completely empty. No furniture. White walls. White floorboards.
“Is this the best you can do?” said Banks.
Clough shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
At least it was protected for the most part from the music downstairs, and there was a light. Trying to conduct an interview while sitting on the floor wouldn’t be very dignified, so they all chose to stand and lean against walls. It gave a strange sort of three-sided edge to the conversation.
Clough folded his arms and leaned back. “So, what’s it all about, then?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know,” said Banks.
“Humor me. Last time I saw you, you were a friend of Emily’s father.”
“I thought she was called Louisa?”
“No, you didn’t. You knew what her name was. I only found out from the papers.”
“So you do know what happened?”
“I know she’s dead, yes. Nothing to do with me.”
“Well, excuse us for thinking you’re a good bet,” Burgess cut in. He had agreed to let Banks do most of the interviewing, But Banks knew he would be impossible to shut up completely. Clough stared at Burgess as if he were a piece of dog shit on his shoe. He didn’t know that Burgess thrived on looks like that; they only made him better at his job.