“No. I just knew. A woman can tell about these things, that’s all.”
“Did you ask him about her?”
“I broached the subject once or twice.”
“What happened?”
“He changed it.” She smiled. “He has a way.”
“How often did you see each other?”
“When we were going out?”
“Yes.”
“Just once or twice a week. Mostly late in the week, weekends sometimes. He travels a lot on business. Anyway, he’s usually at home every week at some time, at least for a day or two.”
“What’s his business?”
“Dunno. That’s another thing he never said much about. I can’t say I was really that interested, either. I mean, it’s boring, isn’t it, talking about business. I liked going out with Robert because he was fun. He could leave his work at home.”
“Did he smoke?”
“What an odd question. Yes, as a matter of fact. Not much, though.”
“What brand?”
“Benson and Hedges. I don’t mind people smoking.”
Encouraged, Banks slipped his Silk Cut out of his pocket. Pamela smiled and brought him a glass ashtray. “What was he like?” Banks asked. “What kind of things did you used to do together?”
Pamela looked at Banks with a glint of naughty humor in her eyes and raised her eyebrows. Banks felt himself flush. “I mean where did you used to go?” he said quickly.
“Yeah, I know. Hmmm… Well, we’d go out for dinner about once a week. Brasserie 44 – you know, down by the river – or La Grillade, until it moved. He likes good food. Let’s see… sometimes we’d go to concerts at the Town Hall, if I wasn’t playing, of course, but he’s not very fond of classical music, to be honest. Prefers that dreadful trad jazz. And sometimes we’d just stay in, order a pizza or a curry and watch telly if there was something good on. Or rent a video. He likes oldies. Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, that kind of thing. So do I. Let me see… we’d go to Napoleon’s every once in a while-”
“Napoleon’s?”
“Yeah. You know, the casino. And he took me to the races a couple of times – once at Pontefract and once at Doncaster. That’s about it, really. Oh, and we went dancing now and then. Quite fleet on his feet is Robert.”
Banks coughed and stubbed out his cigarette. “Dancing? The casino?”
“Yes. He loves a flutter, does Robert. It worried me sometimes the way he’d go through a hundred or more some nights.” She shrugged. “But it wasn’t my place to say, was it? I mean it wasn’t as if we were married or anything, or even living together. And he seemed to have plenty of money. Not that that’s what interested me about him.” She pulled at her necklace again. “Can’t you tell me what’s going on, Chief Inspector? It’s not the same person that was murdered, is it? I was so upset when I saw the paper this morning. Tell me it’s a case of mistaken identity.”
Banks shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe he had a double. Did he ever say anything about being married?”
“No, never.”
“Did he have an appendix scar?”
This time, Pamela blushed. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he did. But so do lots of other people. I had mine out when I was sixteen.”
“When you spent time together,” Banks said, “did he always come here, to your house? Didn’t you ever visit him at his hotel?”
She frowned. “Hotel? What hotel?”
“The one he stayed at when he was in town, I assume. Did you always meet here?”
“Of course not. Sometimes he came here, certainly. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, and I don’t care what the neighbors say. Bloody racists, some of them. You know, my mum and dad came over to Shipley to work in the woollen mills in 1952. Nineteen fifty-two. They even changed their name from Jaffrey to Jeffreys because it sounded more English. Can you believe it? I was born here, brought up here, went to school and university here, and some of them still call me a bleeding Paki.” She shrugged. “What can you do? Anyway, you were saying?”
“I was asking why you never saw him at his hotel.”
“Oh, that’s easy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You see, it can’t be the same person, can it? That proves it.” She leaned forward quickly and clapped her hands. The bracelet spiralled. “You see, Robert didn’t stay at any hotel. Sometimes he came here, yes, but not always. Other times I went to his place. His flat. He’s got a flat in Headingley.”
3
Banks turned the Yale key in the lock and the three of them stood on the threshold of Robert Calvert’s Headingley flat. It was in the nice part of Headingley, more West Park, Banks noted, not the scruffy part around Hyde Park that was honeycombed with student bedsits.
It hadn’t been easy getting in. Pamela Jeffreys didn’t have a key, so they had to ask one of the tenants in the building to direct them to the agency that handled rentals. Naturally, it was closed at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, so then they had to get hold of one of the staff at home and arrange for her to come in, grumbling all the way, open up the office and give them a spare key.
And no, she told them, she had never met Robert Calvert. The man was a model tenant; he paid his rent on time, and that was all that mattered. One of the secretaries probably handed him the key, but he’d had the place about eighteen months and turnover in secretaries was pretty high. However, if Banks wanted to come back on Monday morning… Still, Banks reflected as they stood at the front door, all in all it had taken only about an hour and a half from the first time they had heard of the place, so that wasn’t bad going.
“Better not touch anything,” Banks said as they stood in the hallway. “Which is the living room?” he asked Pamela.
“That one, on the left.”
The door was ajar and Banks nudged it open with his elbow. The bottom of the door rubbed over the fitted beige carpet. Susan Gay and Pamela walked in behind him.
“There’s only this room, a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom,” Pamela said. “It’s not very big, but it’s cozy.”
The living room was certainly not the kind of place Banks could imagine Mary Rothwell caring much for. Equipped with all the usual stuff – TV, video, stereo, a few jazz compact discs, books, armchairs, gas fireplace – it smelled of stale smoke and had that comfortable, lived-in feel Banks had never sensed at Arkbeck Farm. Perhaps it was something to do with the old magazines – mostly jazz and racing – strewn over the scratched coffee-table, the overflowing ashtray, the worn upholstery on the armchair by the fire, or the framed photographs of a younger-looking Rothwell on the mantelpiece. On the wall hung a framed print of Monet’s “Waterloo Bridge, Grey Day.”