The irony was, given that his A level results weren’t good enough for university – the first bone of contention between him and his parents – he might as well not have bothered staying on. He’d spent far too much time with Kay, away from his studies, listening to Hendrix, Dylan and Pink Floyd, reading books that weren’t on the syllabus.
Shortly after the break up, Banks moved to London and went to pursue business studies at the poly. A year or two after that and several brief, unsatisfactory, casual relationships later, he met Sandra.
A dog barked as he reached the edge of the estate by the railway lines. A local train rattled by, one or two silhouettes visible through the windows. Banks started towards home. He had only got a few yards when the mobile in his pocket rang. He had forgotten to turn it off.
‘Alan? I hope I’m not disturbing your party.’
It was Annie Cabbot. Banks wondered how he would have felt if he had gone in with Kay and the phone had rung just as they were… it didn’t bear thinking about.
‘No,’ he said quietly. He happened to be passing the telephone boxes at the end of the street, so he decided to stand inside one and take the call. That way he didn’t seem like one of those silly buggers walking around talking to his girlfriend on his mobile phone.
‘I’m sorry to call so late,’ Annie said.
‘That’s all right. Aren’t you off duty?’
‘Yes, but I was waiting to hear from DS Ryan in Loughborough. He was out at the pictures.’
‘DS Ryan? So this is about Geoff Salisbury?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong, Alan? You sound funny. Distant.’
‘So would you if you were standing in the middle of a council estate talking on your mobile.’
Annie laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m not quite as conservative as you are.’
‘OK. Point taken. What did this DS Ryan come up with?’
‘It’s interesting, actually,’ said Annie. ‘At least, I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Fill me in.’
‘As Winsome told you, Salisbury was actually convicted of fraud. It was a neighbour, an elderly woman, and he started by helping out around the place, that sort of thing.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ said Banks. ‘Go on.’
‘Seems he managed to come between her and her children and get himself written into her will. She didn’t have much. Only a few hundred quid and an insurance policy, but he copped for most of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘The family contested it. Undue influence, that sort of thing. Hard to prove. Anyway, in the end Mr Salisbury won out.’
‘Where does the conviction come in?’
‘Just getting to that. During proceedings, it came out that Geoff Salisbury had persuaded the woman to invest in a non-existent business venture of his. A garage.’
‘Ah-hah.’
‘Again, it wasn’t much. Only two hundred quid.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Banks. ‘Is a man who preys on the poor any less guilty than one who preys on the rich?’
‘I’m afraid that’s a bit too philosophical for me at this time on a Sunday evening, but at a guess I’d say even more so, wouldn’t you?’
‘I would. Thanks a lot, Annie. Above and beyond, and all that.’
‘Oh, that’s not all.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. While all this was going on, Mr Salisbury’s mother died. Well, she was old and-’
‘Sick?’
‘How did you guess? She had diabetes. Anyway, she died. Or-’
Banks felt a tingle go up his spine. ‘Or what?’
‘Or he helped her on her way. Nothing was ever proven. There weren’t even any charges. But DS Ryan was one of the investigating officers, and he says he was suspicious enough to ask for an autopsy. Negative. The woman was old, she went hypoglycaemic, and that was that.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Hypoglycaemic? It’s something that happens to diabetics, apparently, caused by too much insulin or low food intake.’
‘He gave her an overdose of insulin?’
‘No evidence of that.’
‘But someone could have brought it about, this hypoglycaemic coma?’
‘Yes. Hard to prove, though.’
‘What did DS Ryan say?’
‘DS Ryan said that his older sister is a diabetic and she always keeps her bedside drawer full of Mars bars or chocolate of some kind for just that sort of eventuality.’
‘But I thought diabetics had to avoid sugar like the plague?’
‘So did I. Apparently, they do. Unless they go hypoglycaemic. Then they need a hit of sugar.’
‘Or?’
‘Coma. Death. And in this case there were other complications. Weak heart, for example.’
‘And DS Ryan says?’
‘DS Ryan says the doctor didn’t find any traces of sugar products close to Mrs Salisbury’s bed, and he found that in itself suspicious. In his opinion – DS Ryan’s, that is – Geoff Salisbury was responsible, knowing it was just a matter of time before she’d need a sugar fix.’
‘He killed his own mother. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Mercy killing, but killing all the same.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Banks. ‘This changes things.’
‘It does?’
‘I’d been thinking of leaving well alone.’
‘But not now?’
‘Not now. Thanks a lot, Annie.’
‘My pleasure. See you tomorrow?’
‘OK. And thanks again.’
Missing Mars bars. A faulty oxygen-tank valve. Banks wondered who else Geoff Salisbury had assisted in their final moments on earth. He also wondered how long it would be before his own father suffered that fatal angina attack and was unable to find his nitroglycerine tablets in time. Putting his phone in his pocket, he headed straight for Geoff Salisbury’s house.
20
‘Look, I can see you’re not going to let this drop, are you?’ said Salisbury when Banks had told him he knew about the conviction. ‘So I’ve been to prison. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I served my time.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Banks, ‘it is something to be ashamed of. But those who’ve been there rarely seem to think so. Innocent, were you, like everyone else?’
‘No. I did it. I was desperate and she didn’t need the money, so I conned her. I’m not saying I’m proud of that, what I did, but like I said, I served my time, paid my debt to society.’
Debt to society. Roy’s words exactly and an odd phrase when you really thought about it. ‘Would that it were as simple as that,’ Banks said. Salisbury’s living room wasn’t quite as clean and tidy as he had expected, but perhaps he used all his energy on other people’s homes and had none left for his own. Dust gathered in the corners, the carpet was threadbare and lumps of mould floated on the half-empty coffee cup on the table.
‘All right,’ said Salisbury, ‘suppose, just suppose that I was ripping people off. Some people might actually believe I’m a power for good around here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘An estate like this, the old folks need someone on their side, someone to look out for them. They die off, you see, and when they do it’s mostly young ’uns come in off the waiting list. You know the sort. Young lasses barely out of school with three kids and no father in sight. Or that lot next door to your mum and dad’s. Scum. Now you’re a copper, Alan, you tell me if he doesn’t have prison written all over him. And as for the kids, well, it’ll only be a matter of time. And if it’s not scum like that it’s foreigners. Gyppos. Darkies. Pakis. Them with the turbans. All with their funny ways, slaughtering goats in the street and whatever, not giving a toss for our customs and traditions and way of life. See, the old folks, they get frightened when everything around them starts to feel threatening and unfamiliar. Their world’s changing so fast and their bodies can’t do what they used to do, so they end up feeling lost and scared. That’s where someone like me comes in. I reassure them, do odd jobs, give them a friendly and familiar face to relate to. So what if I make a few bob out of it? Hypothetically.’