‘I’m glad you’re here, actually,’ Banks said. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a quiet word with you.’
‘Oh? What about?’
‘Your sticky fingers.’
‘Come again?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. Don’t come the innocent. It doesn’t work with me.’
‘I understand that your job must make you cynical, but why are you picking on me? What have I done?’
‘You know what you’ve done.’
‘Look, if it’s that business about the change, I thought I’d already made it clear to you it was a genuine mistake. I thought we’d put it behind us.’
‘I might have done if it hadn’t been for a few other interesting titbits I’ve heard since I’ve been down here.’
‘It’s that Summerville girl, isn’t it? If she’s been saying things, she’s lying. She doesn’t like me.’
‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘that at least shows good taste on her part. It doesn’t matter who’s been saying what. The point is that I’ve been hearing from a number of independent sources about things sort of disappearing when you’re in the vicinity. Money, for example.’
Salisbury turned red. ‘I resent that.’
‘I should imagine you do. But is it true?’
‘Of course it isn’t. I don’t know who’s-’
‘I told you, it doesn’t matter who.’
Salisbury stood up. ‘Well, it does to me. You might not believe it, but there are people who have it in for me. Not everybody appreciates what I do for the decent folk around here, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Never you mind. Now, if you’ve finished with your groundless accusations, I’ve got work to do. Your parents’ golden wedding might not be important to you, but it is to me. Arthur and Ida mean a lot to me.’
Before Banks could say another word, Salisbury had gone into the front room and started up the vacuum. Irritated both by Salisbury’s reaction and his own fumbling accusation, Banks went across to the newsagent’s to see if he could pick up a Sunday Times.
16
Banks went to the Bricklayer’s Inn by himself for a quiet pint on Sunday lunchtime, taking the newspaper with him and promising to be back by two o’clock for lunch. It felt like his first real break that weekend, and he made the most of it, even getting the crossword three-quarters done, which was good for him without Annie’s help. On his way home he took cover in the rain-lashed bus shelter by the gates of the derelict factory to call Annie in Eastvale. Though the shelter hadn’t been there all those years ago, Banks still couldn’t help but think of Mandy, with her Julie Christie lips and the faraway look in her eyes. He wondered what had happened to her, whether she had ever found that distant thing she had seemed to be dreaming of. Probably not; most people didn’t. Though it seemed like another age, she would only be in her early fifties, after all, and that no longer sounded very old to Banks.
DC Winsome Jackman answered his ring. ‘Is DI Cabbot not in?’ Banks asked.
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Winsome. ‘She’s out on the East Side Estate interviewing neighbours about that sexual assault.’
‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘No, sir. Sorry, but you’ll just have to make do with me.’
Banks could hear teasing humour in her voice, the way it tinged her lilting Jamaican speech. Did she know that Annie and he used to have a thing? He wouldn’t be surprised. No matter how much you try to keep something like that a secret, there are always people who seem able to pick up on it intuitively.
‘DI Cabbot did leave a message for you, though, sir,’ Winsome went on.
‘Yes?’
‘That man you were asking about, Geoffrey Salisbury.’
‘Right. Any form?’
‘Yes, sir. One conviction. Six years ago. Served eighteen months.’
‘What for?’
‘Fraud, sir. To put it in a nutshell, he tried to swindle a little old lady out of her life savings, but she was a lot smarter than he reckoned on.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Banks said. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Sir?’
‘Nothing. Where did this happen?’
‘Loughborough, sir.’
That wasn’t very far away, Banks thought. ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said. ‘And thank DI Cabbot. That’s a great help.’
‘There’s more, sir. DI Cabbot said she’s going to try to talk to the local police, the ones who handled the case. She said it looks like there might be more to it than meets the eye.’
‘What did she mean by that?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Shall I ask her to ring you when she’s been in touch with Loughborough police?’
‘If you would, Winsome. And thanks again.’
‘No problem, sir. Enjoy the party.’
17
Roy didn’t turn up in time for Sunday lunch, which was pretty much what Banks had expected. They ate without him, Ida Banks fretting and worrying the whole time, unable to enjoy her food. Arthur tried to calm her, assuring her that nothing terrible had happened and that Roy wasn’t trapped in a burning car wreck somewhere on the M1. Banks said nothing. He knew his mother well enough to realize that anything he said regarding Roy would only succeed in adding fuel to the fire. Instead, he ate his roast beef and Yorkshires like a good boy – and a fine lunch it was, too, especially if you liked your meat and vegetables overcooked – and counted his blessings. In the first place his mother was far too distracted to go on at him for being late home last night, and in the second place Geoff bloody Salisbury had buggered off home and wasn’t eating with them, though he had promised to come back early to help set up for the party.
The phone finally rang at about half past two, just as they were starting their jam roly-poly, and Banks’s mother leapt up and dashed into the hall to answer it. When she came back she was much calmer, and she informed Banks and his father that poor Roy had had a devil of a job getting away on time and the rain had caused some terrible delays. There was also a pile-up on the M25, so he was stuck in traffic there at the moment and would arrive as soon as he could.
‘There you are, you see,’ Arthur said. ‘All that fretting for nothing. I told you he was all right.’
‘But you never know, do you?’ she said.
Banks offered to do the dishes and his offer was, to his surprise, accepted. His father had a nap with the open newspaper unread on his lap, and his mother went for a short lie-down to calm her nerves. When Banks had finished the dishes, he sneaked a couple of fingers of his father’s Johnnie Walker to calm his nerves. He had no sooner downed it than the explosion went off.
At least that was what it sounded like at first. Eventually, Banks’s ears adjusted enough to discern that it was music coming from next door. Heavy-metal gangsta rap, music only if you used the term very loosely indeed. Banks’s father stirred in his armchair. ‘At it again,’ he grumbled. ‘Never get a moment’s peace.’
Banks sat by him on the arm. ‘Does this happen a lot?’ he asked.
His father nodded. ‘Too often for me. Oh, I’ve tried having a word, but he’s an ignorant bugger. If I were twenty or thirty years younger-’
Banks heard his mother’s footsteps on the landing. ‘At it again, I hear,’ she called down.
‘It’s bad for her nerves,’ Arthur Banks said.
‘Have you talked to the council?’
‘We’ve tried, but they say, apart from issuing a warning, they can’t do anything.’
‘What about Geoff Salisbury?’
‘Geoff’s got his strengths, but he’s not got a lot of bottle. Proper tough guy him next door.’
‘Right,’ said Banks, standing up. ‘Give me a few minutes.’