“No,” said Karen.
“How did he pay?”
“Credit card.”
“Can you give me the details?”
Karen quickly made a photocopy of William Masefield’s file and passed it to Annie. The address, she noticed, was Studley, a Midlands village in Warwickshire, not far from Redditch.
“Did he have any sort of accent at all?” she asked.
“Just ordinary,” said Karen.
“What do you mean? What’s ordinary? Yorkshire? Birmingham?”
“Sort of no accent, really. But nice. Educated.”
Annie understood what she meant. They used to call it “Received Pronunciation,” and it was what all the radio and television presenters spoke before regional and ethnic accents came into fashion. RP was generally regarded as posh and related to public schools, Oxford and Cambridge, and southeastern England, the Home Counties. Most accents tell you where a person comes from; RP only told you social status.
Stefan poked his head around the door and Annie noticed Karen immediately start to preen.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“It looks like the same vehicle,” he said. “The measurements are the same, as are the tires, and there’s some distinctive cross-hatching on the casts we took from the lay-by that appear to match this specific Jeep Cherokee. Mike’s still working on it, and we’ll be taking soil and gravel samples, but I thought I’d give you the breaking news.”
“That’s great,” Annie said, tapping the sheet of paper in front of her. “William Masefield. We’ve got his details here. We’ve got him.” In her mind, she could see them swooping in and making an arrest even before Banks got back from London, unrealistic as that was. Still, she felt jubilant. She could even see a possibility of that weekend in New York with Phil. If she could afford it, because she would insist on paying her own way.
“There’s only one problem,” Stefan said.
“Oh?”
“It’s been thoroughly cleaned, inside and out.”
Annie looked at Karen, who shrugged. “We always get the returns cleaned up as promptly as we can,” she said.
“Shit,” said Annie. “No forensics.”
“Most likely not,” Stefan agreed. “Though we can certainly take it in and try. We might pick up a print or a hair the cleaners missed.”
“Wait a minute,” said Karen. “What do you mean, ‘take it in’? Take it where?”
“To the police garage,” Annie said.
“But you can’t take the Jeep. It’s booked.”
“Mr. Masefield again?”
“No. But they’re good customers. Regular.”
“It’s evidence,” said Annie. She turned to Stefan. “Tell Mike to take it to the police garage, but to make sure he gets that petrol sample first, along with a sample from the underground tank here.”
“But the captain will-”
“Don’t worry, Karen,” said Annie, picking up a pad from the desk. “We’ll give you a receipt. And you can always rent them the Explorer instead. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“Commander Burgess? Well, bugger me!”
“Watch it with the vile language, Banks. And why such surprise?”
“The last time I saw you, you were a detective superintendent in National Criminal Intelligence. I thought they’d put you out to pasture for good.”
“Things change. I’m resilient, me.”
Not only that, Banks remembered, but “Dirty Dick” Burgess had been sent somewhere he could do little harm because he was accused of dragging his feet over a sensitive race-related investigation. The two had known each other for many years, and their relationship had changed significantly over the course of time. At first they had been like chalk and cheese: Burgess brash, right-wing, racist, sexist, cutting corners to get results; Banks trying his damnedest to remain a liberal humanist in a heartbreaking job, in demoralizing times. Now Banks cut more corners and Burgess toed the line more closely. They both came from a working-class background, and both had worked their way up the hard way, through the streets. Burgess was the son of an East End barrow boy. He had thrived in the Thatcher years, lain low during John Major’s reign, and now he was thriving again in the Blair era. It just went to show what Banks had always believed; there wasn’t much difference between Thatcher and Blair except for gender, and sometimes he wasn’t too sure about that.
They were about the same age, too, and had managed to find a certain amount of common ground over the years. It was fragile ground, though, thin ice over a quagmire. Banks had phoned Burgess from the train, with an idea in mind, and Burgess had suggested that Banks buy him lunch. Thus they stood at the bar of a crowded pub near the Old Bailey, washing down the curry of the day with flat lager and rubbing elbows with barristers, clients and clerks. At least Burgess hadn’t changed in one respect; he still drank like a fish and smoked Tom Thumb cigars.
What had changed most, though, was his appearance. Gone were the silver pony tail and the scuffed leather jacket; in their place a shaved head and a dark blue suit, white shirt and paisley tie. Shiny shoes. Burgess had also put on a few pounds, and his complexion was pink, the nose a little redder and more bulbous. The world-weary, seen-it-all look in his eyes had been replaced by one of mild surprise and curiosity.
“I can see you’re doing all right for yourself,” Banks said, pushing his plate away. He’d only eaten half of the curry, which wasn’t very good. The sign read lamb, but he suspected it was mutton. And the spicing was so bland as to be immaterial.
“Can’t complain. Can’t complain. My old oppos at Special Branch didn’t forget me, after all. I managed to pull off one or two coups that pleased a number of people in high places. I tell you, Banksy, this post-nine-eleven world is full of opportunities for a man of my talents.”
“On whose side?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“So where are you now? Back in Special Branch?”
Burgess put his finger to his lips. “Can’t say. If I did, I’d have to kill you. Top secret. Hush hush. Actually, we’re so new we haven’t even got our acronym sorted yet. Anyway, what brings you down here? You were all mysterious on the phone.” He offered Banks a Tom Thumb. Banks refused. Burgess’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, Banksy? Have you stopped smoking? I haven’t seen you light one up yet. That’s not like you. You’ve quit, haven’t you?”
“Six months now.”
“Feel any better?”
“No.”
Burgess laughed. “How’s that lovely wife of yours? Ex, I should say.”
“She’s fine,” said Banks. “Remarried now.”
“And you?”
“Enjoying the bachelor life. Look, there was something I wanted to ask you. In complete confidence, of course.”
“Of course. Why come to me otherwise?”
One thing Banks did know about Burgess was that he could be trusted to keep quiet and be as discreet as necessary. He had a network of informers and information-gatherers second to none, no matter who, or what, it was you wanted to know about. That was why Banks had rung him.
“It’s rather delicate,” said Banks.
“What’s happened? Your girlfriend’s chucked you and you want me to look into her new boyfriend’s background, find some dirt on him?”
It was astonishingly close to home, but Banks knew Burgess was only casting stones in the dark to see if he could hit anything. His scattershot approach often worked wonders, but Banks was a little wiser to it than he used to be, and less inclined to react. He was still in awe of Burgess’s uncanny ability to hit the right nerve, though.
“It’s probably nothing,” he said, “but I’d like a background check on a bloke called Philip Keane.”
“Can you be a bit more specific?” Burgess said, thumbing through a soft black leather-covered notebook for a clean page. It wasn’t standard issue, Banks noticed. Must be his private notebook. “I mean, unless he’s related to that hothead who plays for Man U.”