“Not quite,” said Templeton, loath to let the bastard gloat for too long. “Who left the garage first, you or Jennifer Clewes?”
“She did.”
“And you followed her?”
“No. I was just behind her, but another car cut in front of me. Came right out of the shadows. I overtook them both shortly after and I never saw her again. She must have passed me later, when I was stuck by the roadside, but I didn’t notice.”
“What about this other car? Why didn’t you tell us about it before?”
“Because you were too busy trying to accuse me of rape and murder. You never asked.”
“Well, I’m asking now. What make was it?”
“A Mondeo. Dark color. Maybe navy blue.”
“How many people in it?”
“Two. One in the front, one in the back.”
“Like a taxi?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t a taxi. I mean, it didn’t look like one. There was no light on top, for a start.”
“Chauffeured car, then?”
“Maybe. Look, I hate to tell you how to do your job, especially as you’ve been doing it so well, but why don’t you ask me something useful, like do I remember the number?”
“I was getting to that,” Templeton said. “Do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Well, some of it, anyway. I suppose I noticed because he pulled out a bit sharply and I had to brake.”
“What was it?”
“LA51.”
Templeton couldn’t remember offhand what Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency office and local memory tag the first two letters represented, but he knew that “ 51” meant the car had been registered between September 2001 and February 2002. The rest he could look up. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing.
“What did the occupants look like?”
“I didn’t get a good look,” said Cropley. “But I think they were both men. I really didn’t think anything of it at the time, except that I had to brake rather sharply.”
“Try to remember.”
Copley thought for a moment. “The one in the back turned and looked at me after they pulled out. I suppose I tooted the horn at them. Just instinct.”
“And?”
“Well, as I said, I didn’t get a good look. It was dark and his face was in shadow. But I think he had dark hair, tied back in a ponytail, and I doubt it was a friendly glance he gave me. I remember just feeling rather glad they didn’t stop and beat me up. You hear so much about road rage these days.”
“What you get for going around tooting your horn,” said Templeton.
“They cut me off.”
“Popular girl, Ms. Clewes,” mused Templeton. “First you’ve got your eye on her, then another couple of blokes come cutting in and spoil all your fun. How did that make you feel?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Cropley said. “Can you hear yourself speak? You sound like a cheap television psychologist. Look, you already know I didn’t do it, and I’ve had just about enough of this, so why don’t you both sod off and check with the AA.”
Templeton reddened and Winsome gave him a sign that they should leave before he did something he might regret. He paused a moment, locking eyes with Cropley, then did as she suggested.
“Nice one, Kev,” she said, when they got outside. “You handled that really well.”
He could tell she was still laughing at him when she got in the driver’s seat and the anger prickled at his skin from the inside like hot needles.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The pub Burgess chose was flanked by a halal butcher and an Indian take-away on a narrow street between Liverpool Street Station and Spitalfields Market. Banks took the tube and checked constantly to see if he was being followed. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t. After receiving the image on the mobile he didn’t feel like taking any chances.
Though it was lunchtime and most pubs in the area were offering the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, at this place the choice was between nachos with sour cream and spicy chicken wings with BBQ dip. Banks didn’t fancy either, so he stuck with a pint of Pride and a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps while Burgess attacked the nachos and washed them down with cheap lager.
There wasn’t exactly any sawdust on the floor, but looking at the state of the place, Banks thought perhaps there ought to be.
Most of the lunchtime drinkers were older Bangladeshis, Indians and Pakistanis – clearly not devoutly Muslim. A group of them was watching a cricket game on the television, Essex playing Pakistan, commenting loudly now and then on a particularly good off-spinner or square cut.
Burgess looked much the same as he had when Banks last saw him in January, except today he was informally dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt that dazzled Banks. But the shaved head and slight paunch were still there, and the cynical, world-weary look had returned to his eyes. All that was new was his tan. After many rises and falls in fortune, Burgess had landed on his feet after 9/11, when the service required men who got things done, no questions asked. Banks wasn’t sure what outfit he worked for now, but he assumed it was something to do with Special Branch.
“Nice place you picked,” said Banks.
“It’s anonymous,” Burgess said. “Everyone here just minds their own business. Besides, most of the buggers can barely understand English.” Outside the window, the sky had darkened and a few splashes of rain ran down the grimy glass. Burgess looked at Banks closely. “You look like a worried man. Care to tell your Uncle Dicky what’s wrong?”
Banks looked around, saw that no one was paying them any attention, then he brought up the image on the mobile and slid it over the table. Burgess picked it up, examined it closely and raised his eyebrows. “It could be anyone,” he said, handing it back to Banks. “Some drunk asleep at a party.”
“I know that. But what if it’s not?”
“Who do you think it is?”
“It might be my brother.”
“Roy?”
“How do you know his name?”
Burgess paused. “It was a long time ago.”
“When?”
“About five or six years. Last century, at any rate. No reason to bother you with it at the time.”
“So what brought brother Roy under scrutiny?”
“Arms dealing.”
Banks swallowed. “What?”
“You heard me. Arms dealing. Don’t look so surprised. Your brother helped broker a deal between a UK arms manufacturer and some rich Arab sheikh. Greased the wheels, handled the baksheesh, attended galas at the consulate and so on.”
“Roy did that?”
“Roy would do anything to make a bit of extra cash. He has an extraordinary range of contacts and connections, and the bugger of it is that he doesn’t even know who half of them really are.”
“ ‘Naive’ was never a description I’d have used to describe Roy,” said Banks.
“Maybe not,” Burgess argued, “but he took too many people at face value. Maybe he didn’t want to dig any deeper. Maybe it was safer that way and easier on his conscience. Pocket the money and turn your back.”
Banks had to admit that sounded like the Roy he knew. More likely than naïveté was lack of imagination. When they were kids, Banks remembered, they had had to share a bedroom for a few days for some reason. Banks was ten, Roy about five. Banks had tried to torment his younger brother by telling him gruesome ghost stories at bedtime, about headless corpses and misshapen ogres, hoping to scare him well into the night. But Roy had fallen asleep during Banks’s gory version of Dracula and it was Banks who was left unable to sleep, flinching at every gust of wind and creak in the woodwork, victim of his own imagination. Perhaps Roy had taken his colleagues and their claims at face value, perhaps he hadn’t wanted to dig any deeper, or perhaps he just lacked the imagination to extrapolate on the bare facts. Banks reached for a Silk Cut.
“Didn’t think you’d last long,” said Burgess, lighting one of his own Tom Thumb cigars and offering the flame to Banks, who took it.