“It’s only temporary,” Banks said.
“Of course. Another pint?”
“Why not?”
Burgess went to the bar and Banks watched the cricket game while he was gone. Nothing exciting happened. A second pint of Pride on the table before him, he asked Burgess exactly what he knew about Roy.
“You’ve got to understand,” Burgess said, “that your brother did nothing illegal in the strict sense. People manufacture the damn things and people sell them. Back then you could sell anything to anyone, anywhere: missiles, land mines, submarines, tanks, jet fighters, you name it. The problem is that they had a habit of ending up in the hands of the wrong people, despite all the red tape. Sometimes they got used on the very people who sold them in the first place.”
“So where did these particular shipments go?”
“They were destined for a friendly country in the Middle East, but they ended up in the hands of a terrorist splinter group.”
“And Roy’s part?”
“He had no idea. Obviously. He couldn’t see the big picture, didn’t want to, no more than the arms manufacturers did. They didn’t care. All they wanted was a nice fat profit.”
“What happened?”
“It was the bloke who recruited Roy for the job, an old crony of his called Gareth Lambert who we had our eyes on. He’s history now. Left the country.”
Banks didn’t recognize the name from Roy’s call list or phone book. He could have missed it, as there were so many, or Lambert could be one of the “unknown” numbers. On the other hand, if, as Burgess said, Gareth Lambert was history, there was no reason for Roy to have his phone number. “And Roy?” he asked.
“One of our lads had a friendly word in his shell-like.”
“And after that?”
“Not even a blip on our radar,” said Burgess. “So whatever this means, if it means anything at all, it’s got nothing to do with us. All of this was over and done with a long time ago.”
“That’s comforting to know,” said Banks.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Banks told him, from the strange phone call to the arrival of the digital photograph in the middle of the night. Burgess puffed on his cigar as he listened, eyes narrowed to slits. When Banks had finished, he let the silence hang for a while. Someone scored a six and the cricket watchers cheered.
“Could be a prank. Kids,” Burgess said finally.
“I’ve thought of that.”
“Could be someone trying to scare you off. I mean, if you’re supposed to think it’s your brother and he’s been hurt in some way.”
“I’ve managed to work that out for myself, too.”
“You’re not scared?”
“Of course I bloody am. But I want to know what’s happened to Roy. What do you expect me to do? Give up and go home?”
Burgess laughed. “You? I should cocoa. What about kidnapping? Have you considered that? A prelude to a ransom demand?”
“Yes,” said Banks, “but I’ve received no demand so far.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I thought you might be able to help.”
“How?”
“The mobile,” Banks said. “A forensic examination might give us all sorts to go on. It might even tell us where the image was sent from, maybe even where it was taken. I’m not exactly up on the technology but I know the computer experts can get a lot out of these things.”
“True enough,” said Burgess. “What with DNA, computers, the Internet, mobiles and CCTV, there’s hardly any need for the humble detective anymore. We’re dinosaurs, Banksy, or fast going that way.”
“A sobering thought. Can you help?”
“Sorry,” said Burgess. “But this is a lot different from looking up a name or accessing a database. My department doesn’t actually have a great deal of contact with the technical support people. We’re closer to the intelligence services, information gathering. It would look bloody odd if I suddenly turned up at the lab and dropped this on their desk without any explanation. They’d be all over me like a dirty shirt. Sorry, Banksy, but no can do. My advice is take it to the local cop shop. Let them deal with it.”
Banks stared at the phone. Burgess’s response was what he had half expected, but even so he felt disappointed, lost. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t go to the local police. It wasn’t only that he was worried Roy might be involved in something criminal, but there was no way he would be given any part in an official investigation into the disappearance of his own brother, and he didn’t think he could bear standing on the sidelines with his hands in his pockets, whistling. “Okay,” he said. “And you’re sure you’ve got absolutely no idea why any of this is happening?”
“Swear on my mother’s grave. Your brother fell off our map many years ago and we’ve had no reason to put him back on since.”
“You’ve been watching him?”
“Not recently. We kept an eye on him for a while. Like I said, he’s got some interesting contacts. But as for Roy himself, we soon lost interest. It’s not guns or terrorism. Believe me, I’d know.”
“And you’d tell me if it was?”
Burgess smiled. “Maybe.”
Banks took out the envelope he’d brought and slipped out one of the digital photos for Burgess to examine. “Do you know who these people are?” he asked.
Burgess picked up the photo and examined it closely. “Well, bugger me,” he said. “It can’t be. Where did you get this?”
Banks told him.
“When was it taken?”
“According to the computer details, it was taken on Tuesday, the eighth of June, at three-fifteen P.M.”
“But that’s last Tuesday.”
“Who is it?”
“Gareth Lambert.”
“You said he was history.”
“That’s what I thought. But look.” Burgess placed the photo in front of Banks and pointed to the gray-haired man. “He’s put on a bit of weight and his hair’s turned gray, but it’s him all right.”
“Is he bent?”
“Definitely.”
“What was his line?”
“Import-export. At least it used to be. Fancy word for smuggling, if you ask me. Knows the Balkan route like the back of his hand.”
“Smuggling what?”
“You name it.” Burgess ran his hand over his shaved head. “Look, you might as well know. In his time, Gareth Lambert was a very nasty piece of work, indeed. I don’t mean tough, but nasty, sly. Maybe he’s mellowed with old age, though I doubt it.”
“What did he do?”
“It wasn’t always so much what he did as who he knew. He rubbed shoulders with some of the nastiest bastards in Europe. Smuggled arms, drugs, people, anything. He had connections with the military down in the Balkans – Kosovo, Bosnia – knew all the generals. He smuggled medical supplies – morphine, antibiotics – sometimes diluted. Bit of a Harry Lime, when you come to think about it, and almost as elusive. Likes to keep on the move, one step ahead. He’s a slippery bastard. If he’s back, you can be certain he’s up to his eyeballs in something dodgy, and if your brother Roy… well…”
That didn’t make Banks feel any easier about the situation at all. “Who’s that with him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t recognize him. Lambert and his crew aren’t really my problem anymore. Can I hang on to this? I’ve still got a few contacts where it counts, and I’ll make a few inquiries. There’ll be quite a lot of old-timers around the Yard interested to know Gareth Lambert’s back in business, if they don’t know already.”
“Of course,” said Banks. “I’ve got copies. And the mobile?”
“Hang on to it for the moment. You might need it. If that picture was intended for you, then more messages might follow.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Banks, pocketing the mobile. Maybe Annie would be able to hook him up with a computer expert to enhance the image. That way he wouldn’t have to relinquish the phone.