“Right,” said Burgess, “I’d better be off now.”
Banks wondered if he’d done the right thing in telling all and handing over the photo of the two men to Burgess. Now that he’d made Roy’s disappearance semi-official, there could be no turning back, whatever happened. He had already gone too far to avoid some sort of disciplinary proceedings by not reporting the first phone call and by living in Roy’s house and accessing his computer data. He thought he could rely on Burgess’s discretion, but there was a limit to everything.
At least this way he could continue his own investigation. He had already made a list of names and numbers, almost a hundred, and he still couldn’t remember seeing any Gareth Lambert. He would have to check again, of course, but if Lambert was back in the picture, maybe there was a reason why neither he nor Roy wanted any records of their communications.
“Look,” he said to Burgess, “I appreciate your help, but if Roy’s in the clear and there’s nothing really to link him with any serious criminal business…”
“You want me to keep your brother out of it?”
“If you can.”
“No guarantees,” said Burgess. “Gareth Lambert turning up like this out of the blue changes everything. But I promise I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll keep me informed? I’d like to know where to find this Lambert, for a start.”
“Like I said, I’ll do my best. I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I’d ask you to bugger off back to Yorkshire and stay out of the way if I thought it would do any good, but at least try to avoid getting under my feet.”
“I’ll think about it,” Banks said. He gave Burgess Roy’s telephone numbers and glanced toward the window. “It’s almost stopped raining. I’d better go, too.”
Burgess gave him a stern look. “Be careful, Banksy,” he said. “Remember, I know you. And this conversation never took place.”
Banks walked out. His car was still parked near Corinne’s flat, so he made his way to Liverpool Street, where he could catch the tube back to Earl’s Court and pick up his car before meeting Julian Harwood.
While he was on the concourse of the mainline station, he wandered over to look at the Kindertransport Memorial. A sculpture to commemorate the rescue mission that helped over ten thousand children escape Nazi persecution in Europe during 1938 and 1939, it consisted of a glass case shaped like a large suitcase, which held a selection of objects the children had brought with them and, standing beside it, a bronze sculpture of a young girl.
Through the rain-beaded glass, among other things Banks could see school exercise books, pages filled with mannered German writing, letters, articles of clothing, dog-eared family photographs, a pair of old boots with clip-on ice skates, a hand puppet of a kitten, a book of piano music, a battered suitcase and three coat hangers. On one was written “Für das Kind,” on the second, “Fürs liebe Kind” and on the third, “Dem braven Kinde.” It made Banks think of Mahler’s beautiful Kindertotenlieder, “Songs for the Deaths of Children,” though these children hadn’t died; they had been saved. He wondered if Roy had the Mahler in his collection; he hadn’t noticed it.
Looking at the children’s personal belongings arrayed like this before him, Banks thought of all the mementos he had lost forever when his cottage burned down: the family photographs and videos – wedding, holidays, kids growing up – letters, keep-sakes, the poems he had written as a teenager, old diaries and notebooks, school report cards, the records of a life.
But he couldn’t feel self-pity in the face of this memorial. He hadn’t lost nearly as much as these children, who’d lost their homeland and, in many cases, their whole families. Perhaps they had gained something, too, though. They had at least escaped the concentration camps, been taken in by good, caring families, and had grown up to live their lives in relative freedom.
Banks looked at the bronze statue of the girl in her skirt and jacket. The raindrops looked like tears flowing down her face. He turned away and headed for the underground.
Annie was glad DI Brooke had suggested a quick lunch together in her hotel that afternoon. She had heard nothing from Roy Banks and she was beginning to wonder if the two brothers had made up their differences and run away together just to make her job difficult.
Brooke was in his Sunday best, red-faced, collar too tight around his neck, looking like a farmer just come from church. Annie, in jeans and a black V-neck jumper, felt underdressed. Neither was terribly hungry, so they ordered coffee and cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, which came cut into quarters, neatly arranged in baskets.
“Well, Dave,” said Annie, “I must say you cut a dashing figure.”
Brooke blushed. “The suit? I’ve got a christening to go to this afternoon.” He sat down and pulled at his collar, finally undoing the button. “There, that’s better. Plenty of time to choke myself to death in church later.”
Annie laughed.
“I don’t have a lot to report,” Brooke said, “but I had a couple of lads ask around the victim’s neighborhood. I’ve also had a word with the uniform who walks the beat there, PC Latham.”
“What does he say?” Annie asked.
“Quiet sort of area. No trouble lately.”
“What about the inquiries your lads made?”
“A bit more interesting. A bloke down the street was looking for a parking spot about ten o’clock on Friday night. Seems he usually managed to park right outside his house, but this time he couldn’t because someone was already there. Said it had happened before, a couple of evenings that same week. He was a bit miffed, but there was nothing he could do. After all, it was a free spot. Anyway, he remembered there were two men in the car, one in the front and one in the back. He thought they might be leaving, so he hung back for a couple of minutes but they ignored him.”
“What happened?”
“He found another spot nearby and that was that.”
“Does he remember anything else about the car?”
“Only that it was dark blue.”
“No number plate?”
“The car was parked. He couldn’t see the front or back.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“When he went out to walk the dog at eleven, it was gone.”
“Could he describe the men?”
“Not very well. Only that the one in the back had something around his neck, like a thick gold chain. He said they looked a bit thuggish. At least their appearance worried him enough that he didn’t approach them and ask if they were going to move.”
“Interesting,” said Annie. “I’ve just been on the phone with my SIO and one of our DCs has got a similar description from a man called Roger Cropley. Apparently, this Cropley saw Jennifer Clewes at the Watford Gap service station at about half past twelve Friday night and a car like the one you just described, with one man in the front and one in the back, cut in front of him and went after her.”
“Then it sounds as if someone was waiting for her outside her flat.”
“It does, indeed,” said Annie. “If it’s the same car. I’ve thought there were two of them right from the start, one who could get out of the car quickly and do the shooting, the other a driver.” Annie consulted her notebook. “Have you ever heard of a woman called Carmen Petri?”
Brooke frowned. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”
“It’s just a name one of Jennifer Clewes’s friends mentioned. One of the ‘late girls,’ she called her. Jennifer was worried about her, about something she said.”
“Late girls?”
“Yes. Why? Do you know what that means?”
“Haven’t a clue,” said Brooke.
Given the context – a family-planning center – Annie had come up with a couple of possibilities: either “late girls” were late with their periods, which was sort of self-evident when you were dealing with pregnancy; or they were late in their pregnancies, beyond the time when terminations could be performed, which according to the law was the twenty-fourth week.