“Organized crime?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Banks. “But what connection could Roy possibly have to organized crime?”
“None that I know of,” said Harwood. “Just an idea I was tossing out. I mean, I don’t even know what those people do. It’s not as if it’s just the Mafia anymore, is it? One reads about Russians and Yardies and Vietnamese gangs. People who’d cut your throat as soon as look at you. Who knows?”
Banks took a copy of one of Roy’s digital photos out of his briefcase and set it on the table. “Do you know either of these men?”
Harwood pointed to Lambert and spoke coldly. “Well, I know him. That’s Gareth Lambert. But I can’t say I know the other one.”
“You know Lambert?”
“Oh, yes. Roy and I have done a bit of business with him in our time. Not for a while, mind you. He disappeared from the scene.”
“He’s back.”
Harwood frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
“Interesting,” said Banks, putting the photo away. “I mean, that Roy would know, but not you.”
“Gareth Lambert and I had a disagreement some years ago,” said Harwood. “We haven’t communicated since.”
“What about?”
“A private business matter.”
“I see. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”
“As far as I know, he moved to Spain.”
“Big country. You don’t have his address?”
“No. As I said, we had a falling-out. I no longer have any interest in where Mr. Lambert is or what he does.”
Banks would have liked to know more about that falling-out, but Harwood was a shrewd businessman, good at keeping secrets, at holding his cards close to his chest. “Did Roy ever mention anything that led you to believe he was up to something dodgy?”
“No. Not that he would have told me. Sometimes, in the business world, ignorance is bliss.”
“Is it possible he stumbled across something? Maybe someone was stealing and he found out about it?”
“From one of the centers?”
“Wherever.”
“I have nothing to do with the day-to-day running of the health centers or clinics.”
“What about Roy?”
“Your brother’s a hands-on sort of investor. He likes to know how the businesses operate, likes to put faces to names. I imagine he’s been doing the rounds.”
“So it’s likely he visited the centers?”
“I should think so. Some of them.”
“Could he have stumbled on some sort of fraud or something?”
“We keep a pretty close eye on the figures. I think we’d know if anyone was bleeding the company.”
“What about stuff going missing? Drugs, for example.”
“They’re strictly controlled.” Harwood looked at his watch. “Look,” he said, standing up to leave, leaning over the table with his palms spread on its surface, “I have to go now. I don’t know whether you consider me a suspect in whatever you think is going on, but I want you to know that Roy’s a valued friend. If I can help you in any way, please don’t hesitate to get in touch again.”
“Very well,” said Banks. “Thank you for your time.”
Harwood walked off. Banks finished his cigarette, then stubbed it out and set off along Old Brompton Road. He turned through the narrow arch into the mews and reached for Roy’s key. Just as he put it in the lock, someone grabbed his arm and a familiar voice said, “You’re nicked.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You look like death warmed over.”
“Thanks. You know, you shouldn’t go around creeping up on people like that doing your Sweeney impersonation. You might get hurt.”
“You do seem very jumpy.”
“Maybe I’ve got good reason to be.”
“Care to tell me about it?”
Banks gave Annie a look she’d seen before. It meant he’d get her to play out her hand first and then decide how much to share with her. So be it. “All right,” Annie said. “How about a drink?”
They were sitting in Roy’s kitchen, afternoon sunlight pouring in through the open window. Banks picked a bottle of Château Kirwan from the wine rack and Annie watched him attack it with an expensive and complicated opener. A simple corkscrew would have taken less time, she thought. After Banks poured, they sat opposite each other in silence.
“Who’s going first?” Annie asked.
“How did you find me?”
“That doesn’t matter. The point is that I have found you.”
“No,” said Banks. “The point is, why were you looking for me? Why come all the way down here when I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do?”
“You really don’t know?”
“I’ve got no idea. As far as you’re concerned, I’m on holiday. Do you know something I don’t?”
“Lots of things, probably.”
“No need to be sarcastic.”
Annie flushed. She hadn’t meant to be sarcastic, but he was driving her to it. She knew she used sarcasm to hide behind when she was feeling vulnerable or confused, the way others hide behind smoking or bad jokes. She realized it probably wasn’t the right time, but she didn’t think she could go on talking to Banks unless she cleared the air. He would have to meet her halfway. The last time she had tried to reach out to him and heal the rift, he had dismissed her. She polished off her glass and held it out for a refill. Dutch courage. Banks narrowed his eyes and poured.
“I’m sorry,” Annie said. “I don’t mean to be sarcastic. After everything that’s happened, things just seem to come out wrong.”
Banks caught her eye for a moment, then gazed past her out of the window. There were flowering shrubs outside in the backyard, and Annie could hear bees buzzing from one to another behind her. Impulsively, she reached across the table and put her hand on his arm. “What is it, Alan? We can’t go on like this. You can’t go on like this.”
Banks didn’t flinch when she touched him, but he didn’t say anything at first, just kept staring over her shoulder, through the window. Finally, he turned his eyes back to her.
“You’re right,” he said. “I feel as if I’ve been a long, long way from everything that used to matter, but I’m getting closer again.”
“Light at the end of the tunnel?”
“And all the other clichés. Yes.”
“I’m glad,” Annie said, feeling herself choke up. There was so much more to say but she sensed that now was not the time. Besides, there were other things of more immediate concern that they needed to talk about. She took another sip of wine. Definitely not your everyday quaffing plonk. Banks lit a cigarette.
“I thought you’d stopped that,” Annie said.
“I had,” said Banks. “It’s only a temporary return.”
“I hope so.”
“Why do you want to see me?”
“Have you heard about the woman found dead in the car near Eastvale?”
“I’ve read about it in the paper,” Banks said, “but they haven’t really given out much information.”
“Her name is Jennifer Clewes. Do you know anyone by that name?”
“No,” said Banks.
“Guess what we found in the back pocket of her jeans?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“An address.”
“Whose address?”
“Yours.”
Banks’s jaw dropped. “What? I can’t… What’s her name again?”
“Jennifer Clewes.”
“I’ve never heard of her. What’s it all about?”
“We don’t know yet. She had your address and directions written on a slip of paper in her back pocket, in her own handwriting,” Annie went on. “The directions were to the damaged cottage. It looks as if it has been broken into. You can imagine what a flap it created up there, finding your name and address on a victim’s person. Superintendent Gristhorpe decided to sit on it until Monday.” Annie could see that Banks was thinking furiously, trying to make things connect. “Come on, Alan, give,” she said. “You know something. What is it?”