“What?”
“It looks as if there were two rows of letters, or words, stenciled on the rough brick. The first ends in NGS and the second in IFE. We’ve no idea how long the lines were or how many words. We’re getting a list of all abandoned factories in the Greater London area, and the experts are working on identifying some of the rusted machines. It might help figure out what sort of a factory it was. If the tide experts can come up with a general idea of where Roy Banks might have been dropped in the river, we should be able to put it all together and pinpoint where the murder took place.”
“That sounds promising,” said Annie. “Any leads on who might have wanted Roy Banks dead?”
“We’ve turned up a couple of iffy names from his business correspondence. Oliver Drummond and William Gilmore. Ever heard of them?”
“No,” said Annie.
“Well, they’re definitely in our bad books. The first one’s been involved in a couple of frauds and we think the second’s been running a chop shop. High-end. Mostly Jags and Beemers for rich Russians and Arabs. Never managed to track it down, though, and Gilmore always seems to turn out squeaky-clean. We’ve managed to get him on a few minor charges, which is why he’s on our books, but nothing big.”
“What about the men in the photograph DCI Banks gave you?”
Brooke paused. “Gareth Lambert,” he said. “He’s got no form. The other one we don’t know.”
“Doesn’t it seem important, though? Roy Banks did think it necessary to take and then hide the photo. Maybe blackmail was involved?”
“Give us time, Annie,” Brooke snapped. “You know damn well how it is with manpower and budgets. And half the bloody team’s on holiday right now. We’ll get there, eventually.”
“Okay, Dave. Hold your horses. I was only trying to be helpful.”
“I’m sorry, I know. Only we’re stretched to the limit.”
“I understand. Best of luck, then, and thanks for bringing me up-to-date. I’ll see what’s happening up north and probably be back in a day or so. Keep in touch?”
“Absolutely. Oh, by the way, our artist’s finished with Seaton now. The impression doesn’t look bad. Want a copy?”
“Thanks. It might be useful.”
“I’ll get it faxed to you.”
The traffic slowed to a crawl as the taxi got closer to the chaotic and seemingly endless construction of the Channel Tunnel Rail Link around King’s Cross. Annie didn’t have a lot of time and worried she might miss her train, but the driver found a gap in the traffic and pulled up at the side with fifteen minutes to spare. Annie paid him, picked up a couple of magazines for the journey at W.H. Smith’s, then checked the platform number on the board and headed out to the train. The station was bustling with people and it smelled of warm engines, diesel oil and smoke. Annie found her coach and seat, popped her small bag on the rack and sat down to make herself comfortable.
About three minutes before the train was due to set off, a decidedly nervous announcement came over the PA system. “Would all passengers calmly leave the train and exit the station.”
Everyone sat there for a moment, stunned, wondering if they’d heard correctly. Then it came again, not sounding calm at alclass="underline" “Would all passengers calmly leave the train and exit the station.”
That was enough. Everyone grabbed their bags, dashed for the door and ran down the platform to the street.
Banks had hoped to be back in London by late morning, early afternoon at the latest, but it wasn’t to be. For a start, he slept in. Lying there in his old bed, he hadn’t been able to get to sleep for thinking about Roy and worrying about his parents, and only after the light began to grow and the birds started singing did he finally doze off until nine-thirty. Even then, he was the first one up.
If that had been the only problem, he could probably still have made fairly good time, but after he had made a pot of tea, made sure his new mobile was fully charged and walked across the road for a copy of The Independent, his mother was up and fussing. Whether the fact of Roy’s death had really sunk in yet, Banks couldn’t tell, but she seemed unnaturally calm, alert and in command.
“Your father’s having a lie-in,” she said. “He’s tired.”
“That’s okay,” said Banks. “You could have rested awhile longer yourself.”
“I rested quite enough yesterday, thank you. Now…”
And then she launched into the most extraordinary litany of “things to do,” the upshot of which was that Banks spent a good part of the day driving her around to the various relatives who lived close enough to visit, the ones in Ely, Stamford and Huntingdon, at any rate. Many had already phoned the previous evening after hearing about Roy on the news, but Banks had taken care of the telephone – including the reporters – and made sure neither his mother nor his father was disturbed.
Now Ida Banks told each one, calmly, that Roy had died and she didn’t know when the funeral would be, but they should be on the lookout for a notice in the paper.
Banks’s father was up when they got back from the first visit, just sitting in his armchair staring into space. He said he was okay, but Banks worried about him, too; he seemed to have no energy, no will.
Banks had already seen a piece about the murder in The Independent, which referred to Roy as the “wealthy entrepreneur brother of North Yorkshire policeman Alan Banks, who almost lost his life in a fire earlier this year.” Uncle Frank told him it had been on the television, too, and there had been a picture of Banks and some old footage of his cottage after the fire. Banks was glad he hadn’t seen it. God only knew what stories the tabloids were telling. Were they implying a link between the fire and Roy’s murder?
By the time he saw his mother settled back at home and had fed her another of Dr. Grenville’s pills, it was mid-afternoon. Mrs. Green, a neighbor, came over to sit with them for a while and Banks was finally able to say his good-byes and set off back to London. Before he left, he rang Burgess, gave him his new mobile number and arranged to meet at a pub in Soho around five o’clock. It was time to pick up the threads of his investigation again.
Lacking CDs, the best he could do was turn on the car radio. Classic FM was playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and Radio Three had Tippett’s Concerto for Double String Orchestra. Banks chose the Tippett because he didn’t know it as well as he did the Beethoven.
On the motorway somewhere around Stevenage, Banks noticed that a red Vectra had been following him for some time. He slowed down; the Vectra slowed. He speeded up; the Vectra kept pace. It was the middle of a warm summer afternoon on a busy road, but still Banks felt the chill of fear. He played cat and mouse with the Vectra for a while longer, then it shot past him. He couldn’t get a really good look, but he could tell there were two people in the car, one in the front and one in the back. The one in the back had a ponytail, and when the car was passing Banks’s Renault, he turned sideways and smiled, miming a shooting gun with his left hand, thumb signifying the hammer, then he tilted his hand up and blew over the tops of his first two fingers, smiling. It was a split-second vignette, then they were streaking ahead.
Banks tried to keep up with them, but it was no good. The driver was skillful and managed to weave in and out of the lanes of traffic until they had left Banks far behind. Not before he had memorized the number, though.
As he approached Welwyn Garden City, where it started to rain again, Banks wondered what the hell all that had been about. Then he realized with a sudden chill that they must have followed him from Peterborough. They were letting him know that they knew where his parents lived.
“You again,” said Roger Cropley, when Kev Templeton turned up at his front door again. “You’ve got a bloody nerve. What the hell do you want?”