“Tell me more about Gareth Lambert.”
“I told you. He was a business associate of your brother’s and an all-round nasty piece of work. Charming enough on the surface. Like I said, Harry Lime. I take it you have seen The Third Man?”
“It’s one of my favorite films. Look, according to Julian Harwood, Lambert’s been living in Spain.”
“My, my, you have been a busy boy, haven’t you?”
“Why come back?”
“I suppose he got bored with paella. He also got married to some beautiful Spanish actress. Centerfold material. England’s quite sexy these days, or didn’t you know? Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow, Liv Tyler, and all the rest. They all want to live here. Anyway, he’s back, and apparently he’s in the travel business.”
“Legit?”
“I didn’t say that. But there’s no evidence to the contrary. Like I said, Lambert’s elusive. He’s got no form, never once been arrested. Not in this country, at any rate. Not yet. Always manages to keep one step ahead. Sure you won’t have a real drink?”
“No, thanks. I need to keep my head clear.”
“For what?”
“For Roy.”
“Okay.” Burgess went up the bar and bought himself another pint. Banks noticed that the pub was filling up even more with the after-work crowd. There had been a blackboard outside advertising hand-pulled “real” ale, so perhaps that was what brought them in. Most of the newcomers had to stand and the crush at the bar was getting to be three deep. Some people took advantage of the break in the rain and stood outside drinking, but from what Banks could see through the open door, the sky was darkening again and they’d all be dashing back inside soon.
Burgess came back and squeezed through the bodies to his stool without spilling a drop. “Are there any other leads on Roy’s murder?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Banks. “I’ll have a word with Annie Cabbot later and see if I find out what’s going on with DI Brooke’s investigation.”
“Still screwing the lovely DI Cabbot, are you, or have you moved on to pastures new?”
Banks ignored him. Burgess was always looking for buttons to push. Usually he succeeded, but not this time. “Tell me,” Banks said, “honestly, do you think Roy could have got involved in something crooked with Lambert again?”
“Anything’s possible. But what I’m telling you is that I, we, have no knowledge of it. If they were into something together, it’s a smooth operation. You’re dealing with pros here. At least Lambert’s a pro.”
“And you’d know if there was something?”
“Maybe. If it was big enough and nasty enough. We spend a lot of time just watching and thinking, but we’re not omniscient. We don’t know everything, just most things. Besides, it’s not my problem anymore. And Lambert hasn’t been back here very long. Only a couple of months if my sources are right, which they usually are. So if there is anything, it’s either new or it’s something international and he was working it from Spain, too. Let me ask around. I’ve still got a few contacts. There’s a bloke from Interpol, Dieter Ganz, I know is interested, if I can get in touch with him. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I want to know where Lambert lives.”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking me that.”
“I’d have got around to it a lot sooner if I hadn’t had my parents to cope with. Are you going to tell me?”
“Can’t see why not.” Burgess gave him an address in Chelsea. “You’d only find out some other way. He’s got a place out in the country somewhere, too, where he keeps his wife, but this flat’s his pied-à-terre when he’s in town. He still travels a fair bit. And he runs his business out of an office above a dry-cleaning shop on Edgeware Road, the Marble Arch end. But watch him, Banks. He’s slippery. Remember Harry Lime.”
Banks finished his orange juice. “Tell me something,” he said. “You always put up a show of resistance, but in the end you usually tell me what I want to know. Why?”
“Entertainment value,” said Burgess. “Besides, I like you. I like to watch you work. It interests me. I see you getting more and more like I used to be. You want something, you go after it, and bugger the consequences. Bugger the law, if necessary.”
“Used to be?”
Burgess sipped some beer. “I’ve mellowed, Banksy. Grown up.”
“Bollocks.”
“It’s true. Anyway, let’s just say that DI Brooke’s interests and mine don’t always coincide. Brooke’s a plodder. I know the type. No imagination. No breadth of vision. He’s only interested in short-term results, another tick on his report card for his next promotion.”
“And you?”
“I’m more interested in the big picture, the long-term view. And I like to know what’s going on. Information’s my stock-in-trade these days, after all. I don’t get out on the street much.”
“Miss it?”
Burgess looked away. “Sometimes.” He laughed and raised his glass. “Now bugger off. And good luck with Lambert.”
It had started raining again and Banks had to fight against the influx of people trying to get back inside. He found a sheltered doorway and dialed Annie’s number on his mobile. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Annie, it’s me, Alan.”
“Where are you? I’ve been wanting to speak to you ever since I heard. I’m really sorry about what happened to your brother.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’m back in London. Where are you?”
“As a matter of fact,” Annie said, “I’m in Selfridge’s at the moment, in one of the changing rooms. You might not have heard, but they’ve closed King’s Cross. Bomb threat. Anyway, it means I’m stuck here for another night. I need something to wear. I’m just about to head back to the hotel. Look, Alan, we have to talk again. A lot’s happened.”
“I know, but it’ll have to wait. Couple of quick questions. Have Brooke’s blokes talked to Gareth Lambert yet?”
“I don’t think so,” said Annie. “Last time I talked to him Dave didn’t seem all that interested. They’re concentrating on a couple of local lowlifes called Oliver Drummond and William Gilmore. Their names came up in your brother’s business correspondence and phone records.” Banks remembered the names, but they didn’t mean anything to him.
Then Annie told him about her visit to Alf Seaton’s that morning, the description of the man with the ponytail and what had become of the Mondeo. Banks knew immediately that it was one of the men who had followed him from Peterborough, the one who had made the gesture.
“Another thing you might as well know,” Annie said. “It looks as if your brother’s girlfriend had an abortion, arranged through the Berger-Lennox Centre. That’s when he met Jennifer Clewes.”
“Jesus,” said Banks. “That’ll be Corinne you’re talking about?”
“Are there any others?”
“Probably,” said Banks, “but I think she was the most recent model, the one before Jennifer. Thanks for telling me.”
“Can we meet up? We really should talk about all this.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” said Banks. “Breakfast? I’ve still got a couple of people to talk to tonight. How about I give you a bell when I’m finished?” Banks rang off before she could protest.
The rain was really pelting down now and all Banks had for protection was his light raincoat. He stood in the doorway of the closed shoe shop looking at the people drifting back and forth between the curtains of rain, then stepped out and headed as fast as he could for Tottenham Court Road tube station.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“How did you get my address?” Dr. Alex Lukas asked Annie as she stood under her umbrella on the front step of the Belsize Park house shortly after seven o’clock that evening. “I’m not in the telephone directory.”