“How did Roy seem?” Banks asked. “Was he depressed, worried, on edge?”
“He seemed fine to me.”
“Did he confide in you about any problems or anything?”
“No.”
“What did he talk about?”
“Business, golf, cricket, wine, women. You know, the usual man talk.”
“Did he mention me?”
Lambert gave a tight little smile. “I’m afraid he didn’t, no.”
Banks found that hard to believe, given that Roy had just phoned him out of the blue with an urgent problem, a “matter of life and death,” but he let it go for the time being. “Did Roy ever mention a girl called Carmen Petri?”
It was over in a second, but it was definitely there, the shock, the slight hesitation before answering, a refusal to look Banks in the eye. “No,” Lambert said.
“Have you ever heard the name before?”
“There’s an actress, Carmen Electra, but I doubt that it’s her you’re thinking of.”
“No,” said Banks. “There’s also an opera called Carmen, but it’s not her, either.” Casually, he slipped a copy of the photograph he had printed from Roy’s CD out of his briefcase and set it on the low table. “Who’s the other man sitting with you in this photo?” he asked.
Lambert peered closely at the photograph, then looked at Banks sideways. “Where did you get this?” He gestured at the photo with his cigar.
“Roy took it.”
Lambert sat back in his chair. “How strange. He never told me.”
“I assume you do know who the man you’re sitting with is?”
“Of course I do. It’s Max. Max Broda. He’s a business colleague. I can’t imagine why Roy would want to take a photo of us together.”
“What business would that be?”
“Travel. Max puts tours together, recruits guides, works out itineraries, hotels, suggests destinations of interest.”
“Where?”
“Mostly around the Adriatic and Mediterranean.”
“Including the Balkan countries?”
“Some, yes. If and when they’re safe to visit.”
“I’d like to talk to him,” said Banks.
Lambert scrutinized the end of his cigar and took another puff before answering. “I’m afraid that will be rather difficult,” he said. “He’s gone home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Prague.”
“Do you have an address?”
“Are you thinking of going there? It’s a beautiful city. I know someone who can fix you up with the best guided tour.”
“Maybe,” said Banks. “I would like his address, though.”
“I might have it somewhere.” Lambert scrolled through the files on his PDA and finally spelled out an address for Banks, who copied it down.
“What time did you leave the club?” he asked.
“Roy left sometime between half past twelve and one o’clock.”
“You weren’t still together at that time?”
“No. We weren’t joined at the hip, you know. Roy likes to play the roulette tables. I prefer poker, myself.”
“Did he leave alone?”
“As far as I know.”
“Where did he go?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“What time did you leave?”
“About three. I was knackered by then. Not to mention broke.”
“Where did you go?”
“Back here.”
“Not home to your wife?”
Lambert leaned forward, face thrust forward, and stabbed the air with his cigar. “You leave her out of this.”
“Very understanding, is she?”
“I told you. Leave her out of it.” Lambert relit his cigar and his tone softened. “Look,” he said, running his free hand through his curly gray hair, “I was tired, I came back here. I don’t know what you suspect me of, but Roy was a good friend and a colleague of many years’ standing. I didn’t kill him. Why would I? What possible motive could I have?”
“Are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?”
“No. I assumed he was going home.”
“Was he drunk?”
Lambert tipped his head to one side and thought for a moment. “He’d had a few,” he said. “Mostly wine. But he wasn’t staggering or slurring his speech. Not fit to drive, I’d say, but fit enough to get a taxi.”
“Is that what he did?”
“I’ve no idea what happened once he got outside.”
“And you didn’t see him again?”
“No.”
“Okay,” said Banks, standing to leave. “I suppose we could always ask around the taxi drivers.”
“One thing,” said Lambert, as he walked Banks to the door. “You already know about the arms deal, years back. You mentioned it earlier.”
“Yes?”
“I think he wanted to get involved in that sort of thing again. At least, it might be a direction worth looking in. I mean, Roy had been making a few noises, you know, sounding me out, asking about old contacts and such.”
“On Friday?”
“Yes. In the club.”
“And?”
“I told him I’d lost touch. Which is true. The world has changed, Mr. Banks, in case you haven’t noticed. And I warned him off.”
“How did he respond?”
Lambert clapped a hand on Banks’s shoulder as they stood near the door. “You know Roy,” he said. “Or maybe you don’t. Anyway, once he’s on the trail of something, he’s not easily deterred. He persisted, got a bit pissed off with me, as a matter of fact, thought I was holding out on him, depriving him of a business opportunity.”
“So you ended the evening on a sour note?”
“He’d have got over it.”
“If he hadn’t been killed?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you fall out with Julian Harwood, by the way?”
Lambert looked surprised. “You know about that?”
“Yes.”
“It was years ago. Storm in a teacup. Harwood insisted I’d cheated him out of some money in a land sale, that I knew the new motorway was going to run right by it.”
“And did you?”
Lambert did his best to look innocent and outraged, but it came out like a poor parody. “Me? Of course not. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“Of course not,” Banks echoed. “Is there anything more you can tell me?”
“I’m afraid not. Except…”
“What?”
Lambert stood by the door and scratched his temple. “Don’t take this amiss,” he said. “Just a piece of friendly advice. Roy’s dead. I can’t change that. I don’t know anything about it, and I certainly don’t know who did it, but don’t you think you should think twice, take heed of what you’re getting into, and perhaps be a bit more careful lest you disturb a nest of vipers?”
“Is that a warning, Mr. Lambert?”
“Take it as you will.” Lambert looked at his watch. “Now I’m afraid I really must head for the office. I’ve got business to take care of.”
Annie hardly had time to call at her cottage in Harkside and water the wilting potted plants before heading to Eastvale for the three-o’clock team meeting. It was another beautiful Dales day, a little cooler than it had been, with one or two fluffy white clouds scudding across the pale blue sky, but she didn’t have time to pause and enjoy any of it. Sometimes she wondered what the point of living in the country was, given her job and the hours she put in.
They were all waiting in the boardroom: Gristhorpe, Hatchley, Winsome, Rickerd, Templeton and Stefan Nowak, crime scene coordinator. The long table was so highly polished you could see your reflection in it, and a whiteboard hung on the wall at one end of the room, surrounded by corkboards where Stefan had pinned the crime scene photographs. They made quite a contrast to the paintings of the wool barons on the other walls.
After Annie had brought everyone up to speed on the Berger-Lennox Centre, Roy Banks, Carmen Petri and their possible connection with Jennifer Clewes’s murder, Gristhorpe handed the floor over to Stefan Nowak.
Stefan stood by the boards and the photographs and cleared his throat. Not for the first time Annie wondered what sort of life Stefan led outside of work. He was one of the most charming and elegant men she had ever known, and his life was a complete mystery to her.