“You have men there, too?”
“One. Armed. Anyway, now that you have actually been to see Gareth Lambert, and probably got him worried, things might be a bit different, I’m not sure.”
“You know I’ve seen Lambert?”
“Superintendent Burgess said he’d told you where to find him. I didn’t think you would just sit around and not act on that information. What did you think?”
“I didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him.”
“In that, you were right. From now on, we’ll try to watch your back as best we can, but for obvious reasons I can hardly show my hand. It is a shame you English police are unarmed.”
“I’m not too sure about that,” said Banks, thinking that there weren’t many times in his career when he had felt the need for a gun, though now might be one of them. “And by the way, do you have a license for that one you’re carrying?”
Ganz laughed. “I have your government’s permission, if that’s what you mean. Do you want one? I’m sure I can get one for you.”
“I’d probably shoot myself in the foot,” said Banks. “But thanks for the offer.”
“I almost forgot,” Ganz said. “Mr. Burgess told me to tell you he checked the number and the red Vectra was stolen from a multi-story car park in Putney. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Banks. It meant the car that had followed him from his parents’s house was stolen, as he had expected.
“What are you going to do now?”
Banks looked at his watch. “I’m going to have another glass of wine and think over what you’ve said.” Later, when it was open, Banks planned to visit the Albion Club on The Strand and see if he could find out more about Roy’s final hours, but he didn’t see any reason for telling Dieter Ganz that. If Interpol were keeping an eye on him, they’d find out soon enough, anyway.
Susan Browne arrived in Eastvale from Derby at four o’clock, just after Annie had left for the station, bearing the positive fruits of the very discreet DNA comparison, and more.
She told Templeton on their way to Roger Cropley’s house that DI Gifford had made inquiries at Cropley’s software firm in London and found that he regularly left late on Fridays and that he had left late on Friday, the twenty-third of April, as there had been an office party that evening to celebrate a lucrative new contract.
Cropley was clearly not thrilled to see the two detectives on his doorstop late that afternoon. He tried to shut the door, but Templeton got a foot in. “It’s better if you let us in,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll stay here while DS Browne goes for a search warrant.”
Cropley relaxed the pressure on the door and they entered, following him into the living room. “I don’t know why you won’t leave me alone,” he said. “I’ve told you time after time I know nothing about any murders.”
“You mean you’ve lied time after time,” said Templeton. “By the way, this is DS Browne. She’s come all the way from Derby just to talk to you. Say hello.”
Cropley said nothing, just stared at Susan Browne. She sat down and smoothed her skirt. “Mr. Cropley,” she said, “I’ll come right to the point. When DC Templeton here first came to me with his suspicions, I was skeptical. Now I’ve had time to think about things and make a few inquiries, I’m not too certain.”
“What inquiries?”
Susan slipped a folder out of her briefcase and opened it. “According to my information, you left your office in Holborn at about eight o’clock on Friday the twenty-third of April this year.”
“How do you know that?”
“Is it true?”
“I don’t remember. How can you expect me to remember that far back?”
“It’s true according to our evidence. That would put you at Trowell services around the same time as Claire Potter.”
“Look, this is absurd. It’s nothing but circumstantial.”
“On two other occasions you left late,” Susan went on reading, “two other women were either followed or assaulted shortly after leaving the M1.”
“I haven’t assaulted anyone.”
“What we’re going to do, Mr. Cropley,” Susan went on, “is take you down to the police station for further questioning. There you will be fingerprinted and photographed and a sample of your DNA will be taken. Once we have-”
The door opened and Mrs. Copley walked in. “What’s going on, Roger?” she demanded.
“They’re harassing me again,” Copley said.
His wife looked at Susan and Templeton, then back at her husband, an expression of scorn on her face. “Maybe you deserve it,” she said.
“Do you know something, Mrs. Cropley?” Templeton asked.
“That’s between me and my husband,” Mrs. Cropley said.
“A woman has been murdered,” Susan said. “Raped and stabbed.”
Mrs. Cropley folded her arms.
Susan and Templeton looked at each other and Susan turned back to Cropley, who had gone ashen. “Once we have the photographs, we’ll be showing them to every worker in every café and petrol station on the motorway. Once we have your DNA, we’ll compare it with traces found at the scene of Claire Potter’s murder. You might have thought you were thorough,” Mr. Cropley, “but there’s always something. In your case it’s dandruff.”
“Dandruff?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know we can get DNA from dandruff? If you even left one flake at the scene, we’ll have it in the evidence room and we’ll be testing it.”
Cropley looked stunned.
“Anything to say?” Susan went on.
Cropley just shook his head.
“Right.” Susan stood up. “Roger Cropley, you’re under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Claire Potter. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
As Cropley walked out, head hung, between Browne and Templeton, his wife turned her back and stood in the center of the room rigid as a statue, arms still folded.
Annie was half an hour late as she made her way through the crowded pavements of Covent Garden to the restaurant Dr. Lukas had mentioned on Tavistock Street. She had just missed the 4:25, and as the 5:05 was a slow train, she had to catch the 5:25, which arrived on time at 8:13. On the train, she rang Dr. Lukas at the center, but was told the doctor wasn’t there that day. She left a message, which she couldn’t be sure Dr. Lukas had received, and then she had phoned the restaurant to leave a message there, too. She also rang her usual hotel to book a room for the night. The desk clerk recognized her name and voice and got so chatty it was embarrassing.
Well, Annie thought as she dashed into the crowded restaurant, Dr. Lukas had said she would be waiting, and there were worse places to wait. She spotted the doctor at a corner table and made her way over. It was small restaurant with intimate lighting and white linen tablecloths. A blackboard on the wall listed specials and wine suggestions. There was music playing, but it was so faint Annie couldn’t make out what it was. It sounded French, though.