‘Don’t be like that,’ Gregson said. ‘When Jordan phoned me and said there was a suspicious Englishman asking questions about Bernard Allen, what the fuck else could I do? What would you have done? Then it turned out to be you, a goddamn police inspector from England. And I hadn’t even been advised of your visit. I considered that an insult, which it is. And I didn’t find your remark on the phone about getting my man particularly funny, either. I’m not a Mountie.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for any inconvenience I’ve caused you, Sergeant,’ Banks said, standing up, ‘but I’d like to enjoy the rest of my holiday in peace, if you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Gregson said, making no move to stop him walking over to the door. ‘I don’t mind at all. But I think you ought to bear a few things in mind before you go storming off.’
‘What things?’ Banks asked, his palm slippery on the doorknob.
‘First of all, that what I said to you on the phone before is true: we don’t have the resources to work on this case. Secondly, yes, you can talk to as many people as you wish, providing they want to talk to you. And thirdly, you should have damn well asked for permission before jumping on that fucking jet and flying here half-cocked. What if you find your killer? What are you going to do then? Have you thought about that? Smuggle him out of the country? You could be getting yourself into a damn tricky legal situation if you’re not very careful.’ Gregson rubbed his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘All I’m saying is that there are things you can’t do acting alone, without authority.’
‘And you don’t have the resources. I know. You told me. Look, this is where I came in, so if you don’t mind—’
‘Wait!’ Gregson jumped to his feet and reached for his jacket.
‘Wait for what?’
Gregson pushed past him through the door. ‘Come on,’ he said, half turning. ‘Just come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘What for?’
‘I’m going to save you from yourself.’
Banks sighed and followed the sergeant down the corridor and down in the lift to the car park.
There was enough room for a football team on the front seat of Gregson’s car. With the open windows sucking in what hot wet air they could, the staff sergeant drove up Yonge Street and turned right at the Hudson’s Bay building. On the crowded street corner, vendors sold icecream, T-shirts and jewellery; one man, surrounded by quite a crowd, was drawing large portraits in coloured chalk on the pavement.
Farther along, Banks recognized the stretch of the Danforth he’d walked the previous day: the Carrot Common shopping centre; the little Greek restaurant where he’d eaten lunch; Quinn’s pub. They came to an intersection called Coxwell, and Gregson turned left. A few blocks up, he pulled to a halt outside a small apartment building. Sprinklers hissed on the well kept lawn. Banks was tempted to run under one for a cold shower.
They walked up to the third floor, and Banks followed Gregson along the carpeted corridor to apartment 312.
‘Allen’s place,’ the staff sergeant announced.
‘Why are you helping me?’ Banks asked, as Gregson fitted the key in the door. ‘Why are you bringing me here? You said your department didn’t have the resources.’
‘That’s true. We’ve got a hunt on for a guy who sodomized a twelve-year-old girl, then cut her throat and dumped her in High Park. Been looking for leads for two months now. Twenty men on the case. But this is personal time. I don’t like it that a local guy got killed any more than you do. So I show you where he lived. It’s no big deal. Besides, like I said, I’m saving you from yourself. You’d probably have broken in, and then I’d have had to arrest you. Embarrassing all round.’
‘Thanks anyway,’ Banks said.
They walked into the apartment.
‘Building owner’s been bugging us to let him rent it out again, but we’ve been stalling. He knows he’s sitting on a gold mine. We’ve got a zero vacancy rate in Toronto these days. Still, Allen paid first and last month when he moved in, so I figure he’s got a bit of time left. To tell you the truth, we don’t know who’s gonna take care of the guy’s stuff.’
There wasn’t much: just a lot of books, Swedish assemble-it-yourself furniture, pots and pans, a few withered house plants and a desk and typewriter by the window. Bernard Allen had lived simply.
The room was hot and stuffy. There was no sign of an air-conditioner, so Banks went over and opened a window. It didn’t make much difference.
‘What kind of search did your men do?’ Banks asked.
‘Routine. We didn’t open up every book or read every letter, if that’s what you mean. The guy didn’t keep much personal stuff around, anyway. It was all in that desk drawer.’
Banks extracted a messy pile of bills and letters from the drawer. First, he put aside the bills then examined the sheaf of personal mail. They were all dated within the last six months or so, which meant that he threw his letters out periodically instead of hoarding them like some people. There were letters from his parents in Australia and one brief note from his sister acknowledging the dates of his proposed visit. Banks read these carefully, but found nothing of significance.
It was a postcard from Vancouver dated about two weeks before Allen set off for England that proved the most revealing, but even that wasn’t enough. It read:
Dear Bernie,
Wrapping things up nicely out here. Weather great, so taking some time for sunbathing on Kitsilano Beach. It’ll be a couple more weeks before I get back, so I’ll miss you. Have a great trip and give my love to the folks in Swineshead! (Only joking — best not tell anyone you know me!) See you in the pub when you get back.
Love,
It was perfectly innocent on the surface — just a postcard from a friend — so there was no reason why Gregson or his men should have been suspicious about it. But it was definitely from Anne Ralston, and it told Banks that she was going under the name of Julie now.
‘Looks like you’ve found something,’ Gregson said, looking over Banks’s shoulder.
‘It’s from the woman I’m looking for. I think she knows something about Allen’s murder.’
‘Look,’ Gregson said, ‘are we talking about a criminal here? Are there charges involved?’
Banks shook his head. He wasn’t sure. Anne Ralston could certainly have murdered Raymond Addison and run for it, but he didn’t want to tell Gregson that and risk the local police scaring her off.
‘No,’ he said. ‘They used to know each other in Swainshead, that’s all.’
‘And now they’ve met up over here?’
‘Yes.’
‘So?’
Banks told him about Ralston’s disappearance and the Addison murder, stressing that she wasn’t seriously implicated in any way.
‘But she might have known something?’ Gregson said. ‘And told Allen. You think that’s what might have got him killed?’
‘It’s possible. We know that she asked him to keep quiet about meeting her over here, and we know he didn’t.’
‘Who did he talk to?’
‘That’s the problem. Someone who makes it his business to make sure that everyone who counts knows.’
‘It won’t be easy.’
‘What?’
Gregson tapped the postcard. ‘Finding her. No address. No phone number. Nothing.’
Banks sighed. ‘Believe me, I know. And all we’ve got is her first name. I’m just hoping I can dig out some of the spots she might turn up. She mentioned the pub, so at least I was right about her drinking with him there.’