Peter Robinson: The Price of Love and Other Stories

“Ah, but that was before the city cleaned it up, sir,” said Banks.

“Hair of the dog, sir?” said Albright.

It was half past one and they were approaching the Pillars of Hercules down the alley beside Foyle’s, the arch ahead of them. “Why not,” said Banks.

They went inside, got a couple of pints and sat at a quiet table in the back.

“There’s this stuff called DNA they can use to identify people,” Albright said, out of the blue. He was always doing that, Banks realized, coming out with stuff he’d read. “I read an article about it in a forensics newsletter,” he went on. “Apparently this DNA is different in everyone. Completely unique. Like the body’s signature. Once you get a sample from a crime scene, you can match it against a sample from the suspect.”

Banks had heard about DNA, but he hadn’t really given it much thought. It seemed to belong to a world of the future, and he wasn’t sure he had a future. “How do you get a sample from the crime scene?” he asked.

“Trace evidence. Blood, saliva, skin, semen. Even a hair, if it’s still got the root.”

“And from the suspect?”

“You take some of his blood, semen, saliva, skin, a hair or whatever. I suppose saliva would be easiest, come to think of it. Maybe you could just use a toothbrush or something? I mean, you wouldn’t want to be taking a semen sample from a bloke, would you?”

“Jesus Christ, Ozzy, you do come up with the oddest bloody ideas.”

“Not my idea, sir. It’s science. Trouble is, it takes a long time to process, but they’ll streamline that. It’ll be all the rage soon, you mark my words. Make our job a lot easier.”

“Hmmm,” said Banks. “Get anywhere with Micallef’s alibi?”

“Just about where I expected to get,” said Albright. “They all agreed he was at an all-night card game in Mayfair, won about three hundred quid, too, from what I can gather.”

“Lucky bastard. What about his gambling companions?”

“A couple with form, the others ‘respectable.’”

“Meaning we haven’t caught them yet?”

“Something like that, sir.”

Banks downed half his drink and wiped his lips. “Pity.”

“Well, it was a long shot, sir. We never really thought he did it himself. Not his style. I don’t think he’s got the bottle.”

“Only for women.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” said Banks “Just a story somebody told me a long time ago. I think we’re pissing against the wind here.”

“I agree, sir, unless we can find an eyewitness.”

“And eyewitnesses can be bribed, or scared off. It’s not as if we can offer witness protection like they do in America.”

“I could always hide her away at my house, sir, especially if she’s a good looker.”

Banks laughed. “Good idea, Ozzy. Good idea.” He finished his pint. “And I’ve got an even better one. My shout.”

In retrospect, Banks thought it might have been a mistake going to see Micallef after three pints of Beck’s, but then he realized that hindsight is only reliable after the event. And what was there to lose? Feeling a little better for the hair of the dog, the two of them headed along Greek Street toward Shaftesbury Avenue. It was another fine day, and the tourists were out in Soho in force, Americans mostly, Banks noticed by the accents he overheard. People were sitting outside at coffee shops and enjoying the march of humanity back and forth. It was a long way from the area at nighttime and a world away from twenty years back.

They darted between the taxis and buses on Shaftesbury Avenue and headed into Chinatown. The odds were that Micallef would be holding court there, as usual.

When they got to the restaurant, he wasn’t there, and the maître d’, of course, knew nothing. Banks and Albright walked along Gerrard Street to the corner of Macclesfield and pondered what to do. It was then that Banks noticed the car pull up across from the restaurant. The driver got out, checked the street like a minder, and opened the back door. It was Benny. And there was Micallef, resplendent in his Hugo Boss suit, lock of blond hair flopping over his eye.

“Come on, Ozzy,” said Banks. “No time like the present.” And he headed down the street, Albright a few paces behind.

Micallef saw Banks as he was crossing the street to the restaurant. He paused on the pavement, glanced over, then smiled and ran his forefinger across his lips as if to seal them with Sellotape.

Banks ran the last few yards and he hit Micallef hard in his midriff before Benny even knew what was going on. The two of them hit the pavement, Micallef underneath, and Banks punched at his kidneys, gut and, when he got in position, at his face. Micallef for all his height and ranginess wasn’t much of a street fighter, and he flailed to protect himself. Already the blood was flowing from a split lip and broken nose. Banks could see only red, only Jackie’s crumpled body left in the alley like a piece of garbage, the bruise on her throat and the Sellotape across her lips. He knelt on Micallef’s chest and punched and punched.

After a while, he became vaguely aware of someone kicking him, first in the ribs, then a jarring blow to the side of his skull, and another. He fell over on his side. People were shouting now, someone trying to get ahold of him. Micallef had his knees drawn up to his stomach and his hands defensively covering his bleeding face, whimpering on the pavement.

Banks struggled, but it was no good. The hands holding him were strong and sure. At one point, he thought he heard Albright say, “Forget it, sir, it’s Chinatown.”

He gasped for breath as Albright helped him to his feet, and the more air he got, the more he calmed down, came out of the red mist and was able to understand what was going on. Benny and Albright had scuffled at first, but in the end they had decided to try and separate Banks and Micallef. Now Banks leaned against a lamppost and felt the side of his face all wet and numb, and the blood was pounding in his head.

Micallef sagged in a heap on the pavement and held his stomach and groaned. Then he glared up at Banks, features twisted in pain. “You’re dead!” he shouted through blood and broken teeth. “You hear me, Banks? You’re a dead man for this!”

Maybe I am, Banks thought, and maybe it doesn’t matter. The thing was, he felt like a dead man already.

“Well, mate, you’ve certainly been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Banks instinctively put his hand up to the side of his right eye. He could feel the rough, uneven row of stitches. Eight of them. And his ribs still ached where they were taped. “The doc says I might have a scar.”

Roly Verity brushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll look good on you. I’m told some ladies like a scar.”

“Not my wife,” said Banks.

It was ten days after the attack on Micallef and the kerfuffle had more or less settled down. Micallef had declined to press charges, more out of fear of losing face than from any benevolent feelings toward Banks. Nobody had seen anything, anyway. They never did in Soho.

“You were lucky you didn’t get suspended, you know,” said Verity. “Young Albright did a damn good job of keeping your chestnuts out of the fire.”

“Don’t I know it.”

He gestured toward Banks’s glass. “Another?”

“Why not?”

They were in the Three Greyhounds at the corner of Old Compton Street and Greek Street, and Banks was nursing the last of a pint of bitter. It was just after dark, raining outside, and the place was crowded, noisy and smoky, mostly with a young crowd. The neon signs along the street were blurred through the rain sliding down the pub windows, and from the open door Banks could hear the occasional hiss of a car splashing through a curbside puddle.