Peter Robinson - The Price of Love and Other Stories

“Of course not. No, it’s nothing like that. It was a faulty valve, they said, on the oxygen tank.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Someone told me if we’d been living in America I’d have got millions of dollars in compensation.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Yes, well, if we’d been living in America we probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the medical treatment in the first place, and Bill would have died a lot sooner.”

“Also true,” said Banks. “Can you explain a bit more clearly? About this feeling you had.”

“I’m not sure. I felt as if he were, you know, waiting, waiting in the wings until Bill died.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. So he could take over more, maybe, manipulate me more.”

Banks smiled at her. “He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with.”

She didn’t smile back. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to take advantage when people are vulnerable.” She looked at him. “Or maybe you wouldn’t. You probably see a lot of it in your job. Anyway, I felt as if he was hovering, waiting for Bill to die so that he could be more in control.”

“But what could possibly have been in it for him?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I was probably imagining things anyway.”

“I don’t suppose you won the lottery recently?”

“Never bought a ticket.”

“And you don’t have a million pounds hidden in the mattress, or anything?”

She laughed. “Wish I had. No, there’s nothing, really. Bill’s insurance policy. Old-age pension. I’m not complaining, mind you. It’s enough to get by on.”

“What happened?”

“After Bill died, I gave Geoff Salisbury his marching orders. I was nice about it. I thanked him for his help, but said I was perfectly capable of managing by myself and I’d prefer it if he didn’t come around anymore. It wasn’t that I couldn’t still have used the sort of help he had to offer, but I just didn’t feel comfortable having him around. Maybe I was being oversensitive as well as ungrateful.”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “As I said, I haven’t taken to him myself and I’m not sure why.”

“You’ll be feeling guilty because he’s looking after your parents while you’re not there to do it.”

“Perhaps. Partly, yes. But there’s more. I don’t trust him. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I don’t trust him. Maybe it’s copper’s instinct.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing for a start: you’ll get no thanks around these parts for going after Geoff Salisbury.”

“Popular, is he?”

“To hear some talk, you’d think the sun shone out of his... well, you know what.”

Banks smiled. “I think I can guess. How did he take your rejection?”

Mrs. Green shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. At least he didn’t bother me after that. Oh, I see him around now and then, and he always smiles and says hello as if nothing ever happened. It’s just that...”

“What?”

“Oh, probably me being silly again. But it feels just skin deep, as if underneath it all, if you were just to strip off the surface that, well, you’d find something else entirely under there. Something very nasty indeed.”

Banks decided to pay a quick visit to the city center that afternoon. He needed to pick up a couple of things from the shops for tomorrow, such as a nice anniversary card and some candles. He asked his parents if they needed anything, but they said no (implying, Banks thought, that Geoff Salisbury was taking care of everything), so off he went. Rather than search the side streets for a vacant parking space, he parked in the short stay behind the town hall and walked through to Bridge Street.

Of course, the city center had changed quite a lot since his schooldays. Most cities had changed a lot in the past thirty years, but Peterborough more so than many others. Gone were the small record shop in the back alley where he used to buy a new single nearly every week and LPs whenever he could afford them — usually only Christmas and birthdays — and the musty used bookshop where he used to browse for hours among the dog-eared paperbacks, the one where the sour-faced woman behind the counter used to watch him like a hawk the entire time he was in there. The open-air market had closed; some of the pubs he used to drink in when he was sixteen and seventeen had disappeared and new ones had sprung up; an old cinema, after several years as a bingo hall, was now a nightclub; department stores had disappeared, moved or been given face-lifts; Cathedral Square was now a pedestrian precinct.

Only yards from the Queensgate Center stood the ancient cathedral itself. Throughout Banks’s childhood, the majestic structure had simply been there. It didn’t dominate the city, the way York Minster did, and like most of the other local kids, he had paid it scant attention unless school projects and organized visits demanded otherwise. After all, what kid was interested in a boring old cathedral where boring old farts had gone to pray and where even more boring ones were buried? But now he found himself admiring the west front, with its three soaring Gothic arches flanked by twin pinnacled towers, the stone cream colored in the autumn sunshine.

In the Queensgate Center, Banks bought an expensive golden anniversary card and some gold candles, then he browsed around for a while and picked up a CD he thought Kay would enjoy listening to on their way to dinner. It was one oldie he didn’t have, and he had been aware of the gap in his collection for some time. Luckily, it was even on sale.

He looked at his watch. Four o’clock. He thought he just had time for a quick walk by the river before driving back to his parents’ house.

As he walked down Bridge Street past the Magistrates Court and the police station, he realized that he hadn’t quite been able to put Geoff Salisbury out of his thoughts completely. Something about the man was still nagging away at him. Mrs. Green had been partly right; of course he felt guilty that Geoff was doing all the things for his aging parents that a good and dutiful son ought to be doing. But also, as the astute Mrs. Green had realized, there was more to it than that. If nothing worse, he certainly got the impression that Geoff Salisbury was a petty thief.

He glanced toward the old Customs House with its light on top to guide the ships navigating the River Nene, then he made his way down to the footpath that ran along the Nene Way. There, he found a bench and, away from the crowds, took out his mobile and phoned the detectives’ room back at Eastvale. Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot and Detective Constable Winsome Jackman were on weekends at Western Area HQ, and it was Annie who answered.

“DCI Banks, what a pleasant surprise. Can’t leave us alone for a minute, can you, sir?”

“I take it you’re not alone in the office?”

“That’s right, sir. Just Winsome and I, as per the duty roster.”

“Everything all right?”

“Fine. Business as usual. Couple of fights after closing time last night and a sexual assault on the East Side Estate. We’ve got a man in for questioning.”

“Is that all?”

“Honestly, we’re on top of it. Relax. Enjoy yourself.”

“I’m trying, Annie, I’m trying. Actually, I wasn’t calling to check up on you. I’m sure everything’s under control. I need you to do a little detective work for me.”

“Detective work?”

“Yes. I want you to check on a name for me. See if you come up with anything.”

“I don’t believe it. Even at your parents’ golden wedding anniversary you’re still on the job?”

“You know the rules, Annie, we can’t ignore wrongdoing whether we’re on or off duty.”