Peter Robinson - The Price of Love and Other Stories

Verity returned with the pints. “What on earth were you thinking about?” he went on.

“You know damn well what I was thinking about,” said Banks.

“I know you were frustrated. Aren’t we all? It’s just something we have to live with.”

“He did it,” said Banks. “Jackie Simmons. Either that or he had it done. And he played a big part in Stafford’s suicide, too.”

“You know he did it and I know he did, but it’s what we can prove that counts, and we can’t prove a fucking thing. There are no witnesses, and he’s got five people to say he was playing cards with them. No forensics worth a damn. No prints. Blood type shared with 45 percent of the population. Including you, for all I know... And the victim was just another tom. What’s the point in beating yourself up over it?”

Banks paused, started his fresh beer and said, “It would hardly be in your interests anyway, would it, Micallef going down for murder?”

Banks sensed Verity stiffen beside him. His tone hardened as he said, “What do you mean by that?”

“Proof, Roly, proof. I don’t have any. Not of anything.” Banks tapped the side of his head. “But I think I know what happened. I think I know what’s been going on.”

“You’re talking in riddles, man.”

“I just want to know how deep you’re in with them, that’s all.”

Verity put his drink down hard and some of it spilled over the sides. He scraped his chair back. One or two of the young drinkers gave them the once-over but averted their gaze quickly when they caught Verity’s evil eye. “I don’t have to listen to this crap.”

“True. You don’t,” said Banks. “But you want to know how much I know, don’t you? Calculate the threat level?”

Verity picked up his glass again. “One of those hypothetical discussions,” he said, smiling through crooked and stained teeth.

“You can put it that way, if you like.” Banks lit a cigarette. “The way I see it, though, Roly, is that you’ve been playing both sides against the middle, haven’t you?”

“Who was it put you on to Micallef in the first place?”

“I’ve thought about that,” said Banks. “It was you. Right from the start, just down the street from here, after Pamela Morrison’s murder.”

“And?”

“You had to, didn’t you? It was a smart move. You knew we’d get on to him eventually, either through the girls, the club or the building, so why not come out with it up front? You’re a cop, after all. You were supposed to be helping us. I can’t say you did a great deal after that, though. Not for us, at any rate.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got the impression that Micallef knew we were coming, that he had time to prepare his story. I think you warned him.”

“Bollocks. He’d have known anyway. A prossie gets killed in Soho? Course he’d expect a visit from the peelers.”

“Maybe. But it goes a bit deeper than that, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, stop playing the bloody innocent, Roly. I know you blokes at Vice. Sometimes you get so close to your villains you become one yourself, or as good as. A free taste of pussy now and then, the odd bottle of bubbly, a carton of cigarettes. I know how it goes.”

“Them’s the old days. That’s—”

“Nothing’s changed that much. Not when it comes down to graft and corruption. I can understand why you want to keep in with him, because he drops a useful crumb of good information your way once in a while. If you protect him, he’ll give up his competitors and any newcomers trying to muscle in. It’s a dangerous game, Roly, and a dodgy one, but I can understand it. I can see why you want to do that, and I applaud you for it, I really do. It’s a fine balancing act. But you’ve gone too far this time.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Norman Stafford.”

“He was a killer and a pervert. And he committed suicide.”

“All true, more or less. But I think he committed suicide with a little persuasion from Matthew Micallef. Micallef was seen leaving his house.”

“Possibly seen. Anyway, so what if he did? Saved us a lot of paperwork.”

Banks laughed. “That’s true. And he’s no great loss. But the point is that at some point before that, Micallef must have known it was Stafford killing his girls, even if he didn’t personally set up the dates. And if he knew, why didn’t you know? And if you did know, why didn’t we know?”

“This is all too complicated for me. Nobody told me anything.”

“So it was a one-way street, was it?”

“What?”

“The information. The second time I talked to Micallef, he used the phrase ‘Sellotaped her cunt shut.’ I remembered it because it disgusted me the first time as much as it did the second, and the first time I heard it was from your mouth.”

Verity raised his hands. “Fine, you don’t like the way I talk. So wash my fucking mouth out with soap.”

“You’re missing the point, Roly.” Banks counted on his fingers for emphasis. “First off, how did he know the killer used Sellotape on his victims? It wasn’t in the press, or on the telly. We kept it hush-hush. And second, why did he use that exact same phrase? Word for word. Unless he’d heard it somewhere before?”

Verity sat quietly for a moment, thinking and fidgeting with his drink. Banks smoked and watched him patiently. “I suppose you’re going to tell me?” Verity said finally.

“Well, there’s only two ways it could have happened,” Banks said. “Either he heard it from one of the team, or he was there at the scene of one, or both, murders. Take your pick.”

“Micallef didn’t kill those girls.”

“Which leaves the team. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t Albright, it certainly wasn’t Hatchard, and I doubt very much—”

“All right, all right, so I told him. Mea culpa. So what? It was tit for tat. I was hoping he might give me a lead, a name, anything.”

“But he didn’t?”

“He didn’t know anything at that point.”

“And that’s another thing, Roly. You were awfully quick on the scene at the Maureen Heseltine murder. You weren’t on a call across the street. I checked. How did you get there so fast?”

“What? I...”

“Let me tell you how I think it happened. Micallef tipped you off, didn’t he? Either Stafford came unstrung and went crying to him, or he figured it out for himself. Maybe he did arrange the dates, or at least the second one. But he wanted you on the spot. You’re in bed with him, Roly. I just want to know if you go all the way together or not.”

“That’s rubbish.”

“Is it? How did you get there so quickly, then?”

“It’s my job, or maybe you hadn’t noticed?”

“How?”

“I got the call, just like you. I got there before you, that’s all.”

“You ran all the way?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“So why did you lie about it?”

“Is this some sort of interrogation? A trap? Are you wired? Because if you’re trying to fit me up—”

“Relax, Roly. I’m not wired. Pat me down if you want, though you might raise an eyebrow or two.”

Verity shifted in his seat “All right,” he grunted. “I believe you. I told you, it was always give-and-take with Micallef. We tolerated each other.”

“I think it was more a matter of give on your part and take on his. We got nothing out of this, Roly. Nothing. What did you get?”

“I resent that.”

“I daresay you do. But you know what really gets me? It’s not Micallef. It’s not even Stafford. You can argue he deserved what he got. It’s the girl.”

“Which girl?”

“You know damn well which girl. Jackie Simmons.”