Peter Robinson - The Price of Love and Other Stories

“Why? Soft on her, were you? I’ve heard tell you—”

“Enough, Roly, enough,” said Banks. “Jackie Simmons told me about a weird client she’d had, one who went on about restoring her innocence, and she gave me a good description. We got her in and produced a passable photokit. We were getting close to Norman Stafford. But you know all about that, don’t you? Now, whether Micallef didn’t want us talking to him because of their property dealings, or whether he simply wanted him out of way because he’d killed two of his girls, I don’t know. I’d say for a man like that it’s probably as easy to replace an MP as it is a girl, so let’s say he suggested suicide—”

“You can’t prove any of this. It’s nothing but idle speculation.”

“Speculation, yes, but not so idle. And the question remains: How did Micallef know that Jackie Simmons gave me a description of Stafford? How did he know she’d talked?”

“Someone must have seen the two of you together. God knows, you were practically—”

“You knew, Roly. You were in and out of the office like you belonged. You saw all the case files, had access to all the leads as soon as we got them. What did you do? Make a copy of the photokit and show it to Micallef so he could plug his leaks? Including Jackie Simmons? You told him about her, didn’t you? You signed her death warrant, Roly, and that’s what I can’t forgive you for.”

Verity stabbed Banks’s chest with his finger. “You’re so fucking holier than thou, aren’t you? Just take a look at yourself, Banks. You’re pissed half the time, hungover the rest. You go off half-cocked at Micallef in the street in broad daylight. You chat up his girls, and everybody knows you’re screwing—”

“Stop right there,” said Banks. His voice was soft but the level of menace was high, and Verity picked up on it. “Stop right there. You don’t bring me or my personal life into this. Get it? This is between you and me.”

“Oh, really? Well, I don’t give a fuck. Do you want to know the truth, Banks? Do you want to know what people think around here, what they’re saying behind your back? You don’t fit. I might as well tell you. Word is getting round. You’re a hothead. A throwback. You’re not a team player. This city needs a different kind of detective for these times. One who knows the value of good intelligence. Of not rocking the boat too much.”

Banks snorted. “And that’s you, Roly? Because if that’s the case, I’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Well, why don’t you take the chance if it comes your way? You can’t win the war, you know, only the occasional battle.”

“Maybe so, but at least I don’t have to be a collaborator.”

“Are you calling me a rat? Is that what you’re calling me?”

“Forget it, Roly,” said Banks. “You’re right. We both know Micallef did it. He’s got away with it. One day we’ll get him for something else. Everything comes around.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Karma, Roly, karma.” Banks stood up, gave him a little salute and said, “Be seeing you.”

And that was it, really. Over twenty years ago. Banks had walked out of the Three Greyhounds that day knowing that he was right, that Roland Verity had passed on information to Micallef that had sealed Jackie’s fate.

Matthew Micallef was shot by an underage Russian prostitute called Olga Chevenko in the alley beside the Nellie Dean in November 1996. In her defense, she said she was jealous because he had been sleeping with another woman. DCI Roland Verity came under investigation on corruption charges around the same time, something to do with smuggling illegal, and often unwilling, young girls from Eastern Europe for the purposes of prostitution. He took early retirement. Word had it that he was living the life of Riley on the Costa del Sol.

Over the years, Banks had thought often of Pamela Morrison, Maureen Heseltine and, especially, of Jackie Simmons, but he had put the rest of the business out of his mind and got on with his new life in Yorkshire. He might not have found as much peace as he had hoped for when he took the transfer, but things had been better, for a while. His marriage to Sandra had even blossomed for a while, though it eventually ended in divorce.

Like everyone else in the know, he had assumed that Pamela’s and Maureen’s killer had delivered his own judgment and carried out his own sentence on himself, with or without a little help, and that Micallef had either killed, or ordered the killing of, Jackie Simmons as a warning to the rest of the girls, though Banks couldn’t prove it.

And now, as he stood looking out on a new day in Eastvale market square, he held in his hands something that he knew might change everything he had believed. The radio was tuned to some atonal piece on Radio 3, Schoenberg or Berg, but it seemed quite fitting.

Banks opened the envelope.

It was from Commander Oswald Albright, of the London Metropolitan Police, and the rather stiff, formal note told him that as a result of a recent “cold case” reinvestigation of the Jackie Simmons murder, which had always remained officially “unsolved,” a warrant had been issued for the arrest of former Detective Chief Inspector Roland Verity, and an extradition request had been sent to the Spanish government. The Spanish authorities had already been extremely cooperative in arranging for a DNA sample and were expected to throw up no barriers to Verity’s eventual extradition.

What comes around. Karma.

Banks wondered what Verity looked like now. Sunburned, wearing shorts and a Bermuda shirt, no doubt, probably run to fat. Did he still have that ridiculous mop of hair that used to flop over his face like a careless schoolboy’s?

Curious about a few points, Banks turned off the radio and picked up his phone. After a few minutes, he was put through to Commander Albright.

“Sir,” said the younger man, now at a higher rank than his old boss.

“Call me Alan, Ozzy. And shouldn’t I be calling you sir?”

“I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you? Do you remember a conversation we once had in the Pillars of Hercules many years ago? I was telling you about an article I’d read on DNA, and you—”

Banks laughed. “All right. All right, Ozzy. You were right. You were ahead of your time, and I was a dinosaur, even then.”

“Well, it just goes to show, doesn’t it, after all these years?”

“That’s what I was wondering about,” said Banks. “You’re a bit scant with the details. Why? How?”

“Well, it wasn’t down to me, if that was what you were thinking. I just got the team’s results and thought you’d want to know. It’s funny the way these cold case things work. Not my department. God knows if it’s alphabetical or by year, or whatever system they use. Anyway, the Jackie Simmons case came up for investigation. You liked her, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I did. She was a beautiful, spirited, intelligent girl, no matter what, and she didn’t deserve what happened to her. She had her problems, but don’t we all?”

“Too true. Christ, I’ll never forget the day you went for Micallef in Gerrard Street. I thought you were going to kill him.”

Banks fingered the scar beside his right eye. “I might have done if you and Benny hadn’t stopped me,” said Banks. “Not my finest hour. Back to the cold case investigation.”

“Oh, yes. Well, anyway, one of the team got suspicious when he started checking out the personalities involved and saw Roly Verity’s name. As you might know, Verity left the Met under a bit of a cloud. Nothing proven, nothing serious, at any rate, but even so... This was in the nineties, a bit after your time. We couldn’t have known, not back in eighty-five.”