Peter Robinson - Not Safe After Dark

‘Did he indeed?’ Banks said. ‘What a surprise.’

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing. Where did this happen?’

‘Loughborough, sir.’

That wasn’t very far away, Banks thought. ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said. ‘And thank DI Cabbot. That’s a great help.’

‘There’s more, sir. DI Cabbot said she’s going to try to talk to the local police, the ones who handled the case. She said it looks like there might be more to it than meets the eye.’

‘What did she mean by that?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Shall I ask her to ring you when she’s been in touch with Loughborough police?’

‘If you would, Winsome. And thanks again.’

‘No problem, sir. Enjoy the party.’

Roy didn’t turn up in time for Sunday lunch, which was pretty much what Banks had expected. They ate without him, Ida Banks fretting and worrying the whole time, unable to enjoy her food. Arthur tried to calm her, assuring her that nothing terrible had happened and that Roy wasn’t trapped in a burning car wreck somewhere on the M1. Banks said nothing. He knew his mother well enough to realize that anything he said regarding Roy would only succeed in adding fuel to the fire. Instead, he ate his roast beef and Yorkshires like a good boy – and a fine lunch it was, too, especially if you liked your meat and vegetables overcooked – and counted his blessings. In the first place his mother was far too distracted to go on at him for being late home last night, and in the second place Geoff bloody Salisbury had buggered off home and wasn’t eating with them, though he had promised to come back early to help set up for the party.

The phone finally rang at about half past two, just as they were starting their jam roly-poly, and Banks’s mother leapt up and dashed into the hall to answer it. When she came back she was much calmer, and she informed Banks and his father that poor Roy had had a devil of a job getting away on time and the rain had caused some terrible delays. There was also a pile-up on the M25, so he was stuck in traffic there at the moment and would arrive as soon as he could.

‘There you are, you see,’ Arthur said. ‘All that fretting for nothing. I told you he was all right.’

‘But you never know, do you?’ she said.

Banks offered to do the dishes and his offer was, to his surprise, accepted. His father had a nap with the open newspaper unread on his lap, and his mother went for a short lie-down to calm her nerves. When Banks had finished the dishes, he sneaked a couple of fingers of his father’s Johnnie Walker to calm his nerves. He had no sooner downed it than the explosion went off.

At least that was what it sounded like at first. Eventually, Banks’s ears adjusted enough to discern that it was music coming from next door. Heavy-metal gangsta rap, music only if you used the term very loosely indeed. Banks’s father stirred in his armchair. ‘At it again,’ he grumbled. ‘Never get a moment’s peace.’

Banks sat by him on the arm. ‘Does this happen a lot?’ he asked.

His father nodded. ‘Too often for me. Oh, I’ve tried having a word, but he’s an ignorant bugger. If I were twenty or thirty years younger-’

Banks heard his mother’s footsteps on the landing. ‘At it again, I hear,’ she called down.

‘It’s bad for her nerves,’ Arthur Banks said.

‘Have you talked to the council?’

‘We’ve tried, but they say, apart from issuing a warning, they can’t do anything.’

‘What about Geoff Salisbury?’

‘Geoff’s got his strengths, but he’s not got a lot of bottle. Proper tough guy him next door.’

‘Right,’ said Banks, standing up. ‘Give me a few minutes.’

‘Where are you going, Alan?’ his mother asked, coming down the stairs as he got to the front door.

‘Just off to have a quiet word with next door, that’s all.’

‘Don’t you go causing any trouble. Do you hear? You just be careful. And remember we have to live here after you’ve gone, you know.’

Banks patted his mother’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ he said. ‘I know what I’m doing. I’ll make sure I don’t cause you any trouble.’

It was still raining outside. Banks knocked on the door, but got no answer. Hardly surprising, as he supposed nobody could hear him over the music. The windows were all open and the angry heavy-metal rap spilled out into the street, someone bragging about raping a bitch and offing a pig.

Banks tried the front door. It was open. He found himself in a small hallway, where the stairs led up to the bedrooms. The wallpaper was peeling and something that looked like a sleeping bag lay on the staircase. Banks nudged it with his foot. It was empty.

He didn’t like just walking in unannounced, but it seemed the only option. He called out a few times while he stood still in the hallway but he could hardly even hear his own shouts.

Finally, he went through into the living room. Now he knew why they kept the windows open; the smell was overwhelming. It was a mixture of things – human smells, definitely, such as sweat and urine, but also rotten vegetables, burnt plastic and marijuana. There were piles of old newspapers and other rubbish on the floor and it looked as though a dog had chewed up the furniture, though there wasn’t one in evidence. Thankful for small mercies, Banks thought; they probably had a pit bull. Three people were slumped on sofas and armchairs, and one of them stood up when Banks walked in.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ he shouted.

‘I’m not a lip-reader,’ Banks said, stepping over to the mound of stereo equipment and turning the volume down. ‘That’s better.’

It was the man of the house – Fred West to a T, eyebrows and all. The woman Banks assumed was his wife watched from one of the chairs. A girl Banks guessed to be about thirteen or fourteen sat in the other chair staring blankly at him.

The man squared up to Banks and gestured to the door with his thumb. ‘Right, mate,’ he said. ‘I’m done being polite. On your bike.’

‘I came to ask you to turn down the music,’ Banks said. ‘We can hardly hear ourselves think next door.’

‘What’s it to you? You’re not from around here.’

‘I was here a long time before you came on the scene. I grew up here. It’s my parents’ house and today’s their wedding anniversary.’

‘Well, bully for you. Sorry we forgot to buy them a present. Now just fuck off before I do you some real damage.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Banks, slipping his warrant card out. ‘I’m a police officer and I’m asking you nicely to keep the noise down.’

The man actually leaned forward and scrutinized the card. ‘North Yorkshire!’ he said. ‘You’ve got no powers down here. You’re out of your jurisdiction, mate.’

‘Big word that. I’m surprised you didn’t choke on it.’

‘I’m not scared of you. Now fuck off!’

‘You should be,’ said Banks.

The man walked over to the stereo and cranked up the volume again. The girl and the woman hadn’t moved. They were just watching. Banks guessed they were stoned on something or other. He thought he could see a crack pipe half-hidden under a newspaper on the floor, but it wasn’t crack they were on. These two weren’t jerky or manic; they were practically comatose. Downers or smack, most likely.

With a sigh, Banks walked over to the stereo, picked up the CD player, ripped out the wires and dropped it on the floor. The music stopped. The women still didn’t move, but Fred came right at him. He was a couple of inches taller than Banks, and thickset, muscular in the upper body. But Banks had his wiry and deceptive strength and speed going for him. He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it so that he soon had him on his knees, arm up his back, foot placed solidly on his left kidney. By exerting just a little more pressure on the arm, Banks could make the pain excruciating. Even more pressure and the arm would snap or the shoulder joint would pop. The women just looked on, goggle-eyed. They’d never seen anything like this before.