Peter Robinson: Not Safe After Dark

She turned to her husband. ‘Ooh, look at this, Arthur! Champagne.’

‘It’s the real stuff, too,’ Roy said, with a wink at Banks. ‘None of your Spanish cava or New World sparklers.’

Arthur Banks grunted. Banks happened to know that his father hated champagne, as much because it was a symbol of the upper classes as for its taste.

‘I’d better put it away for a special occasion,’ said his mother, taking it through the kitchen and placing it into the dark depths of the larder, where it would probably remain. Banks thought to mention that today was as special an occasion as they were likely to have in a while, but he knew it was best to keep quiet when Roy was in full benevolent swing. He’d bought a few cans of beer and lager, himself, and he knew that they would be emptied that very evening, without a doubt.

‘Now, then,’ said Ida Banks, rubbing her hands together and reaching out to touch Corinne’s shoulder, ‘what about a drink for everyone? Corinne, love, what’ll you have?’

‘Lager and lime?’

‘Right you are, love. And you, Roy?’

‘Just a Perrier for me, Mum,’ said Roy. ‘Driving.’

‘Of course.’ Ida Banks frowned. ‘What did you say? Perrier? I don’t think we have any of that, do we, Alan?’

Banks shook his head. ‘Only tap water.’

‘Well, that won’t do, will it?’ his mother said scornfully.

‘It’s all right, Mrs B,’ chimed in Geoff, ‘I’ll just nip over the road. Old Ali’s bound to have some. He sells everything.’ And before anyone could stop him he was off.

Ida Banks turned to Roy again. ‘You won’t be driving for ages yet, I hope, son. Won’t you have a glass of something a bit stronger first?’

‘Oh, go on, then,’ said Roy. ‘You’ve twisted my arm. I’ll have a glass of white wine.’

Banks’s mother gave him a questioning glance. ‘We’ve got that, Mum,’ he said, then looked at his brother. ‘Screw top OK, Roy?’

‘Whatever,’ said Roy, his lip curling.

Banks and his father both opted for beer.

‘Come on, then, Corinne, love,’ said Ida Banks, taking Corinne by the arm. ‘You can keep me company and help me pour.’

Banks couldn’t believe it. His mother was fawning all over Roy’s twenty-something bit of fluff, the sort of girl who’d have been granted no more than a sniff of distaste if Banks had brought her home. Still, he should have expected it. Roy was Banks’s younger brother by five years. He had grown up watching Banks do everything wrong and getting caught for it – staying out too late as a teenager, listening to the radio under the bedsheets when he should have been asleep, smoking, leaving home to go to college in London, joining the police – and Roy had keenly observed his parents’ reactions. Roy had learned well from his brother’s mistakes, and he had done everything right. Now, in his mother’s eyes, Roy could do no wrong, and even Arthur Banks, not given to expressions of any kind, didn’t seem to disapprove of Roy as much as he did of Banks. Which was odd, indeed, Banks thought, as Roy was the consummate capitalist.

Roy sat down, first pulling at the razor-sharp crease of his black suit trousers. ‘So how’s life at the cop shop?’ he asked, looking away even before he’d got the words out, indicating to Banks that he didn’t have the slightest iota of interest.

‘Fine,’ said Banks.

‘Is that your Renault out there?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Not bad. Only it looks new. Been on the take?’

‘Oh, you know me, Roy. A few thousand here, a few thousand there.’

Roy laughed. Corinne and Ida Banks, best friends now, came through with the drinks on a tray at the same time Geoff came back from the shop. ‘Sorry, they didn’t have any Perrier,’ he said. ‘I got this other stuff Ali recommended. St… something or other… I can’t pronounce it. OK?’

‘It’ll do,’ said Roy. ‘Be a good bloke and pop it in the fridge, would you, Geoff?’

Geoff seemed only too pleased to oblige.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ said Ida Banks, handing out the drinks. ‘We can have our own little family party before the rest of our guests arrive. Corinne tells me she’s an accountant, Roy.’

‘That’s right, Mum. Saved me a fortune in taxes.’

Corinne sat on the floor near his feet and rested her head against his thigh. He stroked her hair the way one would a faithful dog. ‘She’s very good with figures, aren’t you, Corinne?’

Corinne blushed. ‘If you say so, Roy.’

She really did seem like a ‘nice’ girl to Banks, and that made him wonder all the more what she was doing with Roy. Not that Roy wasn’t handsome or charming. In fact he possessed both of those attributes in spades. Under his suit, he wore a pale blue silk polo-neck. His hair, not quite so black as Banks’s, was long, over his ears and collar, expensively cut, and he had a small shaving nick near the cleft of his chin. His energetic blue eyes resembled Banks’s, except that they were predatory and calculating, whereas Banks’s were curious and intense.

Banks had thought more than once that his brother Roy fitted the classic definition of the psychopath: he was glib and superficial, egocentric, manipulative, shallow and completely lacking in any feelings of remorse, empathy or guilt. Certainly all his behaviour and his emotional responses were learned, assumed through close observation of others as the best way to get on in the world. Underneath it all, Banks guessed, the only things that mattered to him were his needs, and how he could meet them, and his success, measured, of course, by money and power. Perhaps that was why he had already gone through three wives.

‘Oops, mustn’t forget,’ Roy said, putting his glass down and getting suddenly to his feet. Corinne almost fell over sideways. ‘Sorry, love.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Just got to nip down to the Porsche. Forgot something. Wouldn’t want to leave it out there too long. You never know on an estate like this. Give us a hand, will you, Geoff?’

Geoff, returned from the kitchen, beer in hand, stated that he was only too willing to do anything for Roy, and set his glass down on the table. Corinne smiled shyly as the two of them went out. Banks hadn’t heard her speak yet and wondered what her voice was like, her accent. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked, just to find out.

‘Canterbury,’ she said. ‘Well, I grew up there. After that I went to Manchester University.’

She didn’t have much of a regional accent, Banks learned. She was well spoken, clearly educated, and her voice was pleasant, soft and musical, a little reedy.

‘How long have you known Roy?’

‘About three months.’

‘They’re getting engaged,’ Ida Banks said. ‘So now we’ve really got something to celebrate.’

Corinne blushed.

‘That true?’ Banks asked.

She smiled and nodded. He felt like warning her off. Roy had been married three times and two of his wives had ended up confiding in Banks about what an unfaithful, cruel bastard Roy was. He had never actually hit either of them – so they both swore – but he curtailed their freedom and terrorized them psychologically. The second, a particularly bright neurosurgeon called Maria, ended up seeing a psychiatrist for years after they split up, trying to splice together the frayed strands of her self-esteem. Banks had seen her change – albeit at infrequent intervals – from a secure, confident young doctor into an apologetic, tongue-tied wreck whose hands shook so much she couldn’t thread a needle. The third wife, thank God, had seen the signs before it got too late and left Roy in time.

Roy and Geoff came back carrying large cardboard boxes, which they set down on the living-room floor. ‘Happy anniversary,’ Roy said. ‘Go on. Open them.’