Peter Robinson - Strange Affair

Corinne lived in the first-floor flat of a four-story building overlooking the narrow street, not more than fifty yards away from Earl’s Court Road. She looked different from the young girl Banks had met at his parents’, he thought as she greeted him at the door and asked him in. Her hair was longer, for a start, almost down to her shoulders, and it was blond with dark roots. The little stud was gone from below her lip, leaving a small flaw in her clear skin, and she looked closer to thirty than to twenty. She also seemed more self-possessed, more mature than Banks remembered her.

“Come into the back,” she said. “That’s where the office is.” An electric fan stood on the table by the open window, slowly turning through about ninety degrees every few seconds, sending out waves of lukewarm air. It was better than nothing.

“Everyone seems to work at home these days,” Banks said, sitting in a winged armchair. Corinne sat at an angle to him, cross-legged, the way some women seem to prefer, and he guessed that this was the space she used to discuss business when clients called at the house. A jug of water thick with ice cubes sat on the table between them, along with two tumblers. Corinne managed to stretch her upper body forward and pour them both a glass while remaining cross-legged. Quite a feat, Banks thought, considering he couldn’t even sit in that position comfortably in the first place. But Corinne seemed to move with a dancer’s grace and economy that spoke of Pilates and yoga.

“They say tea’s refreshing in hot weather,” she said, “but the thought of drinking anything hot doesn’t have much appeal at the moment.”

“This is fine,” said Banks. “Thank you.”

Corinne was wearing a plain orange T-shirt tucked into her jeans, and she wore a Celtic cross on a silver chain around her neck. She was barefoot, Banks noticed, and her toenails were unpainted. Occasionally, as she talked or listened, her heart-shaped face would tilt to one side, she would bite her lower lip and her fingers would stray to the cross. Sunlight gilded the leaves outside the window and their shadows danced pavanes over the pale blue walls, stirred by the lightest of breezes.

“Well,” she said, “I must say you had me all intrigued on the telephone. I’m sorry if I-”

“My fault entirely. I wasn’t being clear. I hope you don’t take me for the kind of man who goes chasing his brother’s fiancée?”

She gave a brief, tight little smile that indicated to Banks that perhaps all was not as it should be in the fiancée department, but he let it go for the time being. She would get to it in her own time, if she wanted.

“Anyway,” he went on, “it’s Roy I want to talk to you about.”

“What about him?”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

“What do you mean?”

Banks explained about the phone call, Roy’s absence and that the door had been left unlocked.

“That’s not like him,” she said, frowning. “None of it is. I can see why you’d be worried. Anyway, to answer your question, no, I don’t know where he is. Do you think you should go to the police? I mean, I know you are the police, but…”

“I know what you mean,” said Banks. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet, at any rate. I don’t think they’d be very interested. Roy’s a grown-up. There could still be a simple explanation. Do you know any of his friends?”

“Not really. There was another couple we used to go out with occasionally, Rupert and Natalie, but I don’t think Roy has a lot of close friends.”

Banks didn’t miss the “used to,” but he let it go for the moment. There was a Rupert in Roy’s mobile phone book. Banks would ring him eventually, along with the rest of the names. “Do you know a burly man with curly gray or fair hair?” he asked. “He drives a big, light-colored car, an expensive model?”

Corinne thought for a moment, then she said, “No. Sorry. Rupert drives a slate-gray Beemer and Natalie’s got a little Beetle runaround.” She turned up her nose. “A yellow one.”

“When did you last see Roy?”

“A week last Thursday.” She fingered the cross. “Look, I might as well tell you, things haven’t been going all that well for us lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Any particular reason?”

“I think he’s been seeing someone else.” She gave a little shrug. “It doesn’t matter, really. I mean, it’s not as if it was serious. We’ve only been going out about a year. We’re not living together or anything.”

“But I thought you were supposed to be engaged?”

“I think that was part of the problem, really. I mean, I’d brought it up, and Roy’s impulsive. Neither of us is ready for marriage yet. We called it off, went back to the way we were. That was when the trouble started. I don’t suppose you can take a big step back like that and expect a relationship to continue the way it was, can you?”

So the engagement had been postponed, or demoted to going steady, and the relationship had cooled, like Banks and Michelle’s. Little brother up to his usual tricks. At least Corinne was to be spared the indignity of being wife number four. “Even so,” Banks said, “it must still hurt. I’m sorry. Have you any idea who he’s seeing?”

“No. I don’t even know if I’m right for sure. It’s just a feeling. You know, little things.”

Well, Banks thought, there were a few possible names and numbers in Roy’s mobile phone book and call list. “How recently?” he asked.

“Just these past few weeks.”

“And before that?”

“Things were fine. At least I thought they were.”

“Was there anything bothering him when you saw him last?”

“Nothing that I could see. He seemed much the same as ever. Except…”

“Yes?”

“Well, as I said, little things, things a woman notices. Forgetfulness, distance, distraction. That wasn’t like him.”

“But he wasn’t depressed or worried about anything?”

“Not that you’d know. I just thought he had someone else on his mind and he’d rather be with her.”

“What about drugs?” Banks asked.

“What about them?”

“Come off it. Don’t tell me you and Roy never snorted a line, smoked a spliff.”

“So what if we did?”

“Apart from its being illegal, which we’ll ignore for the moment, when you get into the drug world you get to meet some nasty people. Did Roy owe his dealer money, for example?”

“Look, it wasn’t much. Just recreational. A gram on the weekends, that sort of thing. Nothing more than he can easily afford.”

“All right,” said Banks. “How much do you know about his business dealings?”

“A fair bit.”

“You’re his accountant, right?”

“Roy takes care of his own books.”

“Oh. I thought that was how you met?”

“Well, yes,” said Corinne. “He got audited and a friend recommended me to him.” She twirled her Celtic cross. “Most of my clients are in the entertainment business – writers, musicians, artists – nobody really big-league, but a few decent, steady earners. Roy was a bit different, to say the least, but I needed the money. And before you ask, everything was aboveboard.” She narrowed her eyes. “Roy once told me he was sure you thought he was a crook.”

“I don’t think he’s a crook,” Banks said, not being entirely truthful. “I think maybe he stretches the law a bit, finds the odd loophole, that’s all. Plenty of businessmen do. What I’m wondering, though, is whether he had any reason to run off. Was his business in trouble? Had he lost a lot of money, made some errors in judgment?”

“No. Roy’s books were good enough for me and the tax man.”

“Look, I’ve seen his house,” said Banks. “The Porsche, the plasma TV, the gadgets. Roy obviously makes quite a lot of money somehow. You said he makes it legitimately. Have you any idea how?”