Peter Robinson - Strange Affair

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” said Mrs. Cropley. “The sheer nerve of it.”

“Well, I’ve never been faulted for my lack of nerve,” said Templeton. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That’s my motto. So if there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest…”

“I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well, the clothes might have been beyond salvation, I suppose,” said Templeton. “Have any of your husband’s clothes gone missing over the past few months?”

“No.”

“Still,” Templeton mused aloud, “the killer washed the victim’s body, so the odds are he managed to deal with his own clothes. Very fastidious, he was. Are you a fastidious man, Mr. Cropley?”

“I like to think so,” said Cropley, “but it doesn’t make me a killer, and I resent these accusations.”

“Of course you do. It’s only natural. But I have to ask. I’d be a pretty useless detective if I didn’t, wouldn’t I?”

“Quite frankly I don’t care what kind of bloody detective you are,” said Cropley. “One thing I do know is that you’re a very offensive person and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my house immediately.”

“Just one more question, please, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Eileen Cropley glared at him.

“How often has your husband been unusually late home from work on a Friday? Say, after midnight.”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely you ought to be able to remember something like that? Don’t you wait up for him?”

“No. I usually take a sleeping pill at eleven o’clock and go to bed. I’m fast asleep before midnight.”

“So he usually gets back after eleven, then, can we say?”

She looked at her husband. “I suppose so.”

Templeton turned to Roger Cropley. “Nearly done now, sir. I remember the last time I was here with DC Jackman that you distinctly told me you usually try to get away by mid-afternoon to beat the rush-hour traffic.”

“If I can. I don’t always succeed.”

“How often in the last four months?”

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”

“I think I’d remember,” said Templeton.

“I’m not you.”

“No, you’re right about that.” Templeton put his notebook back in his inside pocket. “Well, I’ll be off now. Thanks for your time. No need to see me out. I know the way.”

Templeton walked toward the door, but just before he opened it, he turned to face Cropley again. “One more thing.” He took out his notebook again, frowned and consulted it. “The twentieth of February. Were you on your way home late that Friday, do you remember? Did you stop at Newport Pagnell?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Only, a young girl called Paula Chandler was driven off the road and an attempt was made at assaulting her. It failed. Her car doors were locked. There’s a chance she might be able to identify her assailant.”

“Am I under arrest?” Cropley said.

“Of course not,” said Templeton, “I’m only-”

“Then I want you to leave now or I’m calling my solicitor,” said Cropley, getting to his feet and striding toward Templeton. “Go on, get out!”

For a moment, Templeton thought Cropley was going to hit him, but he merely grabbed his shoulder and steered him toward the front door. Templeton didn’t resist. When the door slammed behind him, he stood for a few moments enjoying the fresh, wet smell of the late-afternoon air. It had stopped raining but the sky was still overcast and the streets were glistening. To the west, the low hills were faint gray outlines against a darker gray background. He could hear the sound of flowing water nearby, probably a beck, and a bird was singing in one of the trees. All in all, he thought, it had been a much more successful interview than the previous one.

As he got in his car, Templeton noticed a few flakes of Cropley’s dandruff on his sleeve jacket and moved to brush it off. Then he had a better idea. If Roger Cropley was their man, he thought, he was damned if DS Susan Browne was going to get all the glory.

Annie stood in the rain among the massed crowds held back by barricades at the far side of Euston Road. The entire area had been blocked to traffic and all the station exits sealed, the underground shut down. People had swarmed out of the nearby offices, shops and cafés to stand at a safe distance and see what was going on, and their presence only served to swell the crowds. Annie began to feel uncomfortably penned in. Across the road, police in protective clothing moved about like shadows inside the station itself. The words that were on most people’s lips were terrorists, bomb threat, a fact of life in London. Annie had asked one of the officers on crowd control how long it would be before the trains started running, but he didn’t know. Could be a couple of hours, could be longer was all he would say. Annie saw her trip home quickly slipping away. There was no point going if she didn’t get back until evening.

She made her way through the crowds, narrowly avoiding a poke in the eye from one of the many raised umbrellas. She didn’t care where she was walking as long as she was getting away from the people. Eventually, when she got off Euston Road and took her bearings, she found herself winding her way via the back streets toward Bloomsbury.

When she got to Russell Square, she remembered the small hotel she and Banks had stayed at a few years ago, when their relationship had been just beginning and seemed full of possibility. She couldn’t stay there by herself. It would be far too depressing. She would go back to her faceless, modern, efficient chain hotel; they would be sure to have a room available, perhaps even the same one she had just vacated, though they all looked so much the same that it didn’t matter.

If she found herself stuck in London for another night, so be it. She took out her mobile and rang Brooke. He had already faxed the artist’s impression up to Eastvalè, but said he’d be more than happy to fax it to her hotel right away. Annie then rang the hotel, made a reservation and told them she was expecting a fax. They said they would take care of everything.

In the evening, she would go and visit Dr. Lukas at her home, but before that, Annie knew she couldn’t spend another day and night in London without some new clothes, so she headed for Oxford Street. A bit of retail therapy would help dispel the gloom that seemed to have descended on her with the rain.

The pub was on Frith Street and at five o’clock it was already crowded. Burgess was there ahead of Banks, sitting on a wooden stool at a small table in the far corner, and he gestured to Banks, holding up an empty pint glass. Banks bought himself an orange juice and Burgess a pint of lager.

“Not drinking?” Burgess said, when Banks made his way back from the bar with the drinks.

“Not right at the moment. Tell me,” said Banks, “why do you always want to meet me in pubs? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your office. I’m not even entirely convinced that you have one.”

“They’d never let you in. Besides, if they did, they’d probably have to kill you. Best this way. Easier all round.”

“Are you ashamed of me or something?”

Burgess laughed, then turned serious. “How are you doing?”

“Not bad. It’s… I don’t know. Roy and I weren’t close or anything, but it still feels like a piece of me’s died.”

“It’s family,” Burgess said.

“I suppose so. That’s what everyone says. I feel as if I’ve only just started getting to know him and he’s been snatched from me.”

“I had a sister die a few years back,” Burgess went on. “She lived in South Africa. Durban. Hadn’t seen her in years, not since we were kids. She was murdered during a robbery. Shot. I felt the same way, though, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about her for ages, what it must have been like when she knew she was going to die. Still, it was quick.”