Peter Robinson - Strange Affair

“Roy, too.”

“Nothing like a bullet for that. So what are you up to?”

Banks told him about the men who followed him on the motorway, the shooting gesture through the window.

“What have you done about it?”

“I almost turned back, but that’s probably what they wanted me to do. I called the locals in Peterborough and asked them to keep an eye open. They said they’d post surveillance on the council estate.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Can you still run down a number plate?”

“Nothing could be easier.”

Banks gave him the Vectra’s number.

“You realize it’s probably stolen, don’t you?” Burgess said.

“Attention to detail,” said Banks. “Sometimes they make little mistakes.”

“True enough.”

“Ever heard of the Berger-Lennox Centre?”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

“A private family-planning center. They deal with the whole lot. Abortions, adoption, whatever you want.”

“No,” said Burgess, “I can’t say I’ve heard of them, but then I wouldn’t have any need for such a place, would I?”

“I suppose not. But Roy was an investor and Jennifer Clewes worked there, in administration.”

“Sounds interesting, but I still don’t know anything about it. What are you going to do next?”

“I want to find out who killed Roy and why.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? The caped crusader rides again.”

“Aren’t you mixing your metaphors?”

“Probably. I don’t suppose it’s any use telling you to leave it to the locals?”

“No.”

“Thought not. What is it you want from me?”

“You’ve already told me a bit about Roy’s checkered past.”

“The arms thing?”

“Yes.”

“That was years ago. I told you, as far as we know, your brother’s been clean for the past while. Forget about it.”

“So why is he dead?”

“Some of the nicest people end up dead.” Burgess lit a Tom Thumb cigar and added to the general fug.

“Any idea who the bloke in the photo sitting at a café with Lambert is yet?”

“Nope. I’m working on it, though. It’s still doing the rounds. Believe me, I want to know as much as you do. Trouble is, this time of year a lot of blokes are on holiday. And quite a few have retired since back then. Anyway, be patient. Remember it’s not the local nick you’re dealing with here. I promise you’ll be among the first to know.”

“Tell me more about Gareth Lambert.”

“I told you. He was a business associate of your brother’s and an all-round nasty piece of work. Charming enough on the surface. Like I said, Harry Lime. I take it you have seen The Third Man ?”

“It’s one of my favorite films. Look, according to Julian Harwood, Lambert’s been living in Spain.”

“My, my, you have been a busy boy, haven’t you?”

“Why come back?”

“I suppose he got bored with paella. He also got married to some beautiful Spanish actress. Centerfold material. England’s quite sexy these days, or didn’t you know? Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow, Liv Tyler, and all the rest. They all want to live here. Anyway, he’s back, and apparently he’s in the travel business.”

“Legit?”

“I didn’t say that. But there’s no evidence to the contrary. Like I said, Lambert’s elusive. He’s got no form, never once been arrested. Not in this country, at any rate. Not yet. Always manages to keep one step ahead. Sure you won’t have a real drink?”

“No, thanks. I need to keep my head clear.”

“For what?”

“For Roy.”

“Okay.” Burgess went up the bar and bought himself another pint. Banks noticed that the pub was filling up even more with the after-work crowd. There had been a blackboard outside advertising hand-pulled “real” ale, so perhaps that was what brought them in. Most of the newcomers had to stand and the crush at the bar was getting to be three deep. Some people took advantage of the break in the rain and stood outside drinking, but from what Banks could see through the open door, the sky was darkening again and they’d all be dashing back inside soon.

Burgess came back and squeezed through the bodies to his stool without spilling a drop. “Are there any other leads on Roy’s murder?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “I’ll have a word with Annie Cabbot later and see if I find out what’s going on with DI Brooke’s investigation.”

“Still screwing the lovely DI Cabbot, are you, or have you moved on to pastures new?”

Banks ignored him. Burgess was always looking for buttons to push. Usually he succeeded, but not this time. “Tell me,” Banks said, “honestly, do you think Roy could have got involved in something crooked with Lambert again?”

“Anything’s possible. But what I’m telling you is that I, we, have no knowledge of it. If they were into something together, it’s a smooth operation. You’re dealing with pros here. At least Lambert’s a pro.”

“And you’d know if there was something?”

“Maybe. If it was big enough and nasty enough. We spend a lot of time just watching and thinking, but we’re not omniscient. We don’t know everything, just most things. Besides, it’s not my problem anymore. And Lambert hasn’t been back here very long. Only a couple of months if my sources are right, which they usually are. So if there is anything, it’s either new or it’s something international and he was working it from Spain, too. Let me ask around. I’ve still got a few contacts. There’s a bloke from Interpol, Dieter Ganz, I know is interested, if I can get in touch with him. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I want to know where Lambert lives.”

“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking me that.”

“I’d have got around to it a lot sooner if I hadn’t had my parents to cope with. Are you going to tell me?”

“Can’t see why not.” Burgess gave him an address in Chelsea. “You’d only find out some other way. He’s got a place out in the country somewhere, too, where he keeps his wife, but this flat’s his pied-à-terre when he’s in town. He still travels a fair bit. And he runs his business out of an office above a dry-cleaning shop on Edgeware Road, the Marble Arch end. But watch him, Banks. He’s slippery. Remember Harry Lime.”

Banks finished his orange juice. “Tell me something,” he said. “You always put up a show of resistance, but in the end you usually tell me what I want to know. Why?”

“Entertainment value,” said Burgess. “Besides, I like you. I like to watch you work. It interests me. I see you getting more and more like I used to be. You want something, you go after it, and bugger the consequences. Bugger the law, if necessary.”

“Used to be?”

Burgess sipped some beer. “I’ve mellowed, Banksy. Grown up.”

“Bollocks.”

“It’s true. Anyway, let’s just say that DI Brooke’s interests and mine don’t always coincide. Brooke’s a plodder. I know the type. No imagination. No breadth of vision. He’s only interested in short-term results, another tick on his report card for his next promotion.”

“And you?”

“I’m more interested in the big picture, the long-term view. And I like to know what’s going on. Information’s my stock-in-trade these days, after all. I don’t get out on the street much.”

“Miss it?”

Burgess looked away. “Sometimes.” He laughed and raised his glass. “Now bugger off. And good luck with Lambert.”

It had started raining again and Banks had to fight against the influx of people trying to get back inside. He found a sheltered doorway and dialed Annie’s number on his mobile. She answered on the fourth ring.