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Peter Robinson: Strange Affair

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Peter Robinson Strange Affair

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The chilling new Inspector Banks novel from the bestselling author of Playing With Fire. When he receives a mysterious and disturbing telephone call from his brother Roy, Banks heads off to London to search him out. Meanwhile, DI Annie Cabbot is called to a murder scene on a quiet stretch of road just outside Eastvale. A young woman has been found dead in her car… With Banks’s name and address written on a slip of paper in the back pocket of her jeans. While Banks stays in his brother’s luxurious, empty house, digging into his life and uncovering more and more surprises about the brother he didn’t really know and didn’t particularly like, Annie tracks down the female victim’s friends and colleagues. It seems that both trails are leading towards horrific conclusions and when the cases look likely to intersect, the consequences for Banks and Annie become terrifying…

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It seemed as if the fire and subsequent spell in the hospital had put his life on pause, and he couldn’t find the “play” button. Even work, when he got back to it, had been boring, consisting mostly of paperwork and interminable meetings that never settled anything. Only an occasional pint with Gristhorpe or Jim Hatchley, a chat about football or the previous evening’s television, had relieved the tedium. His daughter, Tracy, had visited as often as she could, but she had been studying hard for her finals.

Brian had dropped by a few times, too, and now he was in a recording studio in Dublin with his band working on a new CD. Their first as the Blue Lamps had done okay, but the second was slated for much bigger and better things.

More than once Banks had thought of counseling, only to reject the idea. He had even considered that Dr. Jenny Fuller, a consultant psychologist he had worked with on a number of cases, might be able to help, but she was on one of her extended teaching gigs – Australia this time – and when he thought more about it, the idea of Jenny delving into the murky depths of his subconscious didn’t hold a lot of appeal. Maybe whatever was there was best left there.

When it came down to it, he didn’t need any interfering shrink poking around in his mind and telling him what was wrong. He knew what was wrong, knew he spent too much time sitting around the flat and brooding. He also knew that the healing process – the mental and emotional process, not merely the physical – would take time, and that it was something he had to do alone, make his way step by weary step back to the land of the living. No doubt about it, the fire had burned much deeper than his skin.

It wasn’t so much the pain he’d endured – that hadn’t lasted long, and he couldn’t even remember most of it – but the loss of all his worldly goods that had hit him the hardest. He felt like a man adrift, unanchored, a helium balloon let float off into the sky by a careless child. What was worse was that he thought he ought to be feeling a great sense of release, of freedom from materialism, the sort of thing gurus and sages spoke about, but he just felt jittery and insecure. He hadn’t learned the virtue of simplicity from his loss, had learned only that he missed his material possessions more than he ever dreamed he would, though he hadn’t yet been able to muster up the energy and interest to start replacing those items that could be replaced: his CD collection, his books and DVDs. He felt too weary to start again. He had bought clothes, of course – comfortable, functional clothes – but that was all.

Still, he reflected, munching on a slice of toast and marmalade as he scanned the reviews section of the newspaper, things were definitely improving a little each day. It was becoming easier to get out of bed on a morning, and he had got into the habit of occasionally taking a walk up the daleside opposite his flat on a fine day, finding the freshness and exercise invigorating. He had also enjoyed Penny Cartwright’s singing the previous night and was beginning to miss his CD collection. A month or so ago, he wouldn’t even have bothered reading the reviews in the paper.

And now brother Roy, who hadn’t even rung or visited him in the hospital, had left a mysterious urgent message and had not called back. For the third time since he got up that morning, Banks tried Roy’s numbers. He got the answering machine again, the recorded voice telling him to leave a message, and the mobile was still switched off.

Unable to concentrate on the newspaper any longer, Banks checked his watch and decided to ring his parents. They should be up by now. There was just a chance that Roy was there, or that they knew what was going on. He certainly seemed to keep in touch with them more than with Banks.

His mother answered and sounded nervous to be getting a call so early in the day. In her world, Banks knew, early-morning phone calls never meant good news. “Alan? What is it? Is there something wrong?”

“No, Mum,” Banks said, trying to put her at ease. “Everything’s fine.”

“You’re all right, are you? Still recovering?”

“Still recovering,” said Banks. “Look, Mum, I was wondering if our Roy was there.”

“Roy? Why would he be here? The last time we saw Roy was our anniversary last October. You must remember. You were here, too.”

“I remember,” said Banks. “It’s just that I’ve been trying to ring him…”

His mother’s voice brightened. “So you two are making it up at last. That’s good to hear.”

“Yes,” said Banks, not wishing to disabuse his mother of that scrap of comfort. “It’s just that I keep getting his answering machine.”

“Well, he’s probably at work. You know how hardworking our Roy is. Always got something or other on the go.”

“Yes,” Banks agreed. Usually something about two shades away from being criminal. White-collar, though, which didn’t seem to count as crime to some people. When Banks thought about it, he realized he really hadn’t a clue what Roy actually did to make his money. Only that he made a lot of it. “So you haven’t heard from him recently?”

“I didn’t say that. As a matter of fact he rang about two weeks ago, just to see how your dad and I are doing, like.”

The implied rebuke wasn’t lost on Banks; he hadn’t rung his parents for a month. “Did he have anything else to say?”

“Not much. Except he’s keeping busy. He might be away, you know. Have you thought about that? He did say something about an important business trip coming up. New York again, I think. He’s always going there. I can’t remember when he said he was going, though.”

“Okay, Mum,” said Banks. “That’s probably where he is. Thanks very much. I’ll wait a few days and call him when he gets back home.”

“You make sure you do, Alan. He’s a good lad, is Roy. I don’t know why you two haven’t been getting on better all these years.”

“We get along fine, Mum. We just move in different circles, that’s all. How’s Dad?”

“Same as ever.” Banks heard the rustle of a newspaper – the Daily Mail his father read just so he could complain about the Conservatives – and a muffled voice in the background. “He says to say hello.”

“Right,” said Banks. “Say hello back… Well, take care of yourselves. I’ll call again soon.”

“Mind you do,” said Banks’s mother.

Banks rang off, tried Roy’s both numbers once again, but still no Roy. There was no way he was going to wait a few days, or even hours. From what he knew of Roy, under normal circumstances if he had buggered off somewhere and not bothered to ring back, Banks would have assumed he was sunning himself in California or the Caribbean with a shapely young woman by his side. That would be typical of him and his me-first attitude. As far as Roy was concerned, there was nothing in life you couldn’t get through with a smile and a wad of cash. But this was different. This time Banks had heard the fear in his brother’s voice.

He deleted the message from his answering service, threw a few clothes along with his toothbrush and razor into an overnight bag, checked that the lights were out, unplugged all the electrical items and locked the flat behind him. He knew he wouldn’t get any rest until he got to the bottom of Roy’s odd silence, so he might as well drive down to London and find out what was happening himself.


Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe called the meeting in the boardroom of Western Area Headquarters after lunch, and DI Annie Cabbot, DS Hatchley, crime scene coordinator DS Stefan Nowak, along with DCs Winsome Jackman, Kev Templeton and Gavin Rickerd sat in the high, stiff-backed chairs under the gaze of ancient wool barons with roast beef complexions and tight collars. Their notes and files were set in neat piles on the dark polished table beside Styrofoam cups of tea or coffee. Pinned to corkboards on the wall by the door were Peter Darby’s Polaroids of the scene. It was already hot and stuffy in the room and the small fan Gristhorpe had turned on didn’t do much good.

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