Peter Robinson - Strange Affair

“They didn’t bother tidying up after themselves,” said Annie, pointing to a single shell casing on the floor close to the chair.

“Probably thought no one would ever find the place,” said Brooke.

“Some kids would have found it eventually,” Banks said. “Kids love places like this.”

Pigeons flew in and out through the holes in the roof and walls, perching on the rafters and ruffling their feathers. Their white droppings speckled sections of floor, and even the chair itself. Despite its partial openness to the elements, the factory smelled of small dead animals and stale grease.

“I’ll see if I can get some uniforms to canvass the neighborhood,” Brooke said. “Who knows? Someone might have noticed unusual activity around the place.”

The wind made a mournful sound as it blew through the broken windows, harmonizing strangely with the cooing pigeons. Banks gave a little shiver, despite the warmth of the day. He’d seen all he wanted, the godforsaken place where Roy had spent his last few hours being tortured, then shot. No matter how long he lived, he knew he would never get the image out of his mind. For now, though, he had other things to do. He told Brooke and Annie he was leaving, and neither asked him where he was going. As he was getting in his car, the technical support van turned into the factory yard. They would scrutinize the place where Roy had died, scrape blood, search for fingerprints, fibers, hair, skin, any traces that the murderers had left behind. With any luck, they would turn up enough to secure a conviction, should the police ever find a viable suspect. Banks left them to it.

After dropping his car off outside Roy’s – he didn’t fancy spending the day driving in London traffic, trying to find parking spots, and the tube was much faster – Banks tried Lambert’s travel operation on Edgeware Road but was told that Mr. Lambert was unavailable. Next he went back to the Chelsea flat, not far from Sloane Square, and found Gareth Lambert just on his way out of the front door.

“Going somewhere, Gareth?” he said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Lambert tried to push past him.

Banks stood his ground. “My name’s Banks. Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks.”

“You’re Roy’s brother.” Lambert stood back and eyed Banks up and down. “Well, fuck a duck. The old killjoy himself.”

“Can we go back inside?”

“I’m busy. I’ve got to get to the office.”

“It won’t take long.” Banks stared Lambert down. Finally Lambert shrugged and led Banks upstairs to a first-floor flat. The interior was functional enough but lacked the personal touch, as if Lambert’s real life lay elsewhere. The man himself looked just the same as he did in Roy’s photo: bearish, a bit overweight with a red complexion – part sun, part hypertension, Banks guessed – and a thick head of curly gray hair. He was dressed in ice-blue jeans and an oversized, baggy white shirt. Burgess had made a comparison with Harry Lime, but as far as Banks could remember, Lime was suave and charming on the surface, more like Phil Keane. Lambert was rougher around the edges and clearly didn’t seem to rely on charm to get by. They sat down opposite each other like a pair of chess players, and Lambert regarded Banks with a vaguely amused look in his eyes.

“So you’re Roy’s big brother, the detective.”

“That’s right. I understand the two of you go back a long way?”

“Indeed we do. I met Roy just after he’d graduated from university. We were a bit wet behind the ears back then, 1978. As I remember it, all the kids were wearing torn T-shirts and safety pins in their ears, listening to the Sex Pistols and the Clash, and there we were in our business suits sitting in some square hotel bar planning our next venture. Which was probably marketing torn jeans and safety pins to the kids.” He laughed. “They were good days. I was very sorry to hear about what happened to Roy, by the way.”

“Were you?”

“Of course. Look, I really am a busy man. If you’re just going to sit there and-”

“Because you really don’t seem to be grieving very deeply for someone you’d know for so long.”

“How do you know how much I’m grieving?”

“Fair enough. Did your ventures together involve arms dealing?”

Lambert’s eyes narrowed. “Why bring that up?” he said. “It’s ancient history. Yes, we were involved in what we thought was a perfectly legitimate weapons sale, but we were hoodwinked and the shipment was misdirected. Well, that was enough for me. What do they say? Once bitten, twice shy.”

“So you stuck with less risky ventures after that?”

“I wouldn’t say any of our ventures were without risk, but let’s just say the risk was of a more monetary kind, not the sort of risk where you could end up in jail if you weren’t careful.”

“Or dead.”

“Quite.”

“Insider trading can carry a hefty penalty.”

“Hah! Everybody was doing it. Still are. Have you never had a hot tip from the horse’s mouth and made a few bob on it?”

“No,” said Banks.

“So if I said right now such and such a company is making an important merger next week and their share prices will double, you can honestly say you wouldn’t run right out and buy as many shares as you could get your hands on?”

Banks had to think about that one. It sounded easy, and perhaps just a little bit naughty, put that way. Hardly criminal. But he didn’t understand the stock market, and that was why he didn’t play it. Besides, he never felt that he had the money to spare for such gambles. “I might splurge on a couple,” he said in the end.

Lambert clapped his hands. “There you are!” he said. “I thought so.” It sounded as if he were welcoming Banks to a club he had no desire to join.

“I’ve also heard rumors that you have been involved in smuggling,” Banks said.

“That’s interesting. Where did you hear these?”

“Are they true?”

“Of course not. The word has such negative connotations, don’t you think? Smuggling. It’s so emotive. I regard what I’ve done more as a matter of practical geography. I move things from one place to another. With great efficiency, I might add.”

“I’m glad you’ve got no time for false modesty. What things?”

“Just things.”

“Arms? Drugs? People? I hear you know the Balkan route.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow. “You do have your ears to the ground, don’t you? Roy never told me how sharp you are. The Balkan route? Well, I might have known it once, but these days… those borders change faster than you can draw them. And you’d better stop accusing me of breaking the law right now or I’ll have my solicitor on you, Roy’s brother or no. I’ve never been convicted of anything in my life.”

“So you’ve been lucky. Still, lots of opportunities for entrepreneurs in the Balkans, though. Or the ex-Soviet states.”

“Much too dangerous. I’m afraid I’m too old for all that. I’m semi-retired. I have a wife I happen to love very much and a travel agency to run.”

“When did you last see Roy?”

“Friday night.”

Banks tried not to let his excitement show. “What time?”

“About half past twelve or one o’clock in the morning. Why?”

“Are you sure it was Friday night?”

“Of course I am.”

Lambert was playing with him, Banks sensed. He could see it in the man’s restless, teasing eyes. Lambert knew that the neighbor had seen him getting into his car with Roy, and that Banks had no doubt talked to the neighbor and got his description. But that was at half past nine. What were they doing until half past twelve or one o’clock?