Peter Robinson: Strange Affair

“How do you know that?”

“Is it true?”

“I don’t remember. How can you expect me to remember that far back?”

“It’s true according to our evidence. That would put you at Trowell services around the same time as Claire Potter.”

“Look, this is absurd. It’s nothing but circumstantial.”

“On two other occasions you left late,” Susan went on reading, “two other women were either followed or assaulted shortly after leaving the M1.”

“I haven’t assaulted anyone.”

“What we’re going to do, Mr. Cropley,” Susan went on, “is take you down to the police station for further questioning. There you will be fingerprinted and photographed and a sample of your DNA will be taken. Once we have-”

The door opened and Mrs. Copley walked in. “What’s going on, Roger?” she demanded.

“They’re harassing me again,” Copley said.

His wife looked at Susan and Templeton, then back at her husband, an expression of scorn on her face. “Maybe you deserve it,” she said.

“Do you know something, Mrs. Cropley?” Templeton asked.

“That’s between me and my husband,” Mrs. Cropley said.

“A woman has been murdered,” Susan said. “Raped and stabbed.”

Mrs. Cropley folded her arms.

Susan and Templeton looked at each other and Susan turned back to Cropley, who had gone ashen. “Once we have the photographs, we’ll be showing them to every worker in every café and petrol station on the motorway. Once we have your DNA, we’ll compare it with traces found at the scene of Claire Potter’s murder. You might have thought you were thorough,” Mr. Cropley, “but there’s always something. In your case it’s dandruff.”

“Dandruff?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know we can get DNA from dandruff? If you even left one flake at the scene, we’ll have it in the evidence room and we’ll be testing it.”

Cropley looked stunned.

“Anything to say?” Susan went on.

Cropley just shook his head.

“Right.” Susan stood up. “Roger Cropley, you’re under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Claire Potter. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

As Cropley walked out, head hung, between Browne and Templeton, his wife turned her back and stood in the center of the room rigid as a statue, arms still folded.

Annie was half an hour late as she made her way through the crowded pavements of Covent Garden to the restaurant Dr. Lukas had mentioned on Tavistock Street. She had just missed the 4:25, and as the 5:05 was a slow train, she had to catch the 5:25, which arrived on time at 8:13. On the train, she rang Dr. Lukas at the center, but was told the doctor wasn’t there that day. She left a message, which she couldn’t be sure Dr. Lukas had received, and then she had phoned the restaurant to leave a message there, too. She also rang her usual hotel to book a room for the night. The desk clerk recognized her name and voice and got so chatty it was embarrassing.

Well, Annie thought as she dashed into the crowded restaurant, Dr. Lukas had said she would be waiting, and there were worse places to wait. She spotted the doctor at a corner table and made her way over. It was small restaurant with intimate lighting and white linen tablecloths. A blackboard on the wall listed specials and wine suggestions. There was music playing, but it was so faint Annie couldn’t make out what it was. It sounded French, though.

“Did you get my message?” she asked, sitting down and catching her breath.

Dr. Lukas nodded. “It’s all right,” she said, tapping the paperback she was reading. “I have my book. I was prepared to wait. They know me here. They are very understanding.”

Annie browsed the menu, which was decidedly traditional, and decided on ratatouille. Dr. Lukas had already settled on bouillabaisse. Once they’d got their orders in, the doctor poured Annie a glass of Chablis and topped up her own.

“I’m sorry I made you come all this way,” she said, “but I couldn’t possibly tell you over the telephone.”

“It’s all right,” said Annie. “I had to come back anyway. You’re going to tell me everything?”

“Everything I know.”

“Why not tell me before?”

“Because the situation has changed. And things have gone too far.”

The waiter appeared with a basket of bread and Annie broke off a chunk and buttered it. She hadn’t eaten on the train and realized she was starving. “I’m listening.”

“It’s very difficult for me,” Dr. Lukas began. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“Helping the girls?”

“Not that so much. If I hadn’t done it, who would?”

“Is it about Carmen Petri?”

“Only partly. To understand what I have to say, you have to know where I come from. L’viv is a very old city, a very beautiful city in many ways, with many fine ancient buildings and churches. My mother was a seamstress until arthritis made her fingers of no more use. My father was a mining engineer. My parents remember when Jews were rounded up and killed by the Germans in the war. You hear about the massacre at Babi Yar, near Kiev, but there were many smaller massacres elsewhere, including L’viv. My parents were lucky. They were children then and they hid and were not found. When I lived there, Ukraine was still part of the Soviet Union. I grew up in a modern part of the city, ugly Stalinist blocks. We were poor and ill-fed, but there was a strong sense of community, and sometimes you could even believe in the ideals behind the reality of the revolution. When Ukraine became an independent state in August 1991, things were chaotic for a while. Nobody knew what was going to happen. That was when I left.”

Annie listened, interested in Dr. Lukas’s story but curious as to where it was leading. Before long, their food was served and Dr. Lukas poured more wine. As if reading Annie’s mind, she smiled and said, “You might be wondering where all this is going, but please indulge me.” She talked more about her childhood, the state school, unsanitary living conditions, her ambition to become a doctor. “And here I am,” she said. “Ambition fulfilled.”

“You must be very proud.”

Dr. Lukas frowned. “Proud? Yes. Most days. Then, about a year ago, a man came to see me at my home. I remembered him from school, from the building in L’viv where his family lived, close to mine. He said he had heard I was a successful doctor here through his parents, who had read an article about me in the local newspaper. It’s true. Many people left Ukraine, but their stories continue to be of interest to those who have not experienced the world outside.”

“What did he want?”

“When he was at school, he was a bully. When he got older, he and his gang terrorized the building we lived in, extorting money, burgling apartments, selling black-market goods. Nobody was safe from him. Then suddenly he was gone. You can imagine how relieved we all were.”

“But he turned up here, in London?”

“Yes. He told me he traveled all around Europe, learning the ways of the free world, the free economy, and his training in L’viv served him well.”

“He’s the man who sends the late girls to you, isn’t he?”

Dr. Lukas said nothing for a moment. She had turned pale as she was talking, Annie noticed, and her bouillabaisse sat mostly uneaten in front of her. Finally, she whispered, “Yes. That’s what he is now. A pimp. When he first came to see me it was because one of his girls had problems with her periods that made her unreliable. Then he realized what a good idea it would be for me to be their unofficial doctor, so to speak. And that was the start of it all.”