Peter Robinson: Strange Affair

The good news was that his mother had managed to get speedy results on the medical tests. Her colon cancer was operable and her chances of making a full recovery were excellent. She also seemed to be coping a bit better with the loss of her son, though Banks knew she would never fully recover from it, never be her old self again.

Brilliant green dragonflies hovered above the water’s surface and clouds of gnats and midges gathered above the path. The sun had almost set and the water was dark blue, the sky streaked with blood orange. Banks could hear the calls of night birds from the trees and the sounds of small animals scuffling in the under-growth. Across the river he could see the backs of the shops and houses on Helmthorpe High Street. People were sitting outside in the beer garden of the Dog and Gun and he could hear muffled conversations and music from the jukebox. It should have been Delius’s “Summer Night on the River,” he thought, breathing in the perfumed air, but it wasn’t even “Strange Affair,” it was Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives.”

Banks paused to light a cigarette and saw a figure walking toward him from the other direction. He couldn’t make out any more than a dark shape, but when it got closer he saw it was Penny Cartwright. He stood aside to let her pass. The overhanging leaves brushed the back of his neck and made him shiver. It felt as if a spider had slipped under his collar and was making its way down his back.

As she passed, Banks nodded politely and said hello, making to hurry along, but her voice came from behind him. “Wait a minute.”

Banks turned. “Yes?”

“Got a light?”

As Banks flicked his lighter she leaned in toward him, cigarette in her mouth, and her eyes were on his as she inhaled. “Thanks,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yes. Fancy. Good night, then.”

“Don’t go. I mean, wait a sec. Okay?”

She sounded nervous and edgy. Banks wondered what was wrong. They stood and faced each other on the narrow path. An owl hooted deep in the woods. Elvis continued to watch the detectives. It was almost dark now, only a few streaks of purple and crimson in the sky, like some great god’s robes.

“I was sorry to read about your brother,” she said.

“Thank you.”

Penny pointed to the beer garden. “Do you remember that night?” she said. “All those years ago?”

Banks remembered. He had sat in the garden with his wife, Sandra, and Penny and her boyfriend, Jack Barker, explaining the Harry Steadman murder. It had been a warm summer evening, just like tonight.

“How’s Jack?” he asked.

Penny smiled. She wasn’t a woman who smiled easily, and it was worthwhile when she did. “I’m sure Jack’s doing fine,” she said. “I haven’t seen him in ages. He went off to live in Los Angeles. Does a bit of TV writing. You even see his name on the screen sometimes.”

“I thought you two were…?”

“We were. But it was a long time ago. Things change. You ought to know that.”

“I suppose so,” said Banks.

“Kath behind the bar told me about the fire, about what happened to your cottage, after she saw us talking. I’m really sorry.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Banks. “Besides, I’m having it restored.”

“Still… Anyway,” she went on, not looking at him, “I was rude that night, and I’m sorry. There, I’ve said it.”

“Why did you react the way you did?”

“It wasn’t deliberate, if that’s what you mean.”

“What, then?”

Penny paused and stared into the river. “You really don’t know, do you? All those years ago,” she said finally, “the way I felt. It was like some sort of violation. I know you saved my life and I should thank you for that, but you treated me like a criminal. You actually believed that I killed my best friend.”

At one point, that was probably true, Banks thought. It was just a part of his job, and he had never stopped to think how it might have made Penny feel. Everyone gets tainted by a murder investigation. Roy had wanted his big brother, Banks remembered, not a policeman. But where does the one end and the other begin?

“And there you were,” she went on, “asking me out to dinner, casual as anything, as if none of it had ever happened.”

“People aren’t always what they seem,” he said. “When the police come around asking questions, people lie. Everyone’s got something to hide.”

“So you suspect everyone?”

“More or less. Anyone who might have motive, means and opportunity.”

“Like me?”

“Like you.”

“But I cared about Harry Steadman.”

“That’s what you told us.”

“I could have been lying?”

“As I remember it, that case was full of lies.”

Penny took one last drag on her cigarette and flicked the stub into the river. “Oops,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. The river police will be after me.”

“Don’t worry,” said Banks. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

She favored him with another flicker of a smile. “I’d better be going,” she said, edging away. “It’s getting late.”

“All right.”

She started along the path, paused and half-turned to face him. “Good night, then, Mr. Policeman. And I’m sorry I reacted so badly. I just wanted to tell you why.”

“Good night,” said Banks. He felt a tightness in his chest, but it was now or never. “Look,” he went on, calling after her, “maybe I’m being insensitive again, and I’m sorry I got off on the wrong foot, but is it at all within the bounds of possibility, you know, what I asked you about the other night, maybe the possibility of us, of you and me, you know… having dinner sometime?”

She turned briefly. “I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “You still don’t get it, do you?” And she walked off into the shadows.

I would like to thank the following people for the time and care they have put into helping this book into its final shape: Sarah Turner, Maria Rejt and Nicholas Blake at Pan-Macmillan; Dan Conaway, Erika Schmid and Jill Schwartzman at William Morrow; and Dinah Forbes at McClelland amp; Stewart. I would also like to thank Michael Morrison, Lisa Gallagher, Sharyn Rosenblum, Angela Tedesco, Dominick Abel, David Grossman, David North, Katie James, Ellen Seligman and Parmjit Parmar for all their ongoing hard work and support.

I also want to thank Commander Philip Gormley, head of S019, the Metropolitan Force Firearms Unit and Detective Inspector Claire Stevens of the Thames Valley Police. As usual, any mistakes are my own and are made entirely in the interests of the story.

I also owe a debt of thanks to the music of Richard Thompson and to Victor Malarek for his book, The natashas.

PETER ROBINSON’s award-winning novels have been named a Best-Book-of-the-Year by Publishers Weekly, a Notable Book by the New York Times , and a Page-Turner-of-the-Week by People magazine. Robinson was born and brought up in Yorkshire, England, but has lived in North America for nearly twenty-five years