Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

They were about the same age, too, and had managed to find a certain amount of common ground over the years. It was fragile ground, though, thin ice over a quagmire. Banks had phoned Burgess from the train, with an idea in mind, and Burgess had suggested that Banks buy him lunch. Thus they stood at the bar of a crowded pub near the Old Bailey, washing down the curry of the day with flat lager and rubbing elbows with barristers, clients and clerks. At least Burgess hadn’t changed in one respect; he still drank like a fish and smoked Tom Thumb cigars.

What had changed most, though, was his appearance. Gone were the silver pony tail and the scuffed leather jacket; in their place a shaved head and a dark blue suit, white shirt and paisley tie. Shiny shoes. Burgess had also put on a few pounds, and his complexion was pink, the nose a little redder and more bulbous. The world-weary, seen-it-all look in his eyes had been replaced by one of mild surprise and curiosity.

“I can see you’re doing all right for yourself,” Banks said, pushing his plate away. He’d only eaten half of the curry, which wasn’t very good. The sign read lamb, but he suspected it was mutton. And the spicing was so bland as to be immaterial.

“Can’t complain. Can’t complain. My old oppos at Special Branch didn’t forget me, after all. I managed to pull off one or two coups that pleased a number of people in high places. I tell you, Banksy, this post-nine-eleven world is full of opportunities for a man of my talents.”

“On whose side?”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“So where are you now? Back in Special Branch?”

Burgess put his finger to his lips. “Can’t say. If I did, I’d have to kill you. Top secret. Hush hush. Actually, we’re so new we haven’t even got our acronym sorted yet. Anyway, what brings you down here? You were all mysterious on the phone.” He offered Banks a Tom Thumb. Banks refused. Burgess’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, Banksy? Have you stopped smoking? I haven’t seen you light one up yet. That’s not like you. You’ve quit, haven’t you?”

“Six months now.”

“Feel any better?”

“No.”

Burgess laughed. “How’s that lovely wife of yours? Ex, I should say.”

“She’s fine,” said Banks. “Remarried now.”

“And you?”

“Enjoying the bachelor life. Look, there was something I wanted to ask you. In complete confidence, of course.”

“Of course. Why come to me otherwise?”

One thing Banks did know about Burgess was that he could be trusted to keep quiet and be as discreet as necessary. He had a network of informers and information-gatherers second to none, no matter who, or what, it was you wanted to know about. That was why Banks had rung him.

“It’s rather delicate,” said Banks.

“What’s happened? Your girlfriend’s chucked you and you want me to look into her new boyfriend’s background, find some dirt on him?”

It was astonishingly close to home, but Banks knew Burgess was only casting stones in the dark to see if he could hit anything. His scattershot approach often worked wonders, but Banks was a little wiser to it than he used to be, and less inclined to react. He was still in awe of Burgess’s uncanny ability to hit the right nerve, though.

“It’s probably nothing,” he said, “but I’d like a background check on a bloke called Philip Keane.”

“Can you be a bit more specific?” Burgess said, thumbing through a soft black leather-covered notebook for a clean page. It wasn’t standard issue, Banks noticed. Must be his private notebook. “I mean, unless he’s related to that hothead who plays for Man U.”

“Not as far as I know. Pretty cultured bloke. Oxford or Cambridge. One of the two. Works as an art researcher, checking pedigrees and provenance, mostly for private collectors, but does some work for the Tate and the National. As far as I know, it’s his own business. I don’t know if he has any employees or partners.”

“Where’s the office?”

“Belgravia.” Banks gave him the address he’d got from the business card Maria Phillips gave him.

“Company name?”

“ArtSearch Limited.”

“Anything else that might help?”

“Not really. He’s in his early forties. Also owns a cottage in Fortford, North Yorkshire. Well-dressed, good-looking sort of bloke-”

“He has stolen your girlfriend, hasn’t he, Banksy?”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“That pretty young DS you were bonking. What’s her name?”

“If you mean Annie Cabbot, she’s a DI now and-”

“Annie Cabbot, that’s the one.” Burgess grinned, not a pleasant sight, least of all for the glimpse it gave of his smoke-stained, crooked teeth. He shook his head. “Tut tut tut, Banksy. Will you never learn?”

“Look,” said Banks, trying hard not to let Burgess’s prodding and teasing exasperate him. “The bloke lied to me about something that might be important in a murder investigation. I want to know why.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I want to find out as much about him as I can.”

“You mean you want me to find out as much about him as I can.”

“Okay. Will you do it?”

“You want me to find some dirt on him?”

“If there is any, I’m sure you’ll find it. If not… I just want the truth.”

“Don’t we all? And you don’t want Annie Cabbot to know about these discreet inquiries, I take it?”

“I don’t want anybody to know. Look, maybe the lie’s important and maybe it’s not. What you find out, or don’t, might help me to decide. It’s a serious case.”

“The Eastvale Canal fires?”

“You know about them?”

“Like to keep my finger on the pulse. And another thing: you paid a visit to Sir Laurence West this morning.”

Banks smiled. “I don’t suppose I should be surprised you know that already.”

Burgess winked. “The walls have ears,” he said. “Go carefully, Banksy. Sir Laurence has some very powerful connections.”

“He told me what I wanted to know. I don’t think I have a problem with him.”

“Make sure you don’t. These are difficult times. The world’s going to hell in a handbasket. You don’t know who you can trust.”

“You always seem to land on your feet.”

“I’m a Weeble, me. Remember those when you were a kid? You could knock them down as many times as you wanted but they always rolled back to their feet.”

“I remember,” said Banks.

“Anyway, how’s about another couple of pints? Unless you have to run.”

Banks glanced at his watch. There was somewhere he wanted to go, but he didn’t have to run. “Fine with me,” he said.

“My shout this time.”

Winsome was driving the unmarked police car down the M42, weaving in and out of the lanes of lorries with natural ease, windscreen wipers flapping like crazy to get rid of all the filthy spray. Annie, no mean driver herself, was surprised she didn’t feel in the least bit nervous, considering the speed they were going and the narrow spaces Winsome seemed able to maneuver them in and out of.

“Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?” Annie asked.

Winsome flashed her a grin. “Dunno, ma’am,” she said. “Back home, I suppose. I mean, I started when I was twelve, and I guess I just took to it. Some of those mountain roads…”

“But there aren’t any motorways in Jamaica, are there?”

“You never been there, ma’am?”

“No.”

“Well, there aren’t. Not really. Not what you’d call motorways. But you can go pretty fast sometimes, and you get a lot of traffic in Montego Bay.”

“What about Kingston?”

“Dunno,” said Winsome. “Never been there. Mostly I learned driving here, though, on the job. I took a course.”