Peter Robinson: Final Account

Banks put his pint glass back on the bar. “Shit. Did he say who?”

“No.”

“All right.” He turned to Sandra and pointed at his pint. “Guard that drink with your life. Back in a few minutes.”

He couldn’t ignore the call; it might be an informer with important information. Irritated, nonetheless, he crossed Market Street and went into the Tudor-fronted police station.

“You can take it in here, sir,” said Rowe, pointing to an empty ground-floor office.

Banks went in and picked up the receiver. “Hello. Banks here.”

“Ah, Banks,” said the familiar voice. “It’s Superintendent Burgess here. Remember me? What do you want first, the good news or the bad?”

Speak of the devil. Banks felt his jaw clench and his stomach start to churn. “Just tell me,” he said as calmly as he could.

“Okay. You know those two goons, the ones that beat up the tart of color?”

“Yes. Have you got them?”

“We-ell, not exactly.”

“What then?”

“They got away, slipped through our net. That’s the bad news.”

“Where did they go?”

“Back home, of course. St. Corona. That’s the good news.”

“What’s so good about that?”

“Seems they didn’t realize they’d become persona non grata there, or whatever the plural of that is.”

“And?”

“Well, I have it on good authority that they’ve both been eating glass.”

“They’re dead?”

“Of course they’re bloody dead. I doubt they’d survive a diet like that.”

“How do you know this?”

“I told you. Good authority. It’s the real McCoy. No reason to doubt the source.”

“Why?”

“Ours is not to reason why, Banks. Let’s just say that their bungling around England drawing attention to themselves didn’t help much. Things are in a delicate balance.”

“Did you know in advance that they were out of favor? Did you let them slip out of the country, knowing what would happen? Did you even try to find them?”

“Oh, Banks. You disappoint me. How could you even think something like that of me?”

“Easy. The same way I think you sent Spike and Shandy down to Kensington to make damn sure Arthur Jameson didn’t survive to say anything embarrassing in court.”

“I told you, Jameson wasn’t in my brief.”

“I know what you told me. I also know what happened in that hotel room. They shot the bastard down, Burgess, and you’re responsible.”

“ Superintendent Burgess, to you. And he shot first is what I heard. That’s the official version, at any rate, and I don’t see any reason not to believe it. As our cousins over the pond would say, it was a ‘righteous shoot.’”

“Bollocks. They shot him twice then fired off a round from his gun to make it look like he fired first. Apart from the shots, do you know what gave them away?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“They left the gun in his hand for me to see. Procedure is that you disarm a suspect first thing , whether you think he’s dead or not.”

“Well, hurray for you, Sherlock. Don’t you think they might have got careless in the heat of the moment?”

“No. Not with their training.”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it? You weren’t there, officially, were you? In fact you were ordered to stay on the ground floor. Anyway I don’t think we need to go into all that tiresome stuff, do we? Do you really want me to have to pull rank? Believe it or not, I like you, Banks. Life would be a lot duller without you. I wouldn’t want to see you throw your career down the tubes over this. Take my word for it, nobody will take kindly to your rocking the boat. The official verdict is the only one that counts.”

“Not to me.”

“Leave it alone, Banks. It’s over.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?”

“Because it’s true. One more thing. And don’t interrupt me. We found an address book in Jameson’s stuff and it led us to an old ex-army crony of his called Donald Pembroke. Ring any bells?”

“No.”

“Anyway, it seems this Pembroke just inherited a lot of money according to his neighbor. The first thing he did was buy a fast sports car, cash down according to the salesman. Two days later he lost control on a B road in Kent – doing eighty or ninety by all accounts – and ran it into a tree.”

“And?”

“And he’s dead, isn’t he? What’s more there’s no way you can put it down to me. So don’t say there’s no justice in the world, Banks. Goodbye. Have a good life.” Burgess hung up abruptly, leaving Banks to glare into the receiver. He slammed it down so hard that Sergeant Rowe popped his head around the door. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Yes, fine,” said Banks. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his short hair. “Everything’s just bloody fine and dandy.” He sat in the empty office gaining control of his breathing. Susan’s words echoed in his mind. “ It’s not over yet, is it, sir ?” No, it bloody well wasn’t.

Banks sat at a tavérna by the quayside sipping an ice-cold Beck’s and smoking a duty-free Benson and Hedges Special Mild. When he had finished his cigarette, he popped a dolmáde into his mouth and followed it with a black olive. One or two of the locals, mostly mustachioed and sun-leathered fishermen, occasionally glanced his way during a pause in their conversation.

It was a small island, just one village built up the central hillside, and though it got its share of tourists in season, none of the big cruise ships came. Banks had arrived half an hour ago on a regular ferry service from Piraeus and he needed a while to collect his thoughts and get his land-legs back again. He had a difficult interview ahead of him, he suspected. He had already contacted the Greek police. Help had been offered, and the legal machinery was ready to grind into action at a word. But Banks had something else he wanted to try first.

By Christ, it was hot, even in the shade. The sun beat down from a clear sky, a more intense, more saturated blue than Banks had ever seen, especially in contrast to the white houses, shops and tavérnas along the quayside. A couple of sailboats and a few fishing craft were moored in the small harbor, bobbing gently on the calm water. It was hard to describe the sea’s color; certainly there were shades of green and blue in it, aquamarine, ultramarine, but in places it was a kind of inky blue, too, almost purple. Maybe Homer was right when he called it “wine-dark,” Banks thought, remembering his conversation with Superintendent Gristhorpe before the trip. Banks had never read The Odyssey , but he probably would when he got back.

He paid for his food and drink and walked out into the sun. On his way, he popped into the local police station in the square near the harbor, as promised, then set off along the dirt track up the hill.

The main street itself was narrow enough, but every few yards a side-street branched off, narrower still, all white, cubist, flat-roofed houses with painted shutters, mostly blue. Some of the houses had red pantile roofs, like the ones in Whitby. Many people had put hanging baskets of flowers out on the small balconies, a profusion of purple, pink, red and blue, and lines of washing hung over the narrow streets. By the roadside were poppies and delicate lavender flowers that looked like morning glories.

Mingled with the scents of the flowers were the smells of tobacco and wild herbs. Banks thought he recognized thyme and rosemary. Insects with red bodies and transparent wings flew around him. The sun beat relentlessly. Before Banks had walked twenty yards, his white cotton shirt stuck to his back. He wished he had worn shorts instead of jeans.