Not Safe After Dark (52 page)

Next came a few school exercise books full of sums and compositions. One of them contained some poems Banks had written when he went through that stage of adolescence in which poetry was an
acceptable means of expression as long as you kept it to yourself. It was with excruciating embarrassment that he looked over them again now, with the autumn rain starting to spatter against his
bedroom window.

There were lines about the awkwardness of being an adolescent, love poems to Julie Christie and Judy Geeson, poems about how phony the world was. None of them rhymed, of course, nor were any
overly concerned with metrics; the lines simply ended where he had decided to end them, for no other reason than that it looked like poetry on the page. There were no capital letters, either.
Still, Banks reflected, from what he had seen that wasn’t a hell of a lot different from the sort of thing most published poets did today. Awful lines and images jumped out at him, such as
‘I feel like a corpse/in the coffin of your mind.’ What on earth had prompted him to write that? About what? He couldn’t even remember whose mind was supposed to be the coffin.
And then there was a poem marked, ‘For Kay’, in which these immortal lines appeared:

What had he been thinking of? There was another image about her being ‘naked/on a sheepskin/by the crackling fire’, but as far as Banks could remember, they had never lain on a
sheepskin rug, and electric fires, which everyone on the estate had, didn’t crackle. Poetic licence?

He remembered that first time up in this same room while his parents were out. The event was awkward and far less momentous for both of them than his imagination had convinced him it would be,
but it went well enough in the end and they decided they liked it and would certainly try again. They got better and better over the next few months, stealing an hour or two here and there while
parents were absent. Once they almost got caught when Kay’s mother came home sooner than expected from a dental appointment. They just managed to get their clothes on and tidy up the bed in
time to tell her they’d been listening to records, though judging by the expression on Mrs Summerville’s face when she saw her daughter’s dishevelled hair, Banks didn’t
think she was convinced. Kay told him later that that very evening she had got a lecture about the dangers of teenage pregnancy and what men think of women who haven’t ‘saved
themselves’ for marriage, though no overt mention was made of Banks or that afternoon’s events, and nobody tried to stop them seeing one another.

Smiling at the memory, Banks slipped the exercise book of poetry into his overnight bag, determined to remember to feed it to the fire when he got back to his Gratly cottage. As he moved it, a
newspaper cutting slipped out from between some of the unfilled pages. It was a report in the local paper on the disappearance of Graham Marshall, a school friend of Banks’s, and the reason
for his visit home in the summer. Alongside the article was a photograph of Graham with his fair hair, melancholy expression and pale face, like some fin de siècle poet.

Banks moved on to the bottom of the box, where he found more old forty-fives, ones he had forgotten he had: Procol Harum’s ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’, ‘Juliet’ by the
Four Pennies, ‘Hippy Hippy Shake’ by the Swinging Blue Jeans, the Lovin’ Spoonful’s ‘Summer in the City’, ‘Devil in Disguise’ by Elvis Presley and
‘Still I’m Sad’ by the Yardbirds.

Banks put the box back on top of one marked
Roy
and tiptoed downstairs into the kitchen for a cup of tea. His heart almost stopped when he saw Geoff Salisbury sitting at the kitchen table
eating buttered toast.

‘Morning, Alan,’ Geoff said. ‘I’ve come to do some cleaning up. Already took your em and pee a cup of tea up, bless ’em. It’s a big day for them, you know.
Like a cuppa yourself?’

Banks felt like saying he would make his own tea, but he remembered he hadn’t been able to find the tea bags. Instead, he got himself a mug. ‘Thanks,’ he grunted.

‘Not much of a morning person?’ Geoff asked. ‘Still, I imagine after a late night like you had you must be feeling even more tired. Your poor old mum was lying awake worrying
where you’d got to.’ Salisbury winked. ‘Having a good time with that Summerville girl, were you?’

So Banks’s mother had already told Geoff that her son had been out with Kay Summerville and had not returned home until the early hours of the morning. He knew all this, and it
wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. Geoff Salisbury was starting to get
really
annoying. Even though Banks hadn’t had a chance to call Annie back about criminal records, he
decided that now would be as good a time as any to go on the offensive and make a couple of things clear to him.

‘I’m glad you’re here, actually,’ Banks said. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a quiet word with you.’

‘Oh? What about?’

‘Your sticky fingers.’

‘Come again?’

‘You know what I’m talking about. Don’t come the innocent. It doesn’t work with me.’

‘I understand that your job must make you cynical, but why are you picking on me? What have I done?’

‘You know what you’ve done.’

‘Look, if it’s that business about the change, I thought I’d already made it clear to you it was a genuine mistake. I thought we’d put it behind us.’

‘I might have done if it hadn’t been for a few other interesting titbits I’ve heard since I’ve been down here.’

‘It’s that Summerville girl, isn’t it? If she’s been saying things, she’s lying. She doesn’t like me.’

‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘that at least shows good taste on her part. It doesn’t matter who’s been saying what. The point is that I’ve been hearing from a number
of independent sources about things sort of disappearing when you’re in the vicinity. Money, for example.’

Salisbury turned red. ‘I resent that.’

‘I should imagine you do. But is it true?’

‘Of course it isn’t. I don’t know who’s—’

‘I told you, it doesn’t matter who.’

Salisbury stood up. ‘Well, it does to me. You might not believe it, but there are people who have it in for me. Not everybody appreciates what I do for the decent folk around here, you
know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Never you mind. Now, if you’ve finished with your groundless accusations, I’ve got work to do. Your parents’ golden wedding might not be important to you, but it is to
me. Arthur and Ida mean a lot to me.’

Before Banks could say another word, Salisbury had gone into the front room and started up the vacuum. Irritated both by Salisbury’s reaction and his own fumbling accusation, Banks went
across to the newsagent’s to see if he could pick up a
Sunday Times
.

16

Banks went to
the Bricklayer’s Inn by himself for a quiet pint on Sunday lunchtime, taking the newspaper with him and promising to be back by two
o’clock for lunch. It felt like his first real break that weekend, and he made the most of it, even getting the crossword three-quarters done, which was good for him without Annie’s
help. On his way home he took cover in the rain-lashed bus shelter by the gates of the derelict factory to call Annie in Eastvale. Though the shelter hadn’t been there all those years ago,
Banks still couldn’t help but think of Mandy, with her Julie Christie lips and the faraway look in her eyes. He wondered what had happened to her, whether she had ever found that distant
thing she had seemed to be dreaming of. Probably not; most people didn’t. Though it seemed like another age, she would only be in her early fifties, after all, and that no longer sounded very
old to Banks.

DC Winsome Jackman answered his ring. ‘Is DI Cabbot not in?’ Banks asked.

‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Winsome. ‘She’s out on the East Side Estate interviewing neighbours about that sexual assault.’

‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

‘No, sir. Sorry, but you’ll just have to make do with me.’

Banks could hear teasing humour in her voice, the way it tinged her lilting Jamaican speech. Did she know that Annie and he used to have a thing? He wouldn’t be surprised. No matter how
much you try to keep something like that a secret, there are always people who seem able to pick up on it intuitively.

‘DI Cabbot did leave a message for you, though, sir,’ Winsome went on.

‘Yes?’

‘That man you were asking about, Geoffrey Salisbury.’

‘Right. Any form?’

‘Yes, sir. One conviction. Six years ago. Served eighteen months.’

‘What for?’

‘Fraud, sir. To put it in a nutshell, he tried to swindle a little old lady out of her life savings, but she was a lot smarter than he reckoned on.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Banks said. ‘What a surprise.’

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing. Where did this happen?’

‘Loughborough, sir.’

That wasn’t very far away, Banks thought. ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said. ‘And thank DI Cabbot. That’s a great help.’

‘There’s more, sir. DI Cabbot said she’s going to try to talk to the local police, the ones who handled the case. She said it looks like there might be more to it than meets
the eye.’

‘What did she mean by that?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Shall I ask her to ring you when she’s been in touch with Loughborough police?’

‘If you would, Winsome. And thanks again.’

‘No problem, sir. Enjoy the party.’

17

Roy didn’t turn
up in time for Sunday lunch, which was pretty much what Banks had expected. They ate without him, Ida Banks fretting and worrying the whole
time, unable to enjoy her food. Arthur tried to calm her, assuring her that nothing terrible had happened and that Roy wasn’t trapped in a burning car wreck somewhere on the M1. Banks said
nothing. He knew his mother well enough to realize that anything he said regarding Roy would only succeed in adding fuel to the fire. Instead, he ate his roast beef and Yorkshires like a good boy
– and a fine lunch it was, too, especially if you liked your meat and vegetables overcooked – and counted his blessings. In the first place his mother was far too distracted to go on at
him for being late home last night, and in the second place Geoff bloody Salisbury had buggered off home and wasn’t eating with them, though he had promised to come back early to help set up
for the party.

The phone finally rang at about half past two, just as they were starting their jam roly-poly, and Banks’s mother leapt up and dashed into the hall to answer it. When she came back she was
much calmer, and she informed Banks and his father that poor Roy had had a devil of a job getting away on time and the rain had caused some terrible delays. There was also a pile-up on the M25, so
he was stuck in traffic there at the moment and would arrive as soon as he could.

‘There you are, you see,’ Arthur said. ‘All that fretting for nothing. I told you he was all right.’

‘But you never know, do you?’ she said.

Banks offered to do the dishes and his offer was, to his surprise, accepted. His father had a nap with the open newspaper unread on his lap, and his mother went for a short lie-down to calm her
nerves. When Banks had finished the dishes, he sneaked a couple of fingers of his father’s Johnnie Walker to calm
his
nerves. He had no sooner downed it than the explosion went
off.

At least that was what it sounded like at first. Eventually, Banks’s ears adjusted enough to discern that it was music coming from next door. Heavy-metal gangsta rap, music only if you
used the term very loosely indeed. Banks’s father stirred in his armchair. ‘At it again,’ he grumbled. ‘Never get a moment’s peace.’

Banks sat by him on the arm. ‘Does this happen a lot?’ he asked.

His father nodded. ‘Too often for me. Oh, I’ve tried having a word, but he’s an ignorant bugger. If I were twenty or thirty years younger—’

Banks heard his mother’s footsteps on the landing. ‘At it again, I hear,’ she called down.

‘It’s bad for her nerves,’ Arthur Banks said.

‘Have you talked to the council?’

‘We’ve tried, but they say, apart from issuing a warning, they can’t do anything.’

‘What about Geoff Salisbury?’

‘Geoff’s got his strengths, but he’s not got a lot of bottle. Proper tough guy him next door.’

‘Right,’ said Banks, standing up. ‘Give me a few minutes.’

‘Where are you going, Alan?’ his mother asked, coming down the stairs as he got to the front door.

‘Just off to have a quiet word with next door, that’s all.’

‘Don’t you go causing any trouble. Do you hear? You just be careful. And remember we have to live here after you’ve gone, you know.’

Banks patted his mother’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ he said. ‘I know what I’m doing. I’ll make sure I don’t cause you any trouble.’

It was still raining outside. Banks knocked on the door, but got no answer. Hardly surprising, as he supposed nobody could hear him over the music. The windows were all open and the angry
heavy-metal rap spilled out into the street, someone bragging about raping a bitch and offing a pig.

Banks tried the front door. It was open. He found himself in a small hallway, where the stairs led up to the bedrooms. The wallpaper was peeling and something that looked like a sleeping bag lay
on the staircase. Banks nudged it with his foot. It was empty.

He didn’t like just walking in unannounced, but it seemed the only option. He called out a few times while he stood still in the hallway but he could hardly even hear his own shouts.

Finally, he went through into the living room. Now he knew why they kept the windows open; the smell was overwhelming. It was a mixture of things – human smells, definitely, such as sweat
and urine, but also rotten vegetables, burnt plastic and marijuana. There were piles of old newspapers and other rubbish on the floor and it looked as though a dog had chewed up the furniture,
though there wasn’t one in evidence. Thankful for small mercies, Banks thought; they probably had a pit bull. Three people were slumped on sofas and armchairs, and one of them stood up when
Banks walked in.