Strange Affair (21 page)

Banks felt a tightness in his chest as he approached the shingle and breathing became an effort. Burgess gave a nod and one of the SOCOs gently turned the body so that the face was visible. Banks squatted, feeling his knees crack, and looked into Roy’s dead eyes. There was a little hole in his left temple, close to the childhood scar Banks had accidentally inflicted on Roy with a toy sword. Banks felt himself sway on his haunches and stood up so fast it made him dizzy. Burgess grabbed his elbow.

“I’m all right,” said Banks, disengaging himself.

“Is it him?”

“It’s him,” Banks said, and the only thing he could think as he tried to rein his surging emotions was,
What the hell am I going to say to my parents?

“Let’s get back up on shore,” Burgess said.

Banks followed him back over the planks and up the steps. Brooke and his DS were waiting for confirmation. The sooner you identified the body, Banks knew, the sooner you put the
machinery of a major investigation in motion. He nodded to Brooke.

“I’m sorry,” Brooke said.

“Look,” said Banks, “do you think you could keep it under wraps? His identity, that is. I’d like to be the one who tells our parents, in person, but not tonight. It’s too late.”

Brooke looked at the crowd on the bridge and the reporters and camera-operators behind the crime-scene tape. “We can tell them we’re still awaiting official identification of the body,” he said. “That should hold them off for a while.”

“First thing tomorrow,” said Banks. Just not tonight, he prayed. He couldn’t stand the idea of going over to Peterborough right now and waking his parents up and spending the night comforting them in their grief, knowing they would probably prefer it was him rather than Roy. Daylight would make it easier, he thought. Let them have just one more night of peace; there would soon be enough dreadful nights to come. “Can you tell Annie for me, please?” he asked.

“Of course. In the morning.”

“Thanks.”

Brooke paused. “I’m sure you know I was intending to visit you, anyway,” he said. “In fact, DI Cabbot and I had a little word about you earlier this evening.”

“I thought you might,” said Banks.

“This changes everything, of course, but I’ve still got some questions for you,” Brooke went on. “When you’re up to it, that is.”

“I’m up to it now,” said Banks.

“Right. Superintendent Burgess tells me you’ve been stopping at your brother’s house. How about we go there?”

“Fine,” said Banks, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. “Let’s go.”

9

T
he Berger-Lennox Centre opened at nine o’clock on Monday morning and Annie was there on the dot. The centre took up the first two floors of a four-storey Georgian crescent house in Knightsbridge, which looked like something out of
Upstairs, Downstairs
. Still, when you paid through the nose for the service, Annie reflected, you didn’t expect some bog-standard NHS prefab concrete and glass block.

As soon as she got through the front door, the impression of elegant age gave way to one of muted modernity. The walls were painted in soft pastel hues and there was a kind of hissing hush about the place that made her ears feel stuffed-up, as if she were in an airplane. It took her a moment to notice the music playing softly in the background: something classical and soothing, something Banks would probably recognize.

The scent of sandalwood in the air triggered a sudden vision of Annie’s mother, Jane, leaning over her, smiling. The image shocked her, as her mother had died when Annie was six and she didn’t remember much about her. But now she could almost feel the long, soft hair tickling her face. Jane had been something of a hippie, and Annie remembered that sandalwood incense had often been burning in the artists’
commune where she had grown up. The memory also made her realize how far she had moved away over the past few years from so many of the ideals of her youth, and she felt the urge to spend more time on yoga and meditation; she hadn’t practised at all since the business with Phil Keane.

The blonde behind the polished wood reception desk looked up from her computer monitor and smiled as Annie approached. A brass plate on her desk said her name was Carol Prescott. Behind her, in the open-plan office space, a young woman stood at an open filing cabinet.

Annie showed her warrant card and explained that she was investigating Jennifer Clewes’s murder. Carol’s public smile dropped and was replaced by an expression of sadness. Her eyes moistened slightly.

“Poor Jennifer,” she said. “It was in the paper this morning. She was really sweet. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do something like that to her. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

“Did you know her well?”

“She was my boss. We didn’t socialize outside the centre or anything, but she was always ready with a hello and a smile.”

“How was her state of mind recently?”

“Fine,” said Carol. “Though come to think of it she did seem a bit scatterbrained last week.”

“Any idea why?”

“No. She just seemed sort of on edge.”

“Was she happy working here?”

“She always seemed to be, but I didn’t know her well enough for her to confide in me. Anyway, how can you tell if someone is
really
happy? I mean you read in the papers about people killing themselves when their friends think they’ve got everything to live for, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Annie said. “But Jennifer didn’t kill herself.”

“No. I know that. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. Look, I want to speak to a few people here, people who knew her, but maybe you can give me a bit of background on the place first.”

The phone rang and Carol excused herself. She adopted her professional voice and made a consultation appointment for a new patient.

“Sorry,” she said when she’d hung up. “Of course, I’ll fill you in on what I can.”

“How many people work here?”

“Seven,” said Carol. “That’s including Jennifer. She was administrative director of the centre. Then there’s her assistant Lucy behind me there in the office. Andrea and Georgina are our two consultation advisers, counsellors, then there’s Dr. Alex Lukas, the medical director, and Nurse Louise Griffths.”

“What’s Julian Harwood’s role?”

“Mr. Harwood? He’s the managing director of the whole group. But we never see him. I mean, he doesn’t really have anything to do with the day-to-day running of the centre, or with the clinics.”

“Clinics?”

“Yes. We don’t carry out terminations here. If a client decides that’s the route she wants to go, we make an appointment at whichever of our clinics is most convenient for her.”

“I see,” said Annie. “So this centre wouldn’t be a magnet for anti-abortion activists?”

“Hardly,” said Carol. “We’ve had one or two small demonstrations, you know, when there’s something in the news, but nothing violent. We offer advice on all aspects of family planning, not just abortion.”

“How does the system work?”

Carol sat back in her chair. “Well,” she said, “first they come to me, or phone, and I explain what our services and charges are and give them some pamphlets to read, then I send them to Lucy, who handles the preliminary paperwork. Usually at that point Louise runs a proper pregnancy test, just to make sure. We usually tell them to bring a urine sample with them, but there are facilities here if they forget. Anyway, then they’ll go to the waiting room where they can read through the brochures until Andrea or Georgina is ready to see them.”

“Then what?”

“It’s up to them, really. Our counsellors will ask a few personal questions, and they’ll also answer any questions the client has at that point. You’d be surprised how many are confused by their pregnancies, poor things.”

No, I wouldn’t, thought Annie. She had become pregnant after a rape and while there was no doubt that she was going to have an abortion, she could remember the inner turmoil and the guilt she felt. And Annie thought of herself as a modern, forward-thinking woman. Very few women, if any, approached termination lightly.

“After that they’ll discuss the choices available,” Carol went on, “give guidance and advice if necessary. They’re specially trained. Then the client sees Dr. Lukas, who asks them about their medical history and examines them to confirm the gestation of the pregnancy, then Nurse Griffiths takes a blood sample. There’s more paperwork – consent forms and so on – and the doctor will discuss the different methods available and help you decide on the type of procedure most suitable.”

“What if the client decides against abortion?”

“Then Andrea or Georgina will give her information about adoption agencies and so on. She’ll still see the doctor, though, to determine her general health and so on.”

“Do you offer antenatal care?”

“No. Not here, at any rate. We usually refer.”

“You say Jennifer was the administrative director. What exactly was she responsible for?”

“Everything to do with the running of the place except the medical side. That’s an awful lot of work,” said Carol. “Sometimes she had to work late just to keep up.”

“That reminds me,” said Annie. “Have you ever heard the term ‘late girls’?”

Carol frowned. “‘Late girls’? No. Why, what does it mean?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not familiar to me.”

“Do you remember ever having a client here called Carmen Petri?”

“No.”

“You’re sure.”

“You can ask Lucy to check the records, but I think I would remember a name like that.”

“Probably,” said Annie. “Lucy and Jennifer were close, were they?”

“They worked together. Jennifer was Lucy’s boss, too, so that always puts a bit of a wedge between you, doesn’t it? Not that Jennifer was one to play the high and mighty.”

“Who was closest to her?”

Carol thought for a moment, then said, “Georgina, I’d say. They’d talk about the centre, some of the clients, and I think they even went out for a drink a couple of times after work if Jennifer didn’t have to stay late.”

“Thanks,” said Annie. “Is Georgina in this morning?”

“Yes, she’s in her office.” Carol picked up her phone. “I don’t think there’s anyone with her right now. Would you like me to let her know you want to see her?”

“That’s all right,” said Annie, who preferred the element of surprise. “You can just show me where her office is.”

Carol’s hand faltered. Clearly this went against standard procedure. “Okay,” she said, putting the phone back. “It’s up the stairs, second door on the right. It’s got her name on it: Georgina Roberts.”

“Did you ever have any trouble with a man called Victor Parsons?” Annie asked. “He’s an ex-boyfriend of Jennifer’s.”

“Oh,
him
. I remember him all right. Had to get security to throw him out.”

“What was he doing?”

“Making a fuss. Upsetting our clients.”

“About what?”

“He demanded to see Jennifer, but she’d given me instructions not to let him in.”

“What happened?”

“He went away in the end.”

“Did this happen more than once?”

“The first time he went without too much fuss. It was the second time I had to get security.”

Twice, then. “Did he make any threats?”

“Not that I heard. He just said he’d be back.”

“When was this?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

That recently, Annie thought. Yet Jennifer and Victor had split up over a year ago. Anyone who could maintain a fixation for that long was definitely worth looking at.

“One more thing,” said Annie. “Have you ever seen anyone by the name of Roy Banks here at the centre?”

Carol’s face brightened, then reddened a little. “Mr. Banks? Yes, of course. He and Jennifer were…you know, an item. I know she’s a bit young for him but he really is quite tasty. I
don’t blame her at all.” Her face fell. “Oh. Poor Mr. Banks. He’ll be just devastated. Does he know?”

“Not yet,” said Annie. “So he came here quite often?”

“Quite. He’d pick Jennifer up after work sometimes and we’d chat if he had to wait.”

“What about?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. Films, the weather, just small talk. And Arsenal. We’re both big Arsenal fans.”

“Was he ever here at the same time as Victor Parsons?”

“No.”

“You know he was an investor in the centres?”

“Yes, he mentioned it once. But he didn’t have any airs or graces.”

“Is that why he came here the first time, when he met Jennifer?”

“Oh, no,” said Carol. “No, he was here as a client.
Accompanying
a client, I should say.”

Now it was Annie’s turn to feel surprised. “Accompanying a client?”

“Yes,” said Carol. “His daughter. She was pregnant.”

Long before Annie paid her visit to the Berger-Lennox Centre, Banks was ploughing his way through the Monday morning rush-hour traffic on his way to Peterborough. He felt numb after grappling with the demons of fear and loss most of the night, but he also felt apprehensive about what was to come. His parents doted on Roy; something like this could push his father’s heart over the edge. But he had to tell them himself; he couldn’t let the news come from some anonymous copper knocking on the door.

Brooke had gone out of his way to protect the identity of the victim from the media. As soon as Banks had told his
parents, he had to ring Brooke and tell him it was done; the rest would follow. He remembered he had also promised to keep Corinne and Roy’s neighbour, Malcolm Farrow, up to date, but they would have to wait their turn.

After some relatively gentle questioning –
very
gentle, given the circumstances – Banks had handed over Roy’s mobile, the USB drive and the CD to Brooke and tried to get some sleep. The effects of the wine were fast wearing off, leaving him with a throbbing head, and sleep had refused to come. Luckily, there wasn’t much of the night left by then, and the dawn came early in June. At six o’clock, Banks was in the shower, then it was time to go pick up his car from where he had left it last night, near Waterloo Station, grab a coffee for the road, and head for home.

Progress was slower than Banks remembered, or expected, and a journey that should have taken under two hours took almost three. Every time the news came on the radio, no matter what station he tuned into, there was the story about the mystery body fished out of the River Thames just below the London Eye last night. In the end, Banks turned it off.

When he finally pulled up outside his parents’ house on the Hazels estate in Peterborough, it was close to ten o’clock. Back in London, the murder investigation would be following its natural course: the technical support unit experts would be going over Roy’s mobile and the SOCOs would be tracking every piece of evidence retrieved from the crime scene. DCs would be out on the streets asking questions and Brooke would be sifting through it all, looking for that promising line of inquiry.