The Price of Love and Other Stories (35 page)

“I’m sorry I can’t help you. I would if I could. But I don’t have any girls, as you put it. I don’t even know what you could possibly mean by that. And I don’t recognize this man. Maybe it’s just a poor likeness, or maybe your witness was mistaken? I’m sorry. I wish I could help. Is there anything more?”

“I don’t think so,” said Banks, putting away the photos. “Not for the moment.”

“Another whisky?” Linda asked.

“Please,” said Banks. It was late. He had spent the evening with Albright and Roly Verity going around the clubs and bars showing the photofit to dancers, doormen, bouncers and managers. If anybody did know who the mystery man was, they were saying nothing. One or two thought they had “seen him around,” but that meant nothing. They could say that about Banks, too. Nobody admitted to seeing him with Micallef or with either of the murdered girls, and that was a problem. Even if Banks could identify the man, he still needed a witness to tie him to Pamela and Maureen.

There was one weak link, a frightened hostess at the Cat & Mouse. She knew something, Banks was certain; she had either had an experience with the man, like Jackie, or she had seen him with Pamela or Maureen. She wasn’t talking, but Banks thought a little more pressure, even if he felt like a bully exerting it, might loosen the floodgates.

Linda came back with the whiskies and sat on the bed beside him. “It’s getting to you, this one, isn’t it?” she said.

“How did you guess?”

“You’re distracted.”

“How can we let someone like Micallef go about doing the things he does when we
know
exactly what he is and who he preys on?”

“It’s always been like that,” Linda said. “You know as well as I do. It’s the devil you know. That’s the way Vice like to think of it. With
Micallef in place, they know what’s going on. He feeds them scraps and gets to operate without interference. All to Micallef’s advantage, of course, but to ours too.”

“You scratch my back … ?”

“Exactly. And if we took him down, we’d create a vacuum, and Gods knows what would get sucked into that. You can be sure there’d be a turf war, bloodshed, mayhem. Just like the old days.”

Banks lit a cigarette. “You’re right, of course. We’ve all heard stories about the old days. Jack Spot, Billy Hill, the Sabinis, the Messinas. Nobody wants those days back again. I think maybe if I could just get to the bottom of these murders I’d be satisfied, but I’m going nowhere fast. I don’t think Micallef’s the killer, but I’m damn sure he’s got a good idea who is. Either he’s protecting someone, or it’s someone he hired in the first place. Maybe there was a reason he wanted these girls dead?”

“From what you’ve told me,” Linda said, “it sounds more like someone with serious psychological problems.”

“It could just be made to appear that way, a nut job?”

“Could be, I suppose, but that’s not the way it sounds to me. What about forensics?”

“Slow,” said Banks. “We’ve got a print from the Sellotape at both scenes, and it matches, so we know we’re dealing with the same killer. We just don’t have it on file. And he shaved this one himself. Used her own disposable razor.”

“Patience, Alan. Patience.” She refilled his glass. “In the meantime, tell me all about Yorkshire. Is it really as primitive as they say it is? Do they all have orange teeth up there? Will I be losing you soon?”

Banks touched her cheek with his palm. He knew he had to leave her. Not just because he felt so guilty every time he left her flat, but because … well, it just wasn’t fair to carry on. Not fair to Linda. Not fair to Sandra. Not fair to the kids. Not fair even to himself. But it was hard. She had become a big part of his life this past while; the long hours, the seediness, the sadness, the clubs, the late nights, the
alienation from his family. Sometimes he thought she was the only thing that kept him sane. He put his glass down and reached for her. “Not yet,” he said. “Not for a while yet.”

Banks didn’t like being driven through the London streets without any clue as to where he was going or what he was to expect when he got there. At least he knew where he was as the driver went past Marble Arch on to Bayswater Road. Not that that helped him a lot. It was one of the better days of the week, and Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens were busy with people flying kites, throwing sticks for their dogs, sailing model boats on the Serpentine, or just lying on the grass reading in the sun, lovers touching and kissing. Ordinary things. Why did Banks always feel there was an invisible screen between himself and these ordinary things of life? It was another world, slightly blurred, and he couldn’t get into it no matter how loud he hammered at the glass. Nobody heard. He was outside. Nobody inside paid him any attention. He’d had dreams like that and woke up in the early hours sweating, heart pounding.

The car continued on as Bayswater Road became Notting Hill Gate, then Holland Park Avenue. Finally, it turned down a broad, tree-lined street of elegant Victorian houses, and into a narrow mews, where the old coach-houses and stables had been converted into small homes, most of them with whitewashed exteriors livened up by the occasional splash of bright colour on a door, a garage or window frames. Some of the houses had hanging baskets or window boxes of red, yellow, purple and pink flowers.

The car came to a halt and Banks got out. The uniformed officer on guard opened the door and a familiar figure beckoned Banks inside. It was Superintendent Hatchard, pipe firmly clamped between his teeth, but not lit. When Banks’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light in the neat, tiny living room, he saw there was someone else present.

“I’d like you to meet someone, Alan,” Hatchard said, after removing his pipe. “This is Detective Superintendent Burgess. He’s Special Branch. Or something like that.” It was clear to Banks that Hatchard didn’t approve of whatever Burgess stood for, but his hands were tied in the matter: he was only obeying orders. As for Burgess, he didn’t seem overly concerned with such delicacies. He wore a leather jacket over his open-neck checked shirt, despite the heat, and blue denim jeans and white trainers. He was about six feet tall, in good shape, and handsome in a macho sort of way, with a strong jaw, slightly crooked teeth and cynical grey eyes. He can’t have been much older than Banks, but his hair was touched with grey at the temples.

“Banksy, pleased to meet you,” he said, sticking out his hand as if they were old friends.

Banks shook. He was sure he had seen Burgess before and was trying to place him when the man himself did it for him. “About two or three years ago. Recent Falklands veteran, bit of a war hero, got himself into a scrape at a nightclub.”

“Beat up one of the girls and stabbed a doorman, you mean?”

“That’s the one. Can’t have our heroes looking like villains in the national press, can we? Especially when they’re shell-shocked.”

“So you’re the one they send around when they need a cover-up?”

Burgess laughed. “Very good. Very astute of you.” He put his hand on Banks’s elbow. “Come with me. I’ve got something to show you. Soon as that’s done we’ll get the team in and head down the road for a nice drink, just you and me.”

Curious, Banks followed him up the stairs, along a corridor and through the door into the bathroom. It was just about big enough to hold the two of them.

It was obvious to Banks the moment he crossed the threshold that something was terribly wrong. The blood spatter on the cream tiles certainly wasn’t part of the décor, and there was a cloying smell, as if something sweet had been marinating for too long. Before Banks even saw the corpse in the bathtub, he knew what he was in for.

Burgess just stood there as Banks took in the scene: the balding man with silvery wisps of hair around his ears, a deep gash visible in the wrist that rested on the side of the bathtub, the murky red-brown water up to his neck, the empty bottle of pills beside the almost empty bottle of whisky on the floor.

“The doc’s been, confirmed death, and the photographer’s finished. We’re still waiting on the SOCOs, so don’t touch anything. His cleaning lady found him like this two hours ago.”

“Who is he?” Banks asked.

“The Right Honourable Norman Stafford, M.P.” said Burgess. “This man’s a member of H.M. Government, Banksy. Was. Not one of the high-profile crowd, the ones you see on the telly, but a backroom boy. A hard worker, tireless supporter of his constituents, aggressive committee man, nonetheless. Nobody’s heard of him, nobody would recognize him in the street, but they also serve … ”

“Suicide?”

“Oh, yes, I would say so, wouldn’t you?”

Banks shrugged. “These things can be arranged.”

“Cynic. Follow me. There’s more. Had enough? Ready to move on?”

“I’m ready,” said Banks. He followed Burgess back into the corridor and they crossed over to the master bedroom.

“He wasn’t married, Mr. Stafford,” said Burgess. “Not anymore. Married to his job, you might say. This is where he slept.”

Banks gazed around the room. There were framed prints and photographs everywhere, each and every one of them showing the pure, the innocent and the virginal. Joan of Arc. The Virgin Mary. Saint Bernadette of Lourdes. Saint Margaret of Antioch. There were actresses playing parts – the young Nastassja Kinski in
Tess
and Brooke Shields in
Pretty Baby
– and countless unrecognizable photos of young innocent girls clipped from magazines and newspapers, their pure, trusting eyes burning into him, making him squirm.

On the bedspread lay a handwritten sheet of paper.

“Read it, Banksy,” said Burgess. “Read but don’t touch.”

Banks read. “
To Whom It May Concern, I, Norman Archibald Stafford, wish to confess to the murders of two young girls in Soho. So there may be no mistake and no doubt as to the sincerity of this confession, I will outline in exact detail what I did and how I did it.
” And he did. The ritual washing, the shaving of the second victim, the Sellotape, the posing. All the elements that only the killer could know. The only thing he didn’t explain was why. The closest he got was the mention of the first time he felt the strong urge to kill to preserve the innocence of a young woman. He had no Sellotape, he wrote, and imagined there would be none in the small room, so he hatched the plan to equip himself and come back later. Somehow or other, the same girl knew to avoid him, so he chose someone else. Banks realized that the girl was Jackie Simmons, and that Stafford’s next choice was Pamela Morrison.

So it was over. No need to push the frightened hostess any further or make Jackie Simmons go over her story again. Or was there?

“I’d say he had a bit of an obsession, wouldn’t you, Banksy?”

“Seems that way.”

“Word has it that he was married once. They had a beautiful daughter. Age old story. She fell in with a bad lot. Drugs. Sex. Crime. Ended up a prostitute in Glasgow and died of a drug overdose. It doesn’t explain it all, but it gives you a context, I think.”

“He wanted to recreate innocence, virginity in his victims.”

“Even after he’d had sex with them,” added Burgess. “I’ve read the case file. Aren’t people just endlessly fascinating? And mostly unknowable? Anyway, none of that really matters,” he went on as they walked back downstairs. “Bit of an anticlimax, really, isn’t it?”

Hatchard was still waiting in the living room, staring into space, having obviously seen it all before Banks had. “Well?” he said.

Burgess put his arm around Banks’s shoulders. “Let’s me and DI Banks here go for a nice drink, get the taste of death out of our
mouths and see if we can work out a satisfactory solution to this little mess. Bernard, I take it you know what to do now?”

“I know.” Hatchard gave Banks a sheepish look, stuck his pipe back in his mouth and slunk out of the door.

Burgess hammered on the locked door of the pub on the corner.

“I told you, they’re closed,” said Banks. “Won’t be open for another hour or more.”

Burgess ignored him and kept on knocking. Eventually, a young man appeared behind the glass, scowled and pointed at his watch. Burgess thrust his warrant card in his face. The door opened.

“Important police business, sonny,” Burgess said. He pointed to a corner that couldn’t be seen from the street. “We’ll sit over there. And I’ll have a pint of lager. Banksy?”

“Bitter, please.”

“Got that?”

The boy nodded, mouth open.

“Can’t drink that real ale stuff, myself,” Burgess said, putting his hand to his stomach. “Gives me gas.” He shouted after the boy. “And bring us a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and some pork scratchings!”

They settled in the corner with their drinks and snacks. Burgess smacked his lips and took a long swig of ice-cold lager. “Ah, aren’t we just living in wonderful times, Banksy?” he said. “Can’t you smell the change?”

“All I can smell is last night’s stale cigarette smoke,” said Banks, lighting up.

Burgess took out a Tom Thumb cigar and lit it. “You’ve no imagination, that’s your problem,” he said, thrusting the cigar in Banks’s general direction. “It’s all there. There for the taking. And don’t think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, either. I came up the hard way. My old man was a barrow boy. I’ve got no time for all
these whiners and moaners. If you can’t do well for yourself in this day and age, then you’re well and truly fucked. Great times to be alive, Banksy.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks. “We’re midway through the eighties. All we’ve had so far are race riots, a pointless war and a long miners’ strike. Even the music’s crap.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective. You’re just not looking at it the right way. We won the race riots, we won the war and we won the fucking miners’ strike.
That’s
the way to look at it! And what’s wrong with Madonna, apart from those hairy armpits?” He gestured over to the boy, who was hovering nervously by the bar. “Another two of these,” he said, raising his glass. “And put some Madonna on the jukebox.”

Oh God, not again, thought Banks when “Into the Groove” started up. “Let’s agree to differ,” he said. “Why have you brought me here? Not that it isn’t a pleasure to drink fine ale and argue politics on a summer afternoon. With a body lying in a bath of blood round the corner.”