The Price of Love and Other Stories (37 page)

Albright glanced at one of the DCs, who disappeared in the general direction of Oxford Street.

“Make it strong and black,” Banks shouted after him.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. There was paperwork to be done, files to be opened. Hatchard organized the incident room, called the meetings and handed out the actions. Even Roly Verity came by and pitched in. Banks did his bit, too. Hungover or not, he had helped get a murder investigation rolling so many times before that he could do it in his sleep. Except the circumstances were different every time. And the victim wasn’t usually someone he knew.

Hatchard invited him into the inner sanctum at noon for an update, a pot of fresh coffee sitting on his desk, and a plate of chocolate digestives beside it.

“What have we got so far?” Hatchard asked.

“The police surgeon estimates time of death somewhere between midnight and three,” Banks said. “Dr. O’Grady’s tied up most of the day, but he’ll get to the post-mortem as soon as he can. Preliminary findings indicate death due to strangulation.” He paused and glanced overt at Hatchard. “It appears as if someone came up behind her and hooked his forearm around her throat.”

“Was she killed where the body was found?”

“Seems that way, sir, according to lividity. We’ll know more later.”

“Any signs of defensive wounds?”

“She got in a few scratches, broke a fingernail or two. We bagged her hands.”

“You knew her, didn’t you?”

Banks paused and helped himself to coffee and another biscuit. “I wouldn’t say I knew her, sir,” he began. “I interviewed her informally on three occasions about the murder of Pamela Morrison.
They were friends and flatmates. You can see the notes I wrote up in the case files.”

“I’ve seen them. I know it’s all above board. There’s obviously a connection with the other murders, given the Sellotape and all. What do you think it is? What did she tell you?”

“She didn’t really know anything, sir, but she did help put me on to Stafford. I mean, she described a man she had taken to her room who had acted in a frightening way and gone on about regaining innocence and purity, about being able to restore it to her, though he didn’t actually harm her in any way. She was able to give a decent physical description. I like to think it would have helped us catch him if things hadn’t turned out differently.”

Hatchard put a match to his pipe and a cloud of cloying blue smoke filled the air. Banks almost retched again, but he buried his face in his coffee instead. It helped. “You think this man was Stafford?” Hatchard asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m certain of it.”

“But Stafford is dead. Why do you think the girl was murdered? It could hardly be to shut her up, as she’d already spoken, and besides, it no longer mattered.”

“I think she was killed as an example, sir, a warning.”

“A warning?”

“Yes. By Micallef.”

“But –”

Banks held his hand up. “Please listen to me, sir. Micallef is in the property development business, among other things, and Stafford was chairman of an important government steering committee on development issues. I think that’s how they met, and I think Micallef made his … er … other services available to Stafford.”

“You think he knew? I mean, what Stafford was like?”

“No, sir. I don’t think so. At least not at first. I doubt that Micallef would stand for someone killing his girls like that, if only from a business perspective. I think he kept that part of the transaction at
arm’s length. Stafford could meet the girls through the clubs, which is how I think it happened, and they would be made available to him in the usual manner. Micallef didn’t get his hands dirty with the actual pimping. But I do think that after the second one, he was starting to realize there was something wrong. Maybe he thought someone was targeting him. Or maybe he guessed the truth. Either way, he was getting paranoid. And the girls were getting understandably jumpy.”

“What about Stafford’s suicide?”

“This is where it gets a bit nebulous, sir,” Banks admitted. “I think that Micallef realized it was Stafford soon after the Maureen Heseltine murder and went to visit him. We did get a vague description from a neighbour of a man leaving Stafford’s house around the time he probably died. Tall, fair-haired, smartly dressed.”

“But the witness didn’t see his face.”

“No, sir. That’s why I said it gets a bit nebulous.”

“But you think Micallef killed Stafford?”

“I think Micallef went to talk to him and one way or another persuaded him to commit suicide. It’s possible that Stafford was already on the verge. He’d tried it before. He’d also just got a prescription of sleeping pills a couple of days previous to his death. I think Micallef tipped the scales. I doubt that he actually killed him, but he pushed him to it. Anyway, there’s nothing that can be proven there. Stafford goes down as a suicide. Micallef carries on as normal.”

“But there’s more?”

“Yes, sir. I think that Micallef also found out that Jackie Simmons had given me the description. It’s probably my fault, sir. I did talk to her on a number of occasions, and perhaps I wasn’t discreet enough. He must have seen us together, or someone else did and told him.”

“You can’t blame yourself for this, Alan.”

“I wish it were different, sir. I should have been more careful. I … dammit, I liked the girl. I even told Micallef that Stafford, whose identity we didn’t know at the time, had scared one of his girls.
Maybe he put two and two together and knew it was Jackie who’d told me that. Christ, maybe I
did
want to reform her, save her. I don’t know. But I liked her. And it’s my fault.”

“You think Micallef strangled her?”

“Him or one of his minions. First thing we did this morning was run down his alibi, and as expected, it’s as solid as it usually is. He was playing cards with five respectable citizens in a flat near Mayfair. They could be lying. But more likely he got Benny or maybe one of his Chinese Triad pals to do it.”

“Micallef’s in with the Triads?”

“As far as they’ll let anybody be. His hangout is a Chinese restaurant on Gerrard Street known to have connections with 14K. I think it’s a drugs connection but I don’t have anything to back that up.”

“But why kill the girl? What possible threat could she pose to him with Stafford dead, a suicide?”

“A statement. A warning to the others.” Banks shrugged. “A man like Micallef … it’s the way he operates. Fear.”

“So what next?” Hatchard asked.

“The usual. Keep asking around, searching for witnesses. I’ll have another friendly chat with Micallef, which will get us precisely nowhere. We’ll pull in Benny, which will get us just about as far, and maybe have a word with some of our paid informants in the Triads, see if they got wind of anything.”

“Christ, I remember things used to be a lot simpler in Soho,” said Hatchard, resting his pipe on the ceramic ashtray. “We used to know who all the villains were and
where
they were most of the time.”

“Ah, but that was before the City cleaned it up, sir,” said Banks.

“Hair of the dog, sir?” said Albright.

It was half past one and they were approaching the Pillars of Hercules down the alley beside Foyle’s, the arch ahead of them. “Why not,” said Banks.

They went inside, got a couple of pints and sat at a quiet table in the back.

“There’s this stuff called DNA they can use to identify people,” Albright said, out of the blue. He was always doing that, Banks realized, coming out with stuff he’d read. “I read an article about it in a forensics newsletter,” he went on. “Apparently this DNA is different in everyone. Completely unique. Like the body’s signature. Once you get a sample from a crime scene, you can match it against a sample from the suspect.”

Banks had heard about DNA, but he hadn’t really given it much thought. It seemed to belong to a world of the future, and he wasn’t sure he had a future. “How do you get a sample from the crime scene?” he asked.

“Trace evidence. Blood, saliva, skin, semen. Even a hair, if it’s still got the root.”

“And from the suspect?”

“You take some of his blood, semen, saliva, skin, a hair or whatever. I suppose saliva would be easiest, come to think of it. Maybe you could just use a toothbrush or something? I mean, you wouldn’t want to be taking a semen sample from a bloke, would you?”

“Jesus Christ, Ozzy, you do come up with the oddest bloody ideas.”

“Not my idea, sir. It’s science. Trouble is, it takes a long time to process, but they’ll streamline that. It’ll be all the rage soon, you mark my words. Make our job a lot easier.”

“Hmmm,” said Banks. “Get anywhere with Micallef’s alibi?”

“Just about where I expected to get,” said Albright. “They all agreed he was at an all-night card game in Mayfair, won about three hundred quid, too, from what I can gather.”

“Lucky bastard. What about his gambling companions?”

“A couple with form, the others ‘respectable.’”

“Meaning we haven’t caught them yet?”

“Something like that, sir.”

Banks downed half his drink and wiped his lips. “Pity.”

“Well, it was a long shot, sir. We never really thought he did it himself. Not his style. I don’t think he’s got the bottle.”

“Only for women.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” said Banks. “Just a story somebody told me a long time ago. I think we’re pissing against the wind here.”

“I agree, sir, unless we can find an eye witness.”

“And eye witnesses can be bribed, or scared off. It’s not as if we can offer witness protection like they do in America.”

“I could always hide her away at my house, sir, especially if she’s a good looker.”

Banks laughed. “Good idea, Ozzy. Good idea.” He finished his pint. “And I’ve got an even better one. My shout.”

In retrospect, Banks thought it might have been a mistake going to see Micallef after three pints of Beck’s, but then he realized that hindsight is only reliable after the event. And what was there to lose? Feeling a little better for the hair of the dog, the two of them headed along Greek Street towards Shaftesbury Avenue. It was another fine day, and the tourists were out in Soho in force, Americans mostly, Banks noted from the accents he overheard. People were sitting outside at coffee shops and enjoying the march of humanity back and forth. It was a long way from the area at nighttime, and a world away from twenty years back.

They darted between the taxis and buses on Shaftesbury Avenue and headed into Chinatown. The odds were that Micallef would be holding court there, as usual.

When they got to the restaurant, he wasn’t there, and the maitre d’, of course, knew nothing. Banks and Albright walked along Gerrard Street to the corner of Macclesfield and pondered what to do. It was then that Banks noticed the car pull up across from the restaurant. The driver got out, checked the street like a minder and opened the
back door. It was Benny. And there was Micallef, resplendent in his Hugo Boss suit, a lock of blond hair flopping over his eye.

“Come on, Ozzy,” said Banks. “No time like the present.” And he headed down the street, Albright a few paces behind.

Micallef saw Banks as he was crossing the street to the restaurant. He paused on the pavement, glanced over, then smiled and ran his forefinger across his lips as if to seal them with Sellotape.

Banks ran the last few yards and he hit Micallef hard in his midriff before Benny even knew what was going on. The two of them hit the pavement, Micallef underneath, and Banks punched at his kidneys, gut, and when he got in position, at his face. Micallef, for all his height and ranginess, wasn’t much of a street fighter, and he flailed to protect himself. Already the blood was flowing from a split lip and broken nose. Banks could see only red, only Jackie’s crumpled body left in the alley like a piece of garbage, the bruise on her throat and the Sellotape across her lips. He knelt on Micallef’s chest and punched and punched.

After a while, he became vaguely aware of someone kicking him, first in the ribs, then a jarring blow to the side of his skull, and then another. He fell over on his side. People were shouting now, someone trying to get a hold of him. Micallef had his knees drawn up to his stomach and his hands defensively covering his bleeding face, whimpering on the pavement.

Banks struggled, but it was no good. The hands holding him were strong and sure. At one point, he thought he heard Albright say, “Forget it, sir, it’s Chinatown.”

He gasped for breath as Albright helped him to his feet, and the more air he got, the more he calmed down, came out of the red mist and was able to understand what was going on. Benny and Albright had scuffled at first, but in the end they had decided to try and separate Banks and Micallef. Now Banks leaned against a lamppost and felt the side of his face all wet and numb, and the blood was pounding in his head.

Micallef sagged in a heap on the pavement and held his stomach and groaned. Then he glared up at Banks, features twisted in pain. “You’re dead!” he shouted through blood and broken teeth. “You hear me Banks? You’re a dead man for this!”

Maybe I am, Banks thought, and maybe it doesn’t matter. The thing was, he felt like a dead man already.

“Well, mate, you’ve certainly been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Banks instinctively put his hand up to the side of his right eye. He could feel the rough, uneven row of stitches. Eight of them. And his ribs still ached where they were taped. “The doc says I might have a scar.”

Roly Verity brushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll look good on you. I’m told some ladies like a scar.”

“Not my wife,” said Banks.

It was ten days after the attack on Micallef and the kerfuffle had more or less settled down. Micallef had declined to press charges, more out of fear of losing face than from any benevolent feelings towards Banks. Nobody had seen anything, anyway. They never did in Soho.

“You were lucky you didn’t get suspended, you know,” said Verity. “Young Albright did a damn good job of keeping your chestnuts out of the fire.”

“Don’t I know it.”

He gestured towards Banks’s glass. “Another?”