The Price of Love and Other Stories (7 page)

They knocked on the door and entered the spacious office, which looked over the street. It wasn’t much of a view. The street was so narrow you could practically shake hands with the bloke sitting at the desk in the window of the building opposite. But if you glanced a bit to the left, you could see beyond the slate roofs to the hint of green countryside beyond.

“I wasn’t sure what to do when I heard the news,” said Whitman after they had all made themselves comfortable. “Open the office,
close for the day. In the end, I decided this is what Victor would have wanted, so we’re soldiering on.” He managed a grim smile. Grey-haired, perhaps in his late forties, Colin Whitman looked fit and slender, as if he put in plenty of time on the golf course, and perhaps even at the gym. He seemed relaxed at first, his movements precise, not an ounce of effort wasted. He had a red complexion, the kind that grey hair sets so much in relief.

“I understand Mr. Vancalm was away in Berlin on business until yesterday?” Banks began.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Where were you yesterday evening between the hours of seven and ten?”

“Me?”

“Yes,” said Annie, leaning forward. “We’re just trying to eliminate all the people closest to Mr. Vancalm from our inquiry. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course.” Whitman scratched the side of his nose. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t be much help there. I mean, I was at home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I’m not married.”

“What were you doing?” Banks asked.

“Watching television, mostly. I watched
Emmerdale
,
Coronation Street
, and
A Touch of Frost
, and I warmed up some take-away Chinese food for dinner. Not very exciting.”

“Drink much?” Banks asked.

Whitman shifted his gaze from Annie to Banks and frowned. “Just a couple of beers, that’s all.”

“Good, was it,
A Touch of Frost
? I didn’t see it.”

Whitman laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought a real policeman would have been very interested in something like that. But I enjoyed it.”

“What was it about?”

“A hostage taking.”

Anyone could have looked it up in the paper and come up with that vague description, Banks thought, but that was so often what constituted an alibi, and unless someone had seen Whitman elsewhere, it would be a damned hard one to break, too.

Whitman was clearly becoming unnerved by the interview. He had developed a nervous tic above his left eye and he kept tapping on the desk with a chewed yellow pencil. He clearly wanted to get this over with, wanted the box ticked, wanted Banks and Annie to get to the point and leave.

“Did you go out at all?” Annie asked.

“No. I’d no need to. It was miserable out there.”

“So nobody saw you all evening?”

“I’m afraid not. But that’s often the case, isn’t it? How many people see you after you go home?”

“Where do you live?”

“Harewood. Look, are you almost finished? As I’m sure you can imagine, Victor’s death has thrown everything into upheaval. There are a lot of clients I have to inform, and I’m not looking forward to it.”

“I can understand that, sir,” said Annie, “and we won’t keep you much longer. Perhaps you could tell us a little bit about Mr. Vancalm?”

“Victor? Not much to tell, really. He was a good man, good at his job, loved his wife.”

“Was he the kind of man who played around with other women?” Banks asked.

Whitman looked shocked. “Not that I knew of. I shouldn’t think so. I mean, he seemed –”

“Would he have told you if he did?”

“Probably not. Our relationship was purely business. We hardly socialized, unless it was with a client.”

“What about Mrs. Vancalm?” Annie asked.

“Denise? What about her?”

“Did she have other men?”

“Now look here, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but the Vancalms’ marriage was perfectly normal.”

“What does that mean?” Banks asked.

“‘Normal’?”

“Yes. You already told us you’re not married yourself, and that your relationship with the Vancalms was purely a business one, so how would you know?”

“I’m just going b-by what I saw, what I heard, that’s all. Look, dammit, they were a happily married couple. Can’t you just leave it at that?”

Banks glanced at Annie and gave her the signal to leave. “I suppose we’ll have to,” he said. “For now. Thanks very much for your time, Mr. Whitman.”

Outside, in the wet, grey air, Banks looked at his watch. “Betty’s? Something sinfully sweet and sticky?”

“Ooh,” said Annie, “you do know how to charm a woman. I can hardly wait.”

It was after eight and pitch-black when Banks got back to his recently renovated Gratly cottage. After the fire had destroyed most of the place a couple of years ago, he had had the interior reconstructed, an extension added down one side, and a conservatory built on at the back. He had turned the extension into an entertainment room, with a large plasma TV, comfortable cinema-style armchairs, surround sound, and a drinks cabinet. Mostly he sat and watched DVDs or listened to CDs there by himself, but sometimes Annie dropped by, or one of his children, and it was good to have company.

Tonight he was alone, and that didn’t make him much different from Colin Whitman, he realized. He was eating yesterday’s warmed-up chicken vindaloo and drinking Tetley’s bitter from a can, cruising the TV channels with the remote – aptly named, because he was finding nothing of the remotest interest.

Then Banks remembered that he had set his DVD recorder for
A Touch of Frost
last night. He always enjoyed spotting the mistakes, but perhaps even more he enjoyed David Jason’s performance. Realistic or not, there was no denying the entertainment value to be got from Frost’s relationship with Mullet and with his various hapless sidekicks.

He put the vindaloo containers in the rubbish bin and settled down for
Frost
. But it was not to be. What played instead was an old episode of
Inspector Morse
he had seen before, with Patricia Hodge guest-starring as a very upper-class Oxford wife.

At first, Banks wondered if he had set up the recorder wrongly. It wouldn’t have surprised him if he had; technology had never been his strong point. But his son Brian had given him a lesson, and he had been pleased that he had been able to use it a few times without messing up. He didn’t have to worry about setting times or anything, just keyed in a number.

He played around with the remote, checked the recording date and time, and made sure that this was indeed the program he had set for last night. There was no mistake. Not that he had anything against
Morse
, but he had been expecting
Frost
. He couldn’t be bothered getting up to search for something else, so he decided he might as well watch it anyway. When he started to play the DVD again, he found that it began with the end of an explanation and much apology from the TV station.

From what Banks could make out,
A Touch of Frost
had been postponed and replaced by an episode of
Inspector Morse
because of its controversial subject matter: a kidnapped and murdered police officer. Over the past couple of days, the news had been full of stories of a police officer who had been abducted while trying to prevent a robbery. Only yesterday, his body had been found, dumped in a bin bag near Southwark. He had been shot. The TV executives clearly thought the
Frost
story mirrored the real one so much as to be disturbing to people, so at the last minute they had pulled it.

Colin Whitman had sworn blind that he had watched
A Touch of Frost
, but it hadn’t been on. Banks phoned the station and asked the duty officer to see that Whitman was brought up from Harewood to Eastvale, then he rang Annie, turned off the DVD and TV and headed for the door.

“Look, it’s late,” said Whitman. “You drag me from my home and make me sit in this disgusting room for ages. What on earth’s going on? What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t a police state yet, you know.”

“Sorry about the melodrama,” said Banks. “I can see why you might be a bit upset. I suppose we could have waited till morning. I don’t imagine you were going to make a run for it or anything, were you? Why should you? You probably thought you’d got us all fooled.”

Whitman frowned. “I’m sorry? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Suspicion of murder, Mr. Whitman,” said Banks, then gave him the caution and advised him of his rights. The tape recorders made a faint whirring sound in the background, but other than that, it was quiet in interview room three of Western Area Headquarters. Banks and Annie sat at the scarred wooden table opposite Whitman, and a uniformed guard stood by the door. Whitman hadn’t asked for a solicitor yet, so no one else was present.

“I hope you realize this is absurd,” said Whitman. “I haven’t murdered anyone.”

“Mr. Whitman,” Annie said, “when DCI Banks and I talked to you this afternoon, you told us you spent yesterday evening at home watching
A Touch of Frost
.”

“It’s true. I did. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all,” said Annie, “except that
A Touch of Frost
was pulled from the air because of a real live hostage taking. ITV showed an old
Inspector Morse
instead.”

Whitman’s mouth flapped open and shut like a dying fish’s. “I … They … I … ”

“It’s an easy mistake,” Annie went on. “Happens sometimes, but not often. Just unlucky this time.”

“But I –”

“Yes, Mr. Whitman?” said Banks, leaning towards him. “You want to confess? The murder of Victor Vancalm? What were you looking for? Money? Or did he have something on you? Something incriminating? Or perhaps it was something else entirely? Mrs. Vancalm, for example. Had you been having an affair? Did the two of you plan this together?”

“No!”

“No to which question, Colin?” Annie asked.

“All of them. I told you, I was at home all evening.”

“But you were lying,” said Banks. “At least, you were lying about
A Touch of Frost
, and if you were lying about that … well, there goes your alibi.”

“Look, I didn’t know I’d need an alibi, did I?”

“Not unless you murdered Mr. Vancalm you didn’t.”

“I didn’t murder anybody!”

“You say you didn’t, but yet when we asked you where you were around the time he died, you gave us a pack of lies. Why?”

“I … It just sounded so weak.”

“What did?”

“That I just stopped in by myself.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Banks. “You’re telling us that you thought it sounded weak saying you stopped in by yourself and ate some leftover Chinese take-away, but it somehow sounded more believable that you did this while watching
A Touch of Frost
?”

“Well, I must admit, put like that it sounds rather silly – but yes.”

Banks looked at Annie, who rolled her eyes.

“What?” said Whitman.

“I really think we’d better start at the beginning,” said Annie. “And the truth this time.”

“But it
was
the truth.”

“Apart from
A Touch of Frost
?”

“Yes. I didn’t watch television.”

“What did you do?” Banks asked.

“I just sat there thinking, did a little work. I often have work to take home with me.”

Banks shook his head. “I still don’t get it. Why lie to us about watching television if all you were doing was work?”

“Like I said, it sounds silly now, I realize. I don’t want people to think I’m a workaholic. I do have a life.”

“Watching
A Touch of Frost
and eating warmed-up take-away is a life?” Even as he spoke, Banks was aware that that was exactly what he had done, or would have done if he hadn’t caught Whitman in a lie about his alibi.
Sad
, he told himself. Note to self: Must get out more.

“Well, when you put it like that, as I said, it does sound rather silly.”

“Not really,” said Banks. “I don’t think it’s silly at all. Do you, Annie?”

“Not at all,” Annie agreed.

“I think it was very clever of you,” Banks went on. “You came home, got changed, went out and waited for Mr. Vancalm to return from Berlin, then you killed him. You knew he was away and when he’d be coming back. You also knew the layout of his study, and, I would imagine, the ins and outs of the security system and the wall safe. You didn’t want too elaborate an alibi, because you knew we’d be suspicious. Let’s face it, most people, when questioned by the police, don’t have alibis any better than yours was. It makes perfect sense to me. You were just unlucky, that’s all. It only took a simple twist of fate.”

Annie gave Banks a questioning look.

“Dylan,” he said.

Whitman banged both fists on the table. “But I didn’t do it!”

Banks folded his arms and leaned back. “Sure you weren’t having an affair with Mrs. Vancalm? She’s a very attractive woman.”

“She’s my partner’s wife, for crying out loud.”

“That wouldn’t stop most people.”

“I’m not most people.”

Banks paused. “No, you’re not, are you, Colin? In fact, I’m not sure what sort of person you are.” He glanced at Annie and smiled back at Whitman. “I can’t see that we’re getting anywhere here, though, and DI Cabbot and I are both tired, so I think we’ll call it a night, if that’s OK with you?”

Whitman sat up straight and beamed. “OK?” he echoed. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all evening.”

Banks and Annie stood up. “Right,” said Banks to the officer at the door. “Take Mr. Whitman here down to custody, make sure it’s all done by the book, and find a nice cell for him for the night. A nice cell, mind you, Smithers. Not one of those vomit-filled cages you usually put people in.”

PC Smithers could hardly keep back the laughter. “Yes, sir,” he said, and took Whitman by the arm.

“What’s this?” Whitman said. “What’s going on?”

“We’re detaining you until we’re happy with your story,” said Banks.

“But … but you can’t do that. I’ve answered your questions. You have to let me go.”

“Oh, dear,” said Banks, looking at Annie. “You can tell this fellow doesn’t watch his
Frost
and
Morse
closely enough, can’t you, DI Cabbot?”