The pub Burgess chose was flanked by a halal butcher and an Indian take-away on a narrow street between Liverpool Street Station and Spitalfields Market. Banks took the tube and checked constantly to see if he was being followed. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t. After receiving the image on the mobile he didn’t feel like taking any chances.
Though it was lunchtime and most pubs in the area were offering the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, at this place the choice was between nachos with sour cream and spicy chicken wings with BBQ dip. Banks didn’t fancy either, so he stuck with a pint of Pride and a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps while Burgess attacked the nachos and washed them down with cheap lager.
There wasn’t exactly any sawdust on the floor, but looking at the state of the place, Banks thought perhaps there ought to be.
Most of the lunchtime drinkers were older Bangladeshis, Indians and Pakistanis – clearly not devoutly Muslim. A group of them was watching a cricket game on the television, Essex playing Pakistan, commenting loudly now and then on a particularly good off-spinner or square cut.
Burgess looked much the same as he had when Banks last saw him in January, except today he was informally dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt that dazzled Banks. But the shaved head and slight paunch were still there, and the cynical, world-weary look had returned to his eyes. All that was new was his tan. After many rises and falls in fortune, Burgess had landed on his feet after 9/11, when the service required men who got things done, no questions asked. Banks wasn’t sure what outfit he worked for now, but he assumed it was something to do with Special Branch.
“Nice place you picked,” said Banks.
“It’s anonymous,” Burgess said. “Everyone here just minds their own business. Besides, most of the buggers can barely understand English.” Outside the window, the sky had darkened and a few splashes of rain ran down the grimy glass. Burgess looked at Banks closely. “You look like a worried man. Care to tell your Uncle Dicky what’s wrong?”
Banks looked around, saw that no one was paying them any attention, then he brought up the image on the mobile and slid it over the table. Burgess picked it up, examined it closely and raised his eyebrows. “It could be anyone,” he said, handing it back to Banks. “Some drunk asleep at a party.”
“I know that. But what if it’s not?”
“Who do you think it is?”
“It might be my brother.”
“Roy?”
“How do you know his name?”
Burgess paused. “It was a long time ago.”
“When?”
“About five or six years. Last century, at any rate. No reason to bother you with it at the time.”
“So what brought brother Roy under scrutiny?”
“Arms dealing.”
Banks swallowed. “What?”
“You heard me. Arms dealing. Don’t look so surprised. Your brother helped broker a deal between a UK arms manufacturer and some rich Arab sheikh. Greased the wheels, handled the baksheesh, attended galas at the consulate and so on.”
“Roy did that?”
“Roy would do anything to make a bit of extra cash. He has an extraordinary range of contacts and connections, and the bugger of it is that he doesn’t even know who half of them really are.”
“ ‘Naive’ was never a description I’d have used to describe Roy,” said Banks.
“Maybe not,” Burgess argued, “but he took too many people at face value. Maybe he didn’t want to dig any deeper. Maybe it was safer that way and easier on his conscience. Pocket the money and turn your back.”
Banks had to admit that sounded like the Roy he knew. More likely than naïveté was lack of imagination. When they were kids, Banks remembered, they had had to share a bedroom for a few days for some reason. Banks was ten, Roy about five. Banks had tried to torment his younger brother by telling him gruesome ghost stories at bedtime, about headless corpses and misshapen ogres, hoping to scare him well into the night. But Roy had fallen asleep during Banks’s gory version of Dracula and it was Banks who was left unable to sleep, flinching at every gust of wind and creak in the woodwork, victim of his own imagination. Perhaps Roy had taken his colleagues and their claims at face value, perhaps he hadn’t wanted to dig any deeper, or perhaps he just lacked the imagination to extrapolate on the bare facts. Banks reached for a Silk Cut.
“Didn’t think you’d last long,” said Burgess, lighting one of his own Tom Thumb cigars and offering the flame to Banks, who took it.
“It’s only temporary,” Banks said.
“Of course. Another pint?”
“Why not?”
Burgess went to the bar and Banks watched the cricket game while he was gone. Nothing exciting happened. A second pint of Pride on the table before him, he asked Burgess exactly what he knew about Roy.
“You’ve got to understand,” Burgess said, “that your brother did nothing illegal in the strict sense. People manufacture the damn things and people sell them. Back then you could sell anything to anyone, anywhere: missiles, land mines, submarines, tanks, jet fighters, you name it. The problem is that they had a habit of ending up in the hands of the wrong people, despite all the red tape. Sometimes they got used on the very people who sold them in the first place.”
“So where did these particular shipments go?”
“They were destined for a friendly country in the Middle East, but they ended up in the hands of a terrorist splinter group.”
“And Roy’s part?”
“He had no idea. Obviously. He couldn’t see the big picture, didn’t want to, no more than the arms manufacturers did. They didn’t care. All they wanted was a nice fat profit.”
“What happened?”
“It was the bloke who recruited Roy for the job, an old crony of his called Gareth Lambert who we had our eyes on. He’s history now. Left the country.”
Banks didn’t recognize the name from Roy’s call list or phone book. He could have missed it, as there were so many, or Lambert could be one of the “unknown” numbers. On the other hand, if, as Burgess said, Gareth Lambert was history, there was no reason for Roy to have his phone number. “And Roy?” he asked.
“One of our lads had a friendly word in his shell-like.”
“And after that?”
“Not even a blip on our radar,” said Burgess. “So whatever this means, if it means anything at all, it’s got nothing to do with us. All of this was over and done with a long time ago.”
“That’s comforting to know,” said Banks.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Banks told him, from the strange phone call to the arrival of the digital photograph in the middle of the night. Burgess puffed on his cigar as he listened, eyes narrowed to slits. When Banks had finished, he let the silence hang for a while. Someone scored a six and the cricket watchers cheered.
“Could be a prank. Kids,” Burgess said finally.
“I’ve thought of that.”
“Could be someone trying to scare you off. I mean, if you’re supposed to think it’s your brother and he’s been hurt in some way.”
“I’ve managed to work that out for myself, too.”
“You’re not scared?”
“Of course I bloody am. But I want to know what’s happened to Roy. What do you expect me to do? Give up and go home?”
Burgess laughed. “You? I should cocoa. What about kidnapping? Have you considered that? A prelude to a ransom demand?”
“Yes,” said Banks, “but I’ve received no demand so far.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I thought you might be able to help.”
“How?”
“The mobile,” Banks said. “A forensic examination might give us all sorts to go on. It might even tell us where the image was sent from, maybe even where it was taken. I’m not exactly up on the technology but I know the computer experts can get a lot out of these things.”
“True enough,” said Burgess. “What with DNA, computers, the Internet, mobiles and CCTV, there’s hardly any need for the humble detective anymore. We’re dinosaurs, Banksy, or fast going that way.”
“A sobering thought. Can you help?”
“Sorry,” said Burgess. “But this is a lot different from looking up a name or accessing a database. My department doesn’t actually have a great deal of contact with the technical support people. We’re closer to the intelligence services, information gathering. It would look bloody odd if I suddenly turned up at the lab and dropped this on their desk without any explanation. They’d be all over me like a dirty shirt. Sorry, Banksy, but no can do. My advice is take it to the local cop shop. Let them deal with it.”
Banks stared at the phone. Burgess’s response was what he had half expected, but even so he felt disappointed, lost. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t go to the local police. It wasn’t only that he was worried Roy might be involved in something criminal, but there was no way he would be given any part in an official investigation into the disappearance of his own brother, and he didn’t think he could bear standing on the sidelines with his hands in his pockets, whistling. “Okay,” he said. “And you’re sure you’ve got absolutely no idea why any of this is happening?”
“Swear on my mother’s grave. Your brother fell off our map many years ago and we’ve had no reason to put him back on since.”
“You’ve been watching him?”
“Not recently. We kept an eye on him for a while. Like I said, he’s got some interesting contacts. But as for Roy himself, we soon lost interest. It’s not guns or terrorism. Believe me, I’d know.”
“And you’d tell me if it was?”
Burgess smiled. “Maybe.”
Banks took out the envelope he’d brought and slipped out one of the digital photos for Burgess to examine. “Do you know who these people are?” he asked.
Burgess picked up the photo and examined it closely. “Well, bugger me,” he said. “It can’t be. Where did you get this?”
Banks told him.
“When was it taken?”
“According to the computer details, it was taken on Tuesday, the eighth of June, at three-fifteen P.M.”
“But that’s last Tuesday.”
“Who is it?”
“Gareth Lambert.”
“You said he was history.”
“That’s what I thought. But look.” Burgess placed the photo in front of Banks and pointed to the gray-haired man. “He’s put on a bit of weight and his hair’s turned gray, but it’s him all right.”
“Is he bent?”
“Definitely.”
“What was his line?”
“Import-export. At least it used to be. Fancy word for smuggling, if you ask me. Knows the Balkan route like the back of his hand.”
“Smuggling what?”
“You name it.” Burgess ran his hand over his shaved head. “Look, you might as well know. In his time, Gareth Lambert was a very nasty piece of work, indeed. I don’t mean tough, but nasty, sly. Maybe he’s mellowed with old age, though I doubt it.”
“What did he do?”
“It wasn’t always so much what he did as who he knew. He rubbed shoulders with some of the nastiest bastards in Europe. Smuggled arms, drugs, people, anything. He had connections with the military down in the Balkans – Kosovo, Bosnia – knew all the generals. He smuggled medical supplies – morphine, antibiotics – sometimes diluted. Bit of a Harry Lime, when you come to think about it, and almost as elusive. Likes to keep on the move, one step ahead. He’s a slippery bastard. If he’s back, you can be certain he’s up to his eyeballs in something dodgy, and if your brother Roy… well…”
That didn’t make Banks feel any easier about the situation at all. “Who’s that with him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t recognize him. Lambert and his crew aren’t really my problem anymore. Can I hang on to this? I’ve still got a few contacts where it counts, and I’ll make a few inquiries. There’ll be quite a lot of old-timers around the Yard interested to know Gareth Lambert’s back in business, if they don’t know already.”
“Of course,” said Banks. “I’ve got copies. And the mobile?”
“Hang on to it for the moment. You might need it. If that picture was intended for you, then more messages might follow.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Banks, pocketing the mobile. Maybe Annie would be able to hook him up with a computer expert to enhance the image. That way he wouldn’t have to relinquish the phone.
“Right,” said Burgess, “I’d better be off now.”
Banks wondered if he’d done the right thing in telling all and handing over the photo of the two men to Burgess. Now that he’d made Roy’s disappearance semi-official, there could be no turning back, whatever happened. He had already gone too far to avoid some sort of disciplinary proceedings by not reporting the first phone call and by living in Roy’s house and accessing his computer data. He thought he could rely on Burgess’s discretion, but there was a limit to everything.
At least this way he could continue his own investigation. He had already made a list of names and numbers, almost a hundred, and he still couldn’t remember seeing any Gareth Lambert. He would have to check again, of course, but if Lambert was back in the picture, maybe there was a reason why neither he nor Roy wanted any records of their communications.
“Look,” he said to Burgess, “I appreciate your help, but if Roy’s in the clear and there’s nothing really to link him with any serious criminal business…”
“You want me to keep your brother out of it?”
“If you can.”
“No guarantees,” said Burgess. “Gareth Lambert turning up like this out of the blue changes everything. But I promise I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll keep me informed? I’d like to know where to find this Lambert, for a start.”
“Like I said, I’ll do my best. I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I’d ask you to bugger off back to Yorkshire and stay out of the way if I thought it would do any good, but at least try to avoid getting under my feet.”
“I’ll think about it,” Banks said. He gave Burgess Roy’s telephone numbers and glanced toward the window. “It’s almost stopped raining. I’d better go, too.”
Burgess gave him a stern look. “Be careful, Banksy,” he said. “Remember, I know you. And this conversation never took place.”
Banks walked out. His car was still parked near Corinne’s flat, so he made his way to Liverpool Street, where he could catch the tube back to Earl’s Court and pick up his car before meeting Julian Harwood.
While he was on the concourse of the mainline station, he wandered over to look at the Kindertransport Memorial. A sculpture to commemorate the rescue mission that helped over ten thousand children escape Nazi persecution in Europe during 1938 and 1939, it consisted of a glass case shaped like a large suitcase, which held a selection of objects the children had brought with them and, standing beside it, a bronze sculpture of a young girl.
Through the rain-beaded glass, among other things Banks could see school exercise books, pages filled with mannered German writing, letters, articles of clothing, dog-eared family photographs, a pair of old boots with clip-on ice skates, a hand puppet of a kitten, a book of piano music, a battered suitcase and three coat hangers. On one was written “Für das Kind,” on the second, “Fürs liebe Kind” and on the third, “Dem braven Kinde.” It made Banks think of Mahler’s beautiful Kindertotenlieder, “Songs for the Deaths of Children,” though these children hadn’t died; they had been saved. He wondered if Roy had the Mahler in his collection; he hadn’t noticed it.
Looking at the children’s personal belongings arrayed like this before him, Banks thought of all the mementos he had lost forever when his cottage burned down: the family photographs and videos – wedding, holidays, kids growing up – letters, keep-sakes, the poems he had written as a teenager, old diaries and notebooks, school report cards, the records of a life.
But he couldn’t feel self-pity in the face of this memorial. He hadn’t lost nearly as much as these children, who’d lost their homeland and, in many cases, their whole families. Perhaps they had gained something, too, though. They had at least escaped the concentration camps, been taken in by good, caring families, and had grown up to live their lives in relative freedom.
Banks looked at the bronze statue of the girl in her skirt and jacket. The raindrops looked like tears flowing down her face. He turned away and headed for the underground.
Annie was glad DI Brooke had suggested a quick lunch together in her hotel that afternoon. She had heard nothing from Roy Banks and she was beginning to wonder if the two brothers had made up their differences and run away together just to make her job difficult.
Brooke was in his Sunday best, red-faced, collar too tight around his neck, looking like a farmer just come from church. Annie, in jeans and a black V-neck jumper, felt underdressed. Neither was terribly hungry, so they ordered coffee and cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, which came cut into quarters, neatly arranged in baskets.
“Well, Dave,” said Annie, “I must say you cut a dashing figure.”
Brooke blushed. “The suit? I’ve got a christening to go to this afternoon.” He sat down and pulled at his collar, finally undoing the button. “There, that’s better. Plenty of time to choke myself to death in church later.”
Annie laughed.
“I don’t have a lot to report,” Brooke said, “but I had a couple of lads ask around the victim’s neighborhood. I’ve also had a word with the uniform who walks the beat there, PC Latham.”
“What does he say?” Annie asked.
“Quiet sort of area. No trouble lately.”
“What about the inquiries your lads made?”
“A bit more interesting. A bloke down the street was looking for a parking spot about ten o’clock on Friday night. Seems he usually managed to park right outside his house, but this time he couldn’t because someone was already there. Said it had happened before, a couple of evenings that same week. He was a bit miffed, but there was nothing he could do. After all, it was a free spot. Anyway, he remembered there were two men in the car, one in the front and one in the back. He thought they might be leaving, so he hung back for a couple of minutes but they ignored him.”
“What happened?”
“He found another spot nearby and that was that.”
“Does he remember anything else about the car?”
“Only that it was dark blue.”
“No number plate?”
“The car was parked. He couldn’t see the front or back.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“When he went out to walk the dog at eleven, it was gone.”
“Could he describe the men?”
“Not very well. Only that the one in the back had something around his neck, like a thick gold chain. He said they looked a bit thuggish. At least their appearance worried him enough that he didn’t approach them and ask if they were going to move.”
“Interesting,” said Annie. “I’ve just been on the phone with my SIO and one of our DCs has got a similar description from a man called Roger Cropley. Apparently, this Cropley saw Jennifer Clewes at the Watford Gap service station at about half past twelve Friday night and a car like the one you just described, with one man in the front and one in the back, cut in front of him and went after her.”
“Then it sounds as if someone was waiting for her outside her flat.”
“It does, indeed,” said Annie. “If it’s the same car. I’ve thought there were two of them right from the start, one who could get out of the car quickly and do the shooting, the other a driver.” Annie consulted her notebook. “Have you ever heard of a woman called Carmen Petri?”
Brooke frowned. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”
“It’s just a name one of Jennifer Clewes’s friends mentioned. One of the ‘late girls,’ she called her. Jennifer was worried about her, about something she said.”
“Late girls?”
“Yes. Why? Do you know what that means?”
“Haven’t a clue,” said Brooke.
Given the context – a family-planning center – Annie had come up with a couple of possibilities: either “late girls” were late with their periods, which was sort of self-evident when you were dealing with pregnancy; or they were late in their pregnancies, beyond the time when terminations could be performed, which according to the law was the twenty-fourth week.
“I’ll check our files for you, see if we’ve any record of this Carmen, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“No reason why it should. But thanks, anyway. And, Dave? Check missing persons and recent deaths, too, if you can.” If someone had been performing late terminations and something had gone wrong, Annie thought, then Jennifer Clewes might have stumbled across something very nasty indeed.
“I haven’t seen Roy in over a month,” said Julian Harwood, “so I don’t see how I can help you.”
“You never know,” said Banks. “It’s good of you to spare me the time.”
“Nonsense. Roy’s a good friend. Has been for years, even if we don’t see enough of one another these days. Anything I can do, I’m only too willing.”
Harwood didn’t seem out to impress, as far as Banks could tell. He didn’t need to; he was a powerful, wealthy businessman, used to getting his own way. Corinne’s impression had been different, but then perhaps Harwood behaved differently around women. Many men do. Also, she was Roy’s girlfriend, an extremely attractive young woman, and he might have felt the need to compete, to impress her.
The sun was out again and they were sitting outside at Starbucks drinking grande lattes. Before meeting Harwood, Banks had shown a copy of the digital photo to Malcolm Farrow, Roy’s neighbor across the street. Farrow had said that the bulky man with the gray curly hair might just have been the one Roy left with at nine-thirty on Friday, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain.
Banks could smell Chinese food from somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t see a Chinese restaurant. The street was crowded with shoppers, a mix of tourists and locals out for a drink and a stroll. Two pretty young girls in shorts and tank tops were sitting at the next table talking French and smoking Gauloises.
Harwood was younger than Banks had expected, mid-forties, most likely, about Roy’s age, and completely bald apart from a couple of thick strips of black above his ears. He had a healthy tan and the lean physique of a regular tennis or squash player. His clothes were casual but expensive: a blue denim shirt, open at the collar, and khaki chinos with a razor crease. Only the Nike trainers looked at bit out of character, but they weren’t cheap, either.
Banks lit a cigarette – one of the advantages of sitting outside – and said, “I don’t suppose you know where he is?”
“What do you mean?”
Banks explained about Roy’s phone call and the unlocked house. Harwood’s brow furrowed as he listened, and when Banks had finished, he said, “Roy could be anywhere. He travels quite a bit, you know. Have you thought of that?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “But his message was urgent, and it seems odd that he hasn’t told anyone where he was going. No one I’ve spoken with so far has any idea where he might be. Is he usually that secretive about his movements?”
“Not usually,” said Harwood. “It depends. I mean, if there’s some sensitive overseas deal in the offing…”
“Is that likely?”
“I’m saying it’s possible, that’s all.”
“Anyway, you’re a business associate. You might know if he had any trips scheduled.”
“He didn’t as far as I know,” said Harwood. “But I’m not his personal assistant. Roy has plenty of irons in the fire that have nothing to do with me.”
“Do you think he might have done a runner?”
Harwood thought for a moment. “Possible, I suppose, if things got too much for him. Tax, debts, that sort of thing. But surely he’d lock his house and take his mobile?”
“Maybe he wanted it to look as if it had happened some other way. I wouldn’t put it past him. I don’t know,” said Banks. “I’m just clutching at straws.”
Harwood cleared his throat. “Roy told me you’re a policeman,” he said. “Have you reported this?”
“No,” said Banks. “I’m conducting my own investigation so far.”
Harwood nodded. “Probably wise, given Roy’s penchant for – how shall I put it? – sailing a little close to the wind.”
“How long have you known him?” Banks asked.
“Years. We met at university.”
“Have you been involved in business ventures together ever since then?”
“On and off.”
“What about arms deals?”
“What arms deals?”
“Roy was involved in one a few years back. I was wondering if you knew anything about it, as a close friend.”
“I’m afraid that’s not my area of expertise,” Harwood said in a tight voice. “Roy would have known better than to come to me about it, if indeed he was involved.”
“Oh, he was involved, all right. What about insider trading?”
“What about it?”
“It’s something else my brother was involved in. I just wondered if you played a part.”
Harwood shrugged. “There was a time… it wasn’t uncommon.”
“So you did?”
“I’m not admitting that.”
“But you knew Roy did?”
Harwood scraped his chair back and made to get up. “Is this meant to be some sort of interrogation? Because if it is, I’m going right now.”
“I have some questions to ask you,” said Banks. “Does that constitute an interrogation?”
“Depends on what they are and how you go about it.”
“I’ll be as gentle as I can be if you’ll be as frank as you can.”
Harwood moved his chair back to the table. “Then I’m here to help,” he said. “But let’s leave insider trading behind us, shall we? I’m not saying it doesn’t still go on – you only have to read the papers to know that – but if Roy or I had any involvement, we left it behind us along with the nineties. You can take my word on that.”
“All right,” said Banks. “From what I can gather, Roy has been investing in private health care recently, and you’re a big player in that game.”
“It was me who brought him in. There are a lot of opportunities. I’m the director and CEO of a chain of private health centers and clinics offering various procedures and levels of care, all carried out by highly qualified doctors and nursing staff. Roy’s one of our major shareholders.”
“What kind of procedures?”
“Pretty wide range, really, from hernia operations to terminal cancer care.”
“Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to harm him?”
“Anyone connected with our business ventures, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Harwood. “It doesn’t make sense. I can assure you that everything is completely in accordance with the law. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m really stuck here, Mr. Harwood, so I’m just casting around in the dark. As far as I can make out, Roy was last seen leaving his house and getting into a big light-colored car, probably an expensive model, with another man. As far as I know there were no signs of coercion, but it’s not out of the question, if the man was carrying a hidden gun or something. Later, possibly during the night, his computer was taken from his house, which was left unlocked. His mobile phone was lying on the kitchen table. There were no signs of a struggle. I’ve considered kidnapping, and it might still be a possibility, though there’s been no ransom demand yet. Roy’s a wealthy man.”
Harwood stroked his chin. “Not that wealthy, I wouldn’t have thought.”
“It’s all relative,” said Banks. “People have been kidnapped for less, I should imagine.”
“True enough. But wouldn’t there have been some sort of communication by now? When did you say this happened?”
“Friday night. Yes, it’s been nearly two days and I’ve heard nothing so far. Which leads me to think it’s something else. It just doesn’t look like a bunch of thugs, that’s all. More like… I don’t know.”
“Organized crime?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Banks. “But what connection could Roy possibly have to organized crime?”
“None that I know of,” said Harwood. “Just an idea I was tossing out. I mean, I don’t even know what those people do. It’s not as if it’s just the Mafia anymore, is it? One reads about Russians and Yardies and Vietnamese gangs. People who’d cut your throat as soon as look at you. Who knows?”
Banks took a copy of one of Roy’s digital photos out of his briefcase and set it on the table. “Do you know either of these men?”
Harwood pointed to Lambert and spoke coldly. “Well, I know him. That’s Gareth Lambert. But I can’t say I know the other one.”
“You know Lambert?”
“Oh, yes. Roy and I have done a bit of business with him in our time. Not for a while, mind you. He disappeared from the scene.”
“He’s back.”
Harwood frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
“Interesting,” said Banks, putting the photo away. “I mean, that Roy would know, but not you.”
“Gareth Lambert and I had a disagreement some years ago,” said Harwood. “We haven’t communicated since.”
“What about?”
“A private business matter.”
“I see. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”
“As far as I know, he moved to Spain.”
“Big country. You don’t have his address?”
“No. As I said, we had a falling-out. I no longer have any interest in where Mr. Lambert is or what he does.”
Banks would have liked to know more about that falling-out, but Harwood was a shrewd businessman, good at keeping secrets, at holding his cards close to his chest. “Did Roy ever mention anything that led you to believe he was up to something dodgy?”
“No. Not that he would have told me. Sometimes, in the business world, ignorance is bliss.”
“Is it possible he stumbled across something? Maybe someone was stealing and he found out about it?”
“From one of the centers?”
“Wherever.”
“I have nothing to do with the day-to-day running of the health centers or clinics.”
“What about Roy?”
“Your brother’s a hands-on sort of investor. He likes to know how the businesses operate, likes to put faces to names. I imagine he’s been doing the rounds.”
“So it’s likely he visited the centers?”
“I should think so. Some of them.”
“Could he have stumbled on some sort of fraud or something?”
“We keep a pretty close eye on the figures. I think we’d know if anyone was bleeding the company.”
“What about stuff going missing? Drugs, for example.”
“They’re strictly controlled.” Harwood looked at his watch. “Look,” he said, standing up to leave, leaning over the table with his palms spread on its surface, “I have to go now. I don’t know whether you consider me a suspect in whatever you think is going on, but I want you to know that Roy’s a valued friend. If I can help you in any way, please don’t hesitate to get in touch again.”
“Very well,” said Banks. “Thank you for your time.”
Harwood walked off. Banks finished his cigarette, then stubbed it out and set off along Old Brompton Road. He turned through the narrow arch into the mews and reached for Roy’s key. Just as he put it in the lock, someone grabbed his arm and a familiar voice said, “You’re nicked.”