Dry Bones That Dream, page 8
The living room was arranged for comfort. A small three-piece suite with burgundy velour upholstery formed a semicircle around a thick glass coffee table in front of the fireplace, which may once have housed a real coal fire but now was given over to an electric one with three elements and a fake flaming-coals effect. On the coffee table, the new Mary Wesley paperback lay open, face down beside a copy of the Radio Times and an earthenware mug half full of milky tea.
A few family photographs in gilt frames stood on the mantelpiece. On the wall above the fire hung a print of Ganesh, the elephant god, in a brightly coloured, primitive style. In the corner by the front window stood a television with a video on a shelf underneath. The only other furniture in the room was a mini stereo system and several racks of compact discs, a glass-fronted cabinet of crystal-ware and a small bookcase mostly full of modern fiction and books about music.
But it was the far end of the room that caught Banks’s interest, for there stood a music stand, with some sheet music on it, and beside that, on a chair, lay what he first took to be an oversized violin, but quickly recognized as a viola.
The woman sat on the sofa, curling her legs up beside her, and Banks and Susan took the armchairs.
‘Are you a musician?’ Banks asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Professional?’
‘Uh-huh. I’m with the Northern Philharmonia, and I do a bit of chamber work on the side. Why?’
‘Just curious.’ Banks was impressed. The English Northern Philharmonia played for Opera North, among other things, and was widely regarded as one of the best opera orchestras in the country. He had been to see Opera North’s superb production of La Bohème recently and must have heard Pamela Jeffreys play.
‘Ms Jeffreys,’ he began, after a brief silence. ‘I must admit that your phone call has us a bit confused.’
‘Not half as much as that rubbish in the newspaper has me confused.’ She had no Indian accent at all, just West Yorkshire with a cultured, university edge.
Banks slipped a recent good-quality photograph of Keith Rothwell from his briefcase and passed it to her. ‘Is this the man we’re talking about?’
‘Yes. I think this is Robert, though he looks a bit stiff here.’ She handed it back. ‘There’s a mistake, isn’t there? It must be someone who looks just like him, that’s it.’
‘What exactly was your relationship?’
She fiddled with her necklace. ‘We’re friends. Maybe we were more than that, at one time, but now we’re just friends.’
‘Were you lovers?’
‘Yes. For a while.’
‘For how long?’
‘Three or four months.’
‘Until when?’
‘Six months ago.’
‘So you’ve known him for about ten months altogether?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘In a pub. The Boulevard, on Westgate, actually. I was with some friends. Robert was by himself. We just got talking, like you do.’
‘Have you seen him since you stopped being lovers?’
‘Yes. I told you. We remained friends. We don’t see each other as often, of course, but we still go out every now and then, purely platonic. I like Robert. He’s good fun to be with, even when we stopped being lovers. Look, what’s all this in—’
‘When did you last see him, Ms Jeffreys?’
‘Pamela. Please call me Pamela. Let me see . . . it must have been a month or more ago. Look, is this some mistake, or what?’
‘We don’t know yet, Pamela,’ Susan Gay said. ‘We really don’t, love. You’ll help us best get it sorted out if you answer Chief Inspector Banks’s questions.’
Pamela nodded.
‘Was there anything unusual about Mr . . . about Robert the last time you saw him?’ Banks asked.
‘No.’
‘He didn’t say anything, tell you about anything that was worrying him?’
‘No. Robert never seemed to worry about anything. Except he hated being called Bob.’
‘So there was nothing at all different about him?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s just a guess, like.’
‘What was it?’
‘I think he’d met someone else. Another woman. I think he was in love.’
Banks swallowed, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. This couldn’t be dull, dry, mild-mannered Keith Rothwell. Surely Rothwell wasn’t the kind of man to have a wife and children in Swainsdale and a beautiful girlfriend like Pamela Jeffreys in Leeds, whom he could simply dump for yet another woman?
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Pamela went on. ‘I’m not bitter or anything. We had a good time, and it was never anything more. We didn’t lie to each other. Neither of us wanted to get too involved. And one thing Robert doesn’t do is mess you around. That’s why we can still be friends. But he made it clear it was over between us – at least in that way – and I got the impression it was because he’d found someone else.’
‘Did you ever see this woman?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever speak of her?’
‘No. I just knew. A woman can tell about these things, that’s all.’
‘Did you ask him about her?’
‘I broached the subject once or twice.’
‘What happened?’
‘He changed it.’ She smiled. ‘He has a way.’
‘How often did you see each other?’
‘When we were going out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just once or twice a week. Mostly late in the week, weekends sometimes. He travels a lot on business. Anyway, he’s usually at home every week at some time, at least for a day or two.’
‘What’s his business?’
‘Dunno. That’s another thing he never said much about. I can’t say I was really that interested, either. I mean, it’s boring, isn’t it, talking about business. I liked going out with Robert because he was fun. He could leave his work at home.’
‘Did he smoke?’
‘What an odd question. Yes, as a matter of fact. Not much, though.’
‘What brand?’
‘Benson and Hedges. I don’t mind people smoking.’
Encouraged, Banks slipped his Silk Cut out of his pocket. Pamela smiled and brought him a glass ashtray. ‘What was he like?’ Banks asked. ‘What kind of things did you used to do together?’
Pamela looked at Banks with a glint of naughty humour in her eyes and raised her eyebrows. Banks felt himself flush. ‘I mean where did you used to go?’ he said quickly.
‘Yeah, I know. Hmmm . . . Well, we’d go out for dinner about once a week. Brasserie 44 – you know, down by the river – or La Grillade, until it moved. He likes good food. Let’s see . . . sometimes we’d go to concerts at the Town Hall, if I wasn’t playing, of course, but he’s not very fond of classical music, to be honest. Prefers that dreadful trad jazz. And sometimes we’d just stay in, order a pizza or a curry and watch telly if there was something good on. Or rent a video. He likes oldies. Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, that kind of thing. So do I. Let me see . . . we’d go to Napoleon’s every once in a while—’
‘Napoleon’s?’
‘Yeah. You know, the casino. And he took me to the races a couple of times – once at Pontefract and once at Doncaster. That’s about it, really. Oh, and we went dancing now and then. Quite fleet on his feet is Robert.’
Banks coughed and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Dancing? The casino?’
‘Yes. He loves a flutter, does Robert. It worried me sometimes the way he’d go through a hundred or more some nights.’ She shrugged. ‘But it wasn’t my place to say, was it? I mean it wasn’t as if we were married or anything, or even living together. And he seemed to have plenty of money. Not that that’s what interested me about him.’ She pulled at her necklace again. ‘Can’t you tell me what’s going on, Chief Inspector? It’s not the same person that was murdered, is it? I was so upset when I saw the paper this morning. Tell me it’s a case of mistaken identity.’
Banks shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he had a double. Did he ever say anything about being married?’
‘No, never.’
‘Did he have an appendix scar?’
This time, Pamela blushed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, he did. But so do lots of other people. I had mine out when I was sixteen.’
‘When you spent time together,’ Banks said, ‘did he always come here, to your house? Didn’t you ever visit him at his hotel?’
She frowned. ‘Hotel? What hotel?’
‘The one he stayed at when he was in town, I assume. Did you always meet here?’
‘Of course not. Sometimes he came here, certainly. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, and I don’t care what the neighbours say. Bloody racists, some of them. You know, my mum and dad came over to Shipley to work in the woollen mills in 1952. Nineteen fifty-two. They even changed their name from Jaffrey to Jeffreys because it sounded more English. Can you believe it? I was born here, brought up here, went to school and university here and some of them still call me a bleeding Paki.’ She shrugged. ‘What can you do? Anyway, you were saying?’
‘I was asking why you never saw him at his hotel.’
‘Oh, that’s easy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You see, it can’t be the same person, can it? That proves it.’ She leaned forward quickly and clapped her hands. The bracelet spiralled. ‘You see, Robert didn’t stay at any hotel. Sometimes he came here, yes, but not always. Other times I went to his place. His flat. He’s got a flat in Headingley.’
THREE
Banks turned the Yale key in the lock and the three of them stood on the threshold of Robert Calvert’s Headingley flat. It was in the nice part of Headingley, more West Park, Banks noted, not the scruffy part around Hyde Park that was honeycombed with student bedsits.
It hadn’t been easy getting in. Pamela Jeffreys didn’t have a key, so they had to ask one of the tenants in the building to direct them to the agency that handled rentals. Naturally, it was closed at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, so then they had to get hold of one of the staff at home and arrange for her to come in, grumbling all the way, open up the office and give them a spare key.
And no, she told them, she had never met Robert Calvert. The man was a model tenant; he paid his rent on time, and that was all that mattered. One of the secretaries probably handed him the key, but he’d had the place about eighteen months and turnover in secretaries was pretty high. However, if Banks wanted to come back on Monday morning . . . Still, Banks reflected as they stood at the front door, all in all it had taken only about an hour and a half from the first time they had heard of the place, so that wasn’t bad going.
‘Better not touch anything,’ Banks said as they stood in the hallway. ‘Which is the living room?’ he asked Pamela.
‘That one, on the left.’
The door was ajar and Banks nudged it open with his elbow. The bottom of the door rubbed over the fitted beige carpet. Susan Gay and Pamela walked in behind him.
‘There’s only this room, a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom,’ Pamela said. ‘It’s not very big, but it’s cosy.’
The living room was certainly not the kind of place Banks could imagine Mary Rothwell caring much for. Equipped with all the usual stuff – TV, video, stereo, a few jazz compact discs, books, armchairs, gas fireplace – it smelled of stale smoke and had that comfortable, lived-in feel Banks had never sensed at Arkbeck Farm. Perhaps it was something to do with the old magazines – mostly jazz and racing – strewn over the scratched coffee table, the overflowing ashtray, the worn upholstery on the armchair by the fire or the framed photographs of a younger-looking Rothwell on the mantelpiece. On the wall hung a framed print of Monet’s Waterloo Bridge, Grey Day.
They went into the bedroom and found the same mess. The bed was unmade, and discarded socks, underpants and shirts lay on the floor beside it.
There was also a small desk against one wall, on which stood a jar of pens and pencils, a roll of Sellotape and a stapler, in addition to several sheets of paper, some of them scrawled all over with numbers. ‘Is this the kind of thing you’re looking for?’ Pamela asked.
Carefully, Banks opened the drawer and found a wallet. Without disturbing anything, he could see, through the transparent plastic holder inside, credit cards in the name of Robert Calvert. He put it back.
A couple of suits hung in the wardrobe, along with shirts, ties, casual jackets and trousers. Banks felt in the pockets and found nothing but pennies, sales slips, a couple of felt-tip pens, matches, betting slips and some fluff.
As wood doesn’t usually yield fingerprints, he didn’t have to be too careful opening cupboards and drawers. Calvert’s dresser contained the usual jumble of jeans, jumpers, socks and underwear. A packet of condoms lay forlornly next to a passport and a selection of Dutch, French, Greek and Swiss small change in the drawer of the bedside table. The passport was in the name of Robert Calvert. There were no entry or exit stamps, but then there wouldn’t be if he did most of his travelling in Europe, as the coins seemed to indicate. On the bedside table was a shaded reading lamp and a copy of the Economist.
The kitchen was certainly compact, and by the sparsity of the fridge’s contents, it looked as if Calvert did most of his eating out. A small wine rack stood on the counter. Banks checked the contents: a white Burgundy, Veuve Clicquot Champagne, a Rioja.
Calvert’s bathroom was clean and tidy. His medicine cabinet revealed only the barest of essentials: paracetamol tablets, Aspro, Milk of Magnesia, Alka Seltzer, Fisherman’s Friend, Elastoplast, cotton swabs, hydrogen peroxide, Old Spice deodorant and shaving cream, a packet of orange disposable razors, toothbrush and a half-used tube of Colgate. Calvert had squeezed it in the middle, Banks noticed, not from bottom to top. Could this be the same man who returned his used matches to the box?
‘Come on,’ Banks said. ‘We’d better use a call-box. I don’t want to risk smudging any prints there may be on the telephone.’
‘What’s going on?’ Pamela asked as they walked down the street.
‘I’m sorry,’ Susan said to her. ‘We really don’t know. We’re not just putting you off. We’re as confused as you are. If we can find some of Robert’s fingerprints in the flat, then we can check them against our files and find out once and for all if it’s the same man.’
‘But it just can’t be,’ Pamela said. ‘I’m sure of it.’
A pub on the main road advertised a beer garden at the back, and as they were all thirsty, Banks suggested he might as well make the call from there.
He phoned the station and Phil Richmond said he would arrange to get Vic Manson to the flat as soon as possible.
That done, he ordered the drinks and discovered from the barman that Arsenal had won the FA Cup. Good for them, Banks thought. When he had lived in London, he had been an Arsenal supporter, though he always had a soft spot for Peterborough United, his home-town team, struggling as they were near the bottom of the First Division.
The beer garden was quiet. They sat at a heavy wooden bench beside a bowling green and sipped their drinks. Two old men in white were playing on the green, and occasionally the clack of the bowls disturbed the silence. Banks and Susan shared salted roast peanuts and cheese-and-onion crisps, as neither had eaten since breakfast. The sun felt warm on the back of Banks’s neck.
‘You can go home whenever you want,’ Banks told Pamela as she took off the tan suede jacket she had put on to go out. ‘We have to stay here, but we’ll pay for a taxi. I’m sorry we had to ruin your day for you.’
Pamela squinted in the sun, reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of large pink-rimmed sunglasses. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, picking up her gin and tonic. ‘I know it wasn’t Robert they were talking about in the paper. Who was this man, this Keith Rothwell?’
‘He was an accountant who got murdered,’ Banks told her. ‘We can’t really say much more than that. Did you ever hear the name before?’
Pamela shook her head. ‘The papers said he was married.’
‘Yes.’
‘Robert didn’t act like a married man.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Guilt. Secrecy. Fleeting visits. Furtive phone calls. The usual stuff. There was none of that with Robert. We went about quite openly. He wasn’t tied down. He was a dreamer. Besides, you just know.’ She took her glasses off and squinted at Banks. ‘I’ll bet you’re married, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks, and saw, he hoped, a hint of disappointment in her eyes.
‘Told you.’ She put her sunglasses on again.
Banks noticed Susan grinning behind her glass of lemonade. He gave her a dirty look. A clack of bowls came from the green and one of the old men did a little dance of victory.
‘So, you see,’ Pamela went on. ‘It can’t be the same man. If I’m sure of one thing, it’s that Robert Calvert definitely wasn’t a married man with a family.’
Banks picked up his pint and raised it in a toast. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said, looking at her brave smile and remembering the scene in Rothwell’s garage only two nights ago. ‘I sincerely hope you’re right.’
5
ONE
There was always something sad about an empty farmyard, Banks thought as he got out of the car in front of Arkbeck Farm again. There should be chickens squawking all over the place, the occasional wandering cow, maybe a barking sheepdog or two.
He thought of the nest egg he had held at his Uncle Len’s farm in Gloucestershire on childhood family visits. They used it to encourage hens to lay, he remembered, and when his Aunt Chloe had handed it to him in the coop, it had still felt warm. Banks also remembered the smells of hay and cow dung, the shiny metal milk churns sitting by the roadside waiting to be picked up.
