The telephone was like a mini computer system in itself. Banks managed to dial 1471 and find out that the last incoming call was the one he had made himself that morning before setting off for London. Roy hadn’t subscribed to the extra service that gave the numbers of the last five callers. Banks realized it probably didn’t matter, as he had called at least five times himself. The phone was hooked up to a digital answering machine, and after a bit of dodgy business with the buttons Banks discovered three messages, all from him. The other times he had called he hadn’t bothered leaving one.
Banks thought he heard a sound from somewhere inside the house. He sat completely still and waited. What if Roy came back and found Banks going through his personal things and business records? How would Banks talk his way out of that one? On the other hand, Banks would be relieved to see Roy, and surely Roy would understand how his phone call had set off alarm bells in the mind of his policeman brother. Nevertheless, it would be embarrassing all around. A minute or two passed and he heard nothing more, so he put it down to one of the many sounds an old house makes.
Banks opened the desk drawers. The two bottom ones held folders full of bills and tax records, none of which seemed in any way unusual at a casual glance, and the top drawers were filled with the usual stuff of offices: adhesive tape, rubber bands, paper clips, scissors, scratch pads, staplers and printer cartridges.
The shallow central drawer contained pens and pencils of all shapes and sizes. Banks stirred them around with his hand, and one struck his eye. It was thicker and shorter than most of the other pens, squat and rectangular in shape, rather than round. Thinking it might be some kind of marker, he picked it up and unclipped the top. It wasn’t a pen. Where the nib should have been, instead there was a small rectangle of metal that looked as if it plugged into something. But what? A computer, most likely. Banks put the top back on and clipped it in his shirt pocket.
The last door led to a large living room above the garage. It was the front room with the bay window Banks had noticed from the street. The color scheme here was different, reds and earth colors, a desert theme. There were more framed black-and-white photographs on the walls, too, and Banks found himself wondering if Roy had taken them himself. He didn’t know whether you could take black-and-white photos of that quality with a digital camera, but maybe you could. He could still dredge up no memory of his brother’s interest in photography; as far as Banks knew, Roy hadn’t even belonged to the camera club at school, and most kids did that at some time in the vain hope that whoever ran it would sneak in a nude model one day.
This room, like the rest of house, was clean and tidy. Not a speck of dust or an abandoned mug anywhere. Banks doubted Roy cleaned it himself; more likely he employed a cleaning lady. Even the entertainment magazines on the table were stacked parallel to the edge, Hercule Poirot style. A luxurious sofa bed sat under the window, facing the other wall, where a forty-two-inch wide-screen plasma TV hung, wired up to a satellite dish and a DVD player. On looking more closely, Banks noticed that the player also recorded DVDs. Under the screen stood a subwoofer and a front center speaker, and four smaller speakers were strategically placed around the room. It was an expensive setup, one that Banks had often wished he could afford.
Banks walked to the fitted wall cabinets and cast his eye over the selection of DVDs and CDs. What he saw there puzzled him. Not for Roy the latest James Bond or Terminator movie, not schoolgirl porn or Jenna Jameson, but Fellini’s 8½, Kurosawa’s Ran and Throne of Blood, Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, Bergman’s The Seventh Seal and Truffaut’s The Four Hundred Blows. There were some films that Banks could see himself watching – The Godfather, The Third Man and A Clockwork Orange – but most of them were foreign-language art films, classics of the cinema. There were a few rows of books, too, mostly nonfiction, on subjects ranging from music and cinema to philosophy, religion and politics. Another surprise. In a small recess stood one framed family photograph.
Banks studied Roy’s large collection of operas on both DVD and CD: The Magic Flute, Tosca, Otello, Lucia di Lammermoor and others. A complete Bayreuth Ring cycle, the same as the one on the iPod. There was also a little fifties jazz and a few Hollywood musicals – Oklahoma!, South Pacific, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers – but no pop at all except for the Blue Lamps’s debut. Banks was pleased to see that Roy had bought Brian’s CD, even though he probably hadn’t listened to it. He slid it out and opened the case, wondering what it would sound like on Roy’s expensive stereo system. Instead of the familiar blue image on the CD, he saw the words “CD – ReWritable” and that the disk held 650 megabytes, or 74 minutes of playing time.
Banks stuck the CD in his jacket pocket and went over to sit on the sofa. Several remote-control devices rested on the arm, and when he had worked out which was which, he switched on the TV and amp just to see what the setup looked and sounded like. It was a European football game, and the picture quality was stunning, the sound of the commentary loud enough to wake the dead. He turned it off.
Banks went back into the office and took the writing tablet from the desk and a pen from the drawer and carried them down to the kitchen with him. At the kitchen table, he sat down and wrote a note explaining that he’d been to the house and would be back, in case Roy returned while he was out, and asked him to get in touch as soon as possible.
He wished now that he had thought to bring his mobile so he could leave a number, but it was too late; he had left it on his living room table next to his unused portable CD player, having got out of the habit of using it over the past few months. Then he realized he could take Roy’s. He wanted to check through the entries in the phone book, anyway, so he might as well have the use of it in case Roy needed to get in touch with him. He added this as a PS to the note, then he put the mobile in his pocket. On his way out, he tried the most likely-looking key and found it fit the front door.
CHAPTER THREE
“What do you make of it, Annie?” Gristhorpe asked.
They were sitting in the superintendent’s large, carpeted office, just the two of them, and the sheet of paper lay between them on Gristhorpe’s desk. It wasn’t Banks’s writing, Annie was certain. But beyond that, the whole thing was a puzzle. She had certainly never seen the dead woman before, nor had she ever heard Banks mention anyone called Jennifer Clewes. That in itself meant nothing, of course, she realized. In the first place, it might not be her real name, and in the second, Banks may well have been keeping many aspects of his life from her, including a new girlfriend. But if she was his girlfriend, why did she need directions and his address? Perhaps she had never visited him in Gratly before.
Was she new on the scene? Annie doubted it. The way Banks had been behaving lately – withdrawn, moody and uncommunicative – was hardly conducive to pulling a new girlfriend. Who would take him on, the shape he was in? And this woman was young enough to be his daughter. Not that age had ever stopped a man, but… Perhaps even more important was that she had ended up with a bullet in her head. Knowing Banks had its dangers, as Annie well knew, but it was not usually fatal.
“I don’t know, sir. I’d say the most likely explanation is that it’s her own writing. Maybe she copied it down over the phone. We’ll be able to find out for sure when we get a sample of Jennifer Clewes’s writing.”