“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.