“About half past twelve or one o’clock in the morning. Why?”

“Are you sure it was Friday night?”

“Of course I am.”

Lambert was playing with him, Banks sensed. He could see it in the man’s restless, teasing eyes. Lambert knew that the neighbor had seen him getting into his car with Roy, and that Banks had no doubt talked to the neighbor and got his description. But that was at half past nine. What were they doing until half past twelve or one o’clock?

Lambert picked up a box of cigars from the table and offered one to Banks. “Cuban?”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Lambert fiddled with a cutter and matches and finally got the thing lit. He looked at Banks through the smoke. “You seem surprised that I said I saw Roy on Friday evening. Why’s that?”

“I think you know why,” said Banks.

“Indulge me.”

“Because that’s when he went missing. He hasn’t been seen alive since half past nine on Friday.”

“I can most sincerely assure you that he has. By me and countless other members of the Albion Club.”

“The Albion Club?”

“On The Strand. It’s a rather exclusive club. Membership by invitation only.”

Banks remembered that Corinne had told him Roy went to a club on The Strand with Lambert a few weeks ago. “What goes on there?”

Lambert laughed. “Nothing illegal, if that’s what you’re thinking. The club has a gaming license. It also has a top-class restaurant and an exceedingly comfortable bar. Roy and I are both members. Have been for years. Even when I was living abroad I’d drop by if I happened to be in the city.” He puffed on his cigar, eyes narrowed to calculating slits, as if daring Banks to challenge him.

“Let’s backtrack, then,” said Banks

“Of course.”

“What time did you first see Roy on Friday night?”

“About half past nine,” said Lambert. “I dropped by his place and picked him up.”

“Was this a regular arrangement?”

“I wouldn’t say regular, but we’d done it before, yes. Roy prefers to leave the car when he goes out drinking, and I hardly touch the stuff these days, so I don’t mind driving. It’s not far out of my way.”

“And you’d arranged to pick him up and take him to the Albion Club on Friday?”

“Yes.” The cigar had gone out. Lambert lit it again. Banks got the impression that it was more of a prop than anything else.

“What happened when you got there?”

Lambert shrugged. “The usual. We went into the bar and got a couple of stiff brandies and chatted for a while. No, I tell a lie. I had a brandy – my only drink of the night – and Roy had wine. The club does a decent house claret.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“A few of the other members.”

“Names?”

“Look, these are important people. Influential people. They won’t take too kindly to being harassed by the police, nor to knowing it was me who set you on them.”

“Maybe you haven’t quite grasped the seriousness of this,” Banks said. “A man has been murdered. My brother. Your friend. You were one of the last people to see him alive. We need to trace his movements and activities on the evening he disappeared.”

“This puts me in a difficult position.”

“I don’t bloody care what position it puts you in. I want names.” Banks locked eyes with him. Eventually Lambert reeled off a string of names and Banks wrote them down. He didn’t recognize any of them.

“How did Roy seem?” Banks asked. “Was he depressed, worried, on edge?”

“He seemed fine to me.”

“Did he confide in you about any problems or anything?”

“No.”

“What did he talk about?”

“Business, golf, cricket, wine, women. You know, the usual man talk.”

“Did he mention me?”

Lambert gave a tight little smile. “I’m afraid he didn’t, no.”

Banks found that hard to believe, given that Roy had just phoned him out of the blue with an urgent problem, a “matter of life and death,” but he let it go for the time being. “Did Roy ever mention a girl called Carmen Petri?”

It was over in a second, but it was definitely there, the shock, the slight hesitation before answering, a refusal to look Banks in the eye. “No,” Lambert said.

“Have you ever heard the name before?”

“There’s an actress, Carmen Electra, but I doubt that it’s her you’re thinking of.”

“No,” said Banks. “There’s also an opera called Carmen, but it’s not her, either.” Casually, he slipped a copy of the photograph he had printed from Roy’s CD out of his briefcase and set it on the low table. “Who’s the other man sitting with you in this photo?” he asked.

Lambert peered closely at the photograph, then looked at Banks sideways. “Where did you get this?” He gestured at the photo with his cigar.

“Roy took it.”

Lambert sat back in his chair. “How strange. He never told me.”

“I assume you do know who the man you’re sitting with is?”

“Of course I do. It’s Max. Max Broda. He’s a business colleague. I can’t imagine why Roy would want to take a photo of us together.”

“What business would that be?”

“Travel. Max puts tours together, recruits guides, works out itineraries, hotels, suggests destinations of interest.”

“Where?”

“Mostly around the Adriatic and Mediterranean.”

“Including the Balkan countries?”

“Some, yes. If and when they’re safe to visit.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” said Banks.

Lambert scrutinized the end of his cigar and took another puff before answering. “I’m afraid that will be rather difficult,” he said. “He’s gone home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Prague.”

“Do you have an address?”

“Are you thinking of going there? It’s a beautiful city. I know someone who can fix you up with the best guided tour.”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “I would like his address, though.”

“I might have it somewhere.” Lambert scrolled through the files on his PDA and finally spelled out an address for Banks, who copied it down.

“What time did you leave the club?” he asked.

“Roy left sometime between half past twelve and one o’clock.”

“You weren’t still together at that time?”

“No. We weren’t joined at the hip, you know. Roy likes to play the roulette tables. I prefer poker, myself.”

“Did he leave alone?”

“As far as I know.”

“Where did he go?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“What time did you leave?”

“About three. I was knackered by then. Not to mention broke.”

“Where did you go?”

“Back here.”

“Not home to your wife?”

Lambert leaned forward, face thrust forward, and stabbed the air with his cigar. “You leave her out of this.”

“Very understanding, is she?”

“I told you. Leave her out of it.” Lambert relit his cigar and his tone softened. “Look,” he said, running his free hand through his curly gray hair, “I was tired, I came back here. I don’t know what you suspect me of, but Roy was a good friend and a colleague of many years’ standing. I didn’t kill him. Why would I? What possible motive could I have?”

“Are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?”

“No. I assumed he was going home.”

“Was he drunk?”

Lambert tipped his head to one side and thought for a moment. “He’d had a few,” he said. “Mostly wine. But he wasn’t staggering or slurring his speech. Not fit to drive, I’d say, but fit enough to get a taxi.”

“Is that what he did?”

“I’ve no idea what happened once he got outside.”

“And you didn’t see him again?”

“No.”

“Okay,” said Banks, standing to leave. “I suppose we could always ask around the taxi drivers.”

“One thing,” said Lambert, as he walked Banks to the door. “You already know about the arms deal, years back. You mentioned it earlier.”

“Yes?”

“I think he wanted to get involved in that sort of thing again. At least, it might be a direction worth looking in. I mean, Roy had been making a few noises, you know, sounding me out, asking about old contacts and such.”