Read Online Strange Affair by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Robinson
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be so much less trouble than if I had to go and get a search warrant.”
“Search warrant? Can you do that?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Oh, all right, I suppose,” she said. “It’s no skin off my nose, is it? Just a minute.”
She went inside and returned with two keys, which she handed to Annie. “I’ll be wanting them back, mind,” she said.
“Of course,” said Annie. “I won’t be long.”
She felt the woman’s eyes boring into her back as she opened Banks’s door and walked up the staircase to the upper flat. At the top, she opened the second door and found herself in a small hallway with pegs for jackets and raincoats and a small cupboard for shoes and heavier clothing. A pile of junk mail sat on a table under a gilt-edged mirror.
The first door she opened led to the bedroom. Annie felt strange poking around Banks’s flat with him not there, especially his bedroom, but she told herself it couldn’t be helped. Somehow or other, he had become connected to a murder investigation, and he was nowhere to be found. There was nothing in the bedroom anyway, except a double bed, hastily made, a few clothes in the dresser drawers and wardrobe, anda cushioned window seat that looked out over the graveyard. Must be quite a pick-up line, Annie thought, if you fancied sharing your bed with someone. “Come sleep with me beside the graveyard.” It had a sort of ring to it. Then she took her mind off images of shared beds and went into the living room.
On the low table in front of the sofa sat a mobile phone and a portable CD player with headphones. So wherever Banks had gone, he had left these behind, Annie thought, and wondered why. Banks loved his music, and he liked to keep in touch. At least, he used to. Looking around the room, she noticed there were no books and no CDs except the copy of Don Giovanni , a gift from the lads that she had brought him in hospital. The cellophane wrapper was still on it. There wasn’t even a stereo, only a small TV set, which probably came with the flat. Annie began to feel inexplicably depressed. She tried Banks’s answering service, but there were no messages.
The kitchen was tiny and narrow, the fridge full of the usual items: milk, eggs, beer, cheese, a selection of vegetables, bacon, tomatoes, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and some sliced ham – all of it looking fairly fresh. Well, at least he was still eating. A couple of cardboard boxes under the small dining table were filled with empty wine bottles ready for the bottle bank.
Annie glanced briefly in the toilet and bathroom, a quick look through the cabinets revealing only what she would have expected: razor, shaving cream, toothpaste and toothbrush were missing, so he must have taken them with him. Amidst the usual over-the-counter medication, there was one small bottle of strong prescription painkillers dated three months ago. Wherever Banks had gone, he clearly hadn’t thought he needed them.
She stood in the centre of the hall wondering if she could possibly have missed something, then realized there wasnothing to miss. This was the flat of a faceless man, a man with no interests, no passions, no friends, no life. There weren’t even any family photos. It wasn’t Banks’s flat, couldn’t be. Not the Banks she knew.
Annie remembered Newhope Cottage and its living room with the blue walls and ceiling the colour of melting Brie, remembered the warm shaded orange light and the evenings she had spent there with Banks. In winter, a peat fire had usually burned in the hearth, its tang harmonizing with the Islay malt she sometimes sipped with him. In summer they would often go outside after dark to sit on the parapet above Gratly Beck, looking at the stars and listening to the water. And there would always be music: Bill Evans, Lucinda Williams, Van Morrison and string quartets she didn’t recognize.
Annie felt tears in her eyes and she brushed them away roughly and headed downstairs. She knocked on the door, handed
“Search warrant? Can you do that?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Oh, all right, I suppose,” she said. “It’s no skin off my nose, is it? Just a minute.”
She went inside and returned with two keys, which she handed to Annie. “I’ll be wanting them back, mind,” she said.
“Of course,” said Annie. “I won’t be long.”
She felt the woman’s eyes boring into her back as she opened Banks’s door and walked up the staircase to the upper flat. At the top, she opened the second door and found herself in a small hallway with pegs for jackets and raincoats and a small cupboard for shoes and heavier clothing. A pile of junk mail sat on a table under a gilt-edged mirror.
The first door she opened led to the bedroom. Annie felt strange poking around Banks’s flat with him not there, especially his bedroom, but she told herself it couldn’t be helped. Somehow or other, he had become connected to a murder investigation, and he was nowhere to be found. There was nothing in the bedroom anyway, except a double bed, hastily made, a few clothes in the dresser drawers and wardrobe, anda cushioned window seat that looked out over the graveyard. Must be quite a pick-up line, Annie thought, if you fancied sharing your bed with someone. “Come sleep with me beside the graveyard.” It had a sort of ring to it. Then she took her mind off images of shared beds and went into the living room.
On the low table in front of the sofa sat a mobile phone and a portable CD player with headphones. So wherever Banks had gone, he had left these behind, Annie thought, and wondered why. Banks loved his music, and he liked to keep in touch. At least, he used to. Looking around the room, she noticed there were no books and no CDs except the copy of Don Giovanni , a gift from the lads that she had brought him in hospital. The cellophane wrapper was still on it. There wasn’t even a stereo, only a small TV set, which probably came with the flat. Annie began to feel inexplicably depressed. She tried Banks’s answering service, but there were no messages.
The kitchen was tiny and narrow, the fridge full of the usual items: milk, eggs, beer, cheese, a selection of vegetables, bacon, tomatoes, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and some sliced ham – all of it looking fairly fresh. Well, at least he was still eating. A couple of cardboard boxes under the small dining table were filled with empty wine bottles ready for the bottle bank.
Annie glanced briefly in the toilet and bathroom, a quick look through the cabinets revealing only what she would have expected: razor, shaving cream, toothpaste and toothbrush were missing, so he must have taken them with him. Amidst the usual over-the-counter medication, there was one small bottle of strong prescription painkillers dated three months ago. Wherever Banks had gone, he clearly hadn’t thought he needed them.
She stood in the centre of the hall wondering if she could possibly have missed something, then realized there wasnothing to miss. This was the flat of a faceless man, a man with no interests, no passions, no friends, no life. There weren’t even any family photos. It wasn’t Banks’s flat, couldn’t be. Not the Banks she knew.
Annie remembered Newhope Cottage and its living room with the blue walls and ceiling the colour of melting Brie, remembered the warm shaded orange light and the evenings she had spent there with Banks. In winter, a peat fire had usually burned in the hearth, its tang harmonizing with the Islay malt she sometimes sipped with him. In summer they would often go outside after dark to sit on the parapet above Gratly Beck, looking at the stars and listening to the water. And there would always be music: Bill Evans, Lucinda Williams, Van Morrison and string quartets she didn’t recognize.
Annie felt tears in her eyes and she brushed them away roughly and headed downstairs. She knocked on the door, handed
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