Read Online The Price of Love and Other Stories by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Robinson
Tags: Suspense
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Banks a questioning look.
“Dylan,” he said.
Whitman banged both fists on the table. “But I didn’t do it!”
Banks folded his arms and leaned back. “Sure you weren’t having an affair with Mrs. Vancalm? She’s a very attractive woman.”
“She’s my partner’s wife, for crying out loud.”
“That wouldn’t stop most people.”
“I’m not most people.”
Banks paused. “No, you’re not, are you, Colin? In fact, I’m not sure what sort of person you are.” He glanced at Annie and smiled back at Whitman. “I can’t see that we’re getting anywhere here, though, and DI Cabbot and I are both tired, so I think we’ll call it a night, if that’s OK with you?”
Whitman sat up straight and beamed. “OK?” he echoed. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all evening.”
Banks and Annie stood up. “Right,” said Banks to the officer at the door. “Take Mr. Whitman here down to custody, make sure it’s all done by the book, and find a nice cell for him for the night. A nice cell, mind you, Smithers. Not one of those vomit-filled cages you usually put people in.”
PC Smithers could hardly keep back the laughter. “Yes, sir,” he said, and took Whitman by the arm.
“What’s this?” Whitman said. “What’s going on?”
“We’re detaining you until we’re happy with your story,” said Banks.
“But … but you can’t do that. I’ve answered your questions. You have to let me go.”
“Oh, dear,” said Banks, looking at Annie. “You can tell this fellow doesn’t watch his
Frost
and
Morse
closely enough, can’t you, DI Cabbot?”
Annie smiled. “Indeed you can,” she said.
Banks turned to Whitman. “As a matter of fact, Colin, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder, cautioned and advised ofyour rights. We can keep you for twenty-four hours without a charge – longer if we want to go the terrorist route, but I don’t think we’ll be bothering with that tonight. So that should give you plenty of time to think.”
And Smithers dragged Whitman, now demanding to see his solicitor, complaining and protesting all the way, along the corridor and down the stairs to the custody suite.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Mrs. Goldwell,” said Banks.
The food court of the Swainsdale Centre wasn’t the ideal place for an interview, but it was Wednesday morning, so things were relatively quiet. Whitman was still sulking in his cell, waiting for his solicitor, who was proving very difficult to contact, and saying nothing, and DCs Jackman and Wilson were trawling through his life.
“Please,” she said, “call me Natasha. Is that wise?” She was looking at Banks’s Egg McMuffin with sausage.
“Tastes all right,” said Banks. “I reckon they’re quite manageable if you only eat about five or six a year.”
Natasha Goldwell smiled. It was a nice smile, pearly teeth behind the red lips. In fact, Natasha was a nice package all the way, from her shaggy blond hair and winter tan to her shiny, pointed black shoes. She wrinkled her nose. “If you say so. I suppose it’s hard to eat regularly, the hours you work.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. Some hadn’t seen enough cops on telly; others had seen too many. “Not really,” he said. “Mostly in Major Crimes we work regular hours.” He smiled. “Unless there’s actually a major crime, that is. Which murder definitely is.”
Natasha put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, yes. I’m sorry. So thoughtless of me.”
“Not to worry.” Banks sipped some coffee. It was hot and bitter.
“What was it you wanted to see me about?”
“It’s nothing, really,” said Banks. “I mean, you vouched for Mrs. Vancalm and that seems to check out OK. It’s just … did you know Mr. Vancalm?”
“Victor? I’d met him, of course, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. I got together with Denise and the others for the poker circle, of course, but outside of that, we didn’t live in one another’s pockets.”
“It’s
“Dylan,” he said.
Whitman banged both fists on the table. “But I didn’t do it!”
Banks folded his arms and leaned back. “Sure you weren’t having an affair with Mrs. Vancalm? She’s a very attractive woman.”
“She’s my partner’s wife, for crying out loud.”
“That wouldn’t stop most people.”
“I’m not most people.”
Banks paused. “No, you’re not, are you, Colin? In fact, I’m not sure what sort of person you are.” He glanced at Annie and smiled back at Whitman. “I can’t see that we’re getting anywhere here, though, and DI Cabbot and I are both tired, so I think we’ll call it a night, if that’s OK with you?”
Whitman sat up straight and beamed. “OK?” he echoed. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all evening.”
Banks and Annie stood up. “Right,” said Banks to the officer at the door. “Take Mr. Whitman here down to custody, make sure it’s all done by the book, and find a nice cell for him for the night. A nice cell, mind you, Smithers. Not one of those vomit-filled cages you usually put people in.”
PC Smithers could hardly keep back the laughter. “Yes, sir,” he said, and took Whitman by the arm.
“What’s this?” Whitman said. “What’s going on?”
“We’re detaining you until we’re happy with your story,” said Banks.
“But … but you can’t do that. I’ve answered your questions. You have to let me go.”
“Oh, dear,” said Banks, looking at Annie. “You can tell this fellow doesn’t watch his
Frost
and
Morse
closely enough, can’t you, DI Cabbot?”
Annie smiled. “Indeed you can,” she said.
Banks turned to Whitman. “As a matter of fact, Colin, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder, cautioned and advised ofyour rights. We can keep you for twenty-four hours without a charge – longer if we want to go the terrorist route, but I don’t think we’ll be bothering with that tonight. So that should give you plenty of time to think.”
And Smithers dragged Whitman, now demanding to see his solicitor, complaining and protesting all the way, along the corridor and down the stairs to the custody suite.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Mrs. Goldwell,” said Banks.
The food court of the Swainsdale Centre wasn’t the ideal place for an interview, but it was Wednesday morning, so things were relatively quiet. Whitman was still sulking in his cell, waiting for his solicitor, who was proving very difficult to contact, and saying nothing, and DCs Jackman and Wilson were trawling through his life.
“Please,” she said, “call me Natasha. Is that wise?” She was looking at Banks’s Egg McMuffin with sausage.
“Tastes all right,” said Banks. “I reckon they’re quite manageable if you only eat about five or six a year.”
Natasha Goldwell smiled. It was a nice smile, pearly teeth behind the red lips. In fact, Natasha was a nice package all the way, from her shaggy blond hair and winter tan to her shiny, pointed black shoes. She wrinkled her nose. “If you say so. I suppose it’s hard to eat regularly, the hours you work.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. Some hadn’t seen enough cops on telly; others had seen too many. “Not really,” he said. “Mostly in Major Crimes we work regular hours.” He smiled. “Unless there’s actually a major crime, that is. Which murder definitely is.”
Natasha put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, yes. I’m sorry. So thoughtless of me.”
“Not to worry.” Banks sipped some coffee. It was hot and bitter.
“What was it you wanted to see me about?”
“It’s nothing, really,” said Banks. “I mean, you vouched for Mrs. Vancalm and that seems to check out OK. It’s just … did you know Mr. Vancalm?”
“Victor? I’d met him, of course, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. I got together with Denise and the others for the poker circle, of course, but outside of that, we didn’t live in one another’s pockets.”
“It’s
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