Free Strange Affair by Peter Robinson Page A

be as interested in protecting Roy’s reputation as he was. Banks stubbed out his cigarette and reached into his pocket for the mobile. He scrolled through the list of names and numbers in the phone book until he found Corinne. That was Roy’s fiancée’s name, he remembered, copying the number down into his notebook. Then he put themobile back in his pocket, finished his drink and walked out to the street.
    London was hot and sticky. Of all the places to be during a heat wave, this was not one he would have chosen. People were wilting on the pavements, and the air was redolent with the smell of exhaust fumes and worse, like rotting meat or cabbage.
    Banks didn’t want to tie up the mobile again in case Roy got his message back at the house and phoned, so he sought out a public phone box and dug out an old phone card from his wallet. He felt as if he were walking into the tin hut where the Japanese locked Alec Guinness in The Bridge on the River Kwai . Sweat trickled down his sides, tickling as it ran, sticking his shirt to his skin. Someone had crushed a bluebottle against the glass, making a long smear of dark blood. He could even smell the warm paper of the telephone directory.
    Banks took out his notebook and dialled the number he had copied from Roy’s mobile. Just as he was about to hang up, a breathless voice came on the line.
    “Hello?”
    “Corinne?”
    “Yes. Who is it?”
    “My name’s Alan Banks. Roy’s brother. You might remember me. We met at my parents’ wedding anniversary party in Peterborough last October.”
    “Of course. I remember.”
    “Look, I’m down in London and I was wondering if we could get together somewhere and have a chat. Maybe over a drink or something?”
    There was a pause, then she said, “Are you asking me out?”
    “No. Sorry. I’m getting this all wrong. Please excuse me. Blame the heat. I mean, that’s why I thought a drink might be a good idea. Somewhere cool, if there is such a place.”
    “Yes, it is hot, isn’t it. What do you mean, then? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
    “I just need to pick your brains, that’s all.”
    “I remember. You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, but that’s not why…I mean, it’s nothing official.”
    “Well, you’ve certainly got my attention. You could come over to the flat.” She paused. “I’ve got an electric fan in the office.”
    “Have you got a computer?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Great,” said Banks. “When would be convenient?”
    “Well, I’ve got a meeting with a client this afternoon – I’m afraid free weekends are never a given if you’re an accountant out on your own – but I should be done by early evening. Say five o’clock?”
    Banks looked at his watch. It was half past three. “All right,” he said.
    “Good. Have you got a pen and paper handy? I’ll give you my address.”
    Banks wrote down the address and listened to Corinne’s directions. Just off Earl’s Court Road. Not far from Roy’s at all, then, though another world entirely. He thanked her again, escaped the sweatbox and headed back to the pub.

    By the time Annie had walked over the bridge and along the lane to Banks’s cottage, she had just about succeeded in regaining her equilibrium. The builders had got as far as restoring the roof. From the outside, the place looked perfectly normal, and one might even think someone lived there if it weren’t for the lack of curtains and the overflowing skip. Because it was Saturday, there were no workmen around, though given howslow they had been, Annie thought, the least they could do was put in a few extra hours to help get Banks back where he belonged. After all, they’d been on the job close to four months now.
    It was the first time Annie had been back there since the night of the fire, and just seeing the place evoked painful memories: the feel of the wet blanket she wrapped around herself; the fire bursting out as she broke the door open; the smoke in her eyes and