Free The Price of Love and Other Stories by Peter Robinson Page A

to describe the evening several times. “Who won?” he asked.
    “Pardon?”
    “The poker circle. Who won?”
    “As a matter of fact,” Natasha said, “Denise did.”
    “It’s just a minor blip on the radar, really, sir,” said Winsome. She was sitting at her computer, leaning back in the chair, long legs crossed at the ankles, hands linked behind her head.
    “Tell me about it anyway,” said Banks, grabbing a chair and sitting so that he could rest his arms on the back.
    “Well,” Winsome went on in her Jamaican-tinged Yorkshire, “you know that big operation a few years back, the one that netted Pete Townsend?”
    Banks nodded. Cynical copper though he might be, he had never believed for a moment that Pete Townsend was connected with child pornography in any way other than for research, and hewas certainly glad when he heard that The Who’s guitarist was completely vindicated.
    “That’s when Colin Whitman’s name came up,” Winsome said. “The usual: credit card online.”
    “You’d think people would know better.”
    “They do now, sir,” said Winsome. “The online dealers have got more savvy and some of the pros have pretty much gone back to hard copy. It’s safer and less likely to be detected, especially the way the borders are throughout Europe these days.”
    “Everyone’s too busy looking for terrorists.”
    “Right, sir. But there’s still a lot of activity over the Internet. Anyway, as I said, it almost went under the radar, just a blip, but there it is.”
    “Did you check Victor Vancalm’s name too?”
    “Yes. Nothing.”
    “Was Whitman interviewed?”
    “No, sir. They just put his name in a pending file. There were hundreds of them. It was a big operation.”
    “I remember.”
    “It might not mean anything.”
    “But then again,” said Banks, “it might. Think we can use it to get a search warrant?”
    “I don’t see why not, sir. Want me to get on to it?”
    “Immediately.” Banks looked at his watch. “We’ve got the pleasure of Mr. Whitman’s custody until this evening.”
    “About bloody time,” said Colin Whitman when Banks had him brought up to his office at six o’clock that evening.
    Banks stood with his back to the door, looking out of his window. Outside, in the market square, all was dark and still except for a few people heading to or from home across the cobbles.
    “I’ve spoken with my solicitor,” Whitman went on, “and he advised me to co-operate, but I’d like him to be present during any further discussions we may have.”
    “That’s your prerogative,” said Banks, turning. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to go home as soon as possible?”
    “Naturally.”
    “Let’s see if we can get this over with quickly, then, shall we? Please, sit.”
    Whitman stared and stood his ground as Banks sat behind his desk. Then he slowly pulled out the hard-back chair and sat opposite. “Is this an apology?”
    “Not exactly,” Banks said. The radio was playing one of Beethoven’s “Rasumovsky” quartets softly in the background, so softly you had to know it was there.
    “What, then?”
    “Our men are still at your house, but their preliminary findings have given us enough to hold you for a while longer. Superintendent Gervaise has already authorized the further detention. She takes as dim a view of what you’ve been up to as I do. I don’t think you’re going to find a lot of sympathizers here.”
    Whitman had turned pale, which told Banks he knew exactly what was going on. “I want my solicitor,” he said.
    “Thought you might. You can put another call in, of course. That’s your right. And we’d be quite happy to get a duty solicitor for you if there’s a problem.”
    Whitman reached for the phone and Banks let him call. By the sound of it, he got an answering machine. He left a message and hung up.
    “Probably out at some function or other,” said Banks. “As I said –”
    “I’ll wait for my own man, thank you very much. And