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

I’m not saying a word until he gets here.”
    “Your privilege, sir,” said Banks. “But remember what I saidearlier: what you don’t say can mean just as much in court these days as what you do say.”
    Whitman folded his arms. “I’m still not saying anything.”
    “Better let me do the talking, then,” said Banks. “I’ll start by saying that I’m not sure why you did it. Perhaps Victor Vancalm got on to your little game and you had to get rid of him. Or maybe there was some other reason, some business reason. But you did it. Your alibi’s crap and you’ve lied to us through your teeth. You’re also a pervert. It may be the one group that doesn’t have a charter of rights yet – child molesters.”
    “I am not a child molester.”
    “Fine distinction. I know things like that are important to your lot, how you define yourselves. But let’s be honest about it: maybe you don’t hang about schoolyards and playgrounds waiting for opportunities to come along, but you do diddle little kids and you do like to look at pictures of other people diddling them. In fact, you had quite a collection on those DVDs we found under those loose floorboards in the spare room.”
    “They’re not mine. I was keeping them for someone. I didn’t know what was on them.”
    “Bollocks,” said Banks.
    There was a tap at the door and a young uniformed officer stuck his head around. “You sent for me, sir?”
    “Yes,” said Banks. “Could you rustle up some tea? One as it comes and one – how do you take your tea, Colin? It’s not a trick question.”
    “Milk, two sugars.”
    “Got that, constable?” said Banks.
    “Yes, sir.”
    When the constable had gone, Banks turned back to Whitman. “Are you going to tell me what happened, Colin? Or are we just going to sit here and drink tea and listen to Beethoven until yourbrief gets your message and hotfoots it over? Then we can take it down to the interview room again and spend the night at it. I don’t mind. I’ve got no plans. The result will probably be the same in the long run.”
    “I told you, I’m not saying anything until my solicitor gets here.”
    “Right. So we already know you did it. You knew when Victor Vancalm was due to arrive home from Berlin. You probably had a key to the house, but you wanted to make it look like a burglary, so you broke that side window and got in that way. Did you smash up the room before or after you killed Victor?”
    Whitman said nothing. His jaw was set so tightly that Banks could see the muscles tense, the lips whitening. At this rate, he’d have an aneurism or something before his solicitor arrived.
    “No matter,” Banks went on. “And you’ve no doubt got rid of whatever you stole by now, if you’ve got any sense. I don’t know how long you’d been planning this, but it smells of premeditation to me. At any rate, you won’t be out for a long, long time. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming the most obvious scenario is that Victor Vancalm found out about your odd proclivities and he didn’t like them, threatened to turn you in?”
    “That’s rubbish.”
    “Is it, Colin? Then why don’t you tell us where you really were on the night Victor was murdered? That would go a long way towards convincing me you didn’t do it.”
    Whitman chewed on a fingernail, brow furrowed in thought.
    “Colin?”
    “All right, all right! I was with a … a friend.”
    “A person of your own tastes?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who was he? Where does he live?”
    It took Whitman a few minutes, but Banks made the gravity of his situation clear again and Whitman gave up a name and address.
    “We’ll check, of course,” Banks said.
    A curious and most unpleasant smile crept over Whitman’s features. “You think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you?”
    Banks said nothing.
    Whitman leaned forward. “Well, what would you think, Mr. Clever Detective, if I told you those discs your men found were Victor’s?”
    “I’d think