Banks’s mobile rang just after he had passed the drug house. He saw the burly man cast a baleful glance in his direction as he answered. Did he look so obviously like a copper? He had never thought so.
‘Banks here.’
‘Sir, it’s me. DC Masterson.’
‘Ah, Gerry. What can I do for you?’
‘Can you talk, sir? I mean, listen. I think I can do something for you.’
‘I’m on my way to have a chat with Montague Havers.’
‘Then I’m just in time.’
Banks turned a corner and leaned against a brick wall. ‘Go on.’
‘I’ve found out a couple of things that might interest you, sir.’
‘What?’
‘First off, there’s an old murder with a bolt gun, eighteen months ago in East London. A man called Jan Wolitz. Polish. The investigating officers thought he was connected with a people-trafficking outfit and suspected he’d been taking more than his cut from them, not to mention helping himself to some of the girls’ favours. Young girls, mostly. Prostitution. Nobody ever arrested for it and no suspects named, as far as I can gather. The police did, however, find prints at the scene that didn’t belong to the victim. They led nowhere. Not in the system. He wasn’t cut into pieces or anything. Just dead.’
‘Can you get the prints sent up and check them against whatever Vic got from the hangar?’
‘As we speak.’ Banks could hear the smile in Gerry’s voice.
‘You’re too good for this world, Gerry.’
‘So they tell me, sir.’
‘Where was the body found?’
‘Abandoned warehouse on the Thames. I mean, it’s probably pushing it a bit to call it East London. More like West Essex.’
‘Who owned the property?’
‘Don’t know yet, sir, but I can see why it might be useful to know. I’ll get on to that as well.’
‘Any hint of a connection between this Jan Wolitz and anyone we know? Spencer, Montague Havers, Tanner, Lane?’
‘No, sir, but DI Cabbot and Doug are running down a lead on a stolen bolt pistol. It was lifted about two years ago from Stirwall’s Abattoir. But he’s the one I wanted to talk to you about, sir. Montague Havers. Or Malcolm Hackett, as was.’
‘What about him?’
‘He worked for the same stockbrokers as John Beddoes in the mid-eighties. They were City boys together between the Big Bang and Black Monday. Both the same age, in their mid-twenties at the time. There was a cocaine charge against Hackett back then, but it went nowhere. Small amount. Slap on the wrist. The point is, according to what I could find out from someone who also worked there at the time, the two of them were pretty thick. Socialised together and all that. Made oodles of money. When the bubble burst, Hackett went into international investment banking and Beddoes became a merchant banker before he moved to the farm.’
‘Well done. That’s an interesting connection, Gerry,’ said Banks. ‘And your timing’s impeccable. How are things back at the ranch?’
‘Ticking along nicely. DS Jackman’s still chasing down Caleb Ross’s collection route.’
‘All well with Alex and Ian?’
‘Everything’s fine, sir. We’ve got surveillance on them. Nothing to report.’
‘Any news on Tanner?’ They had had to let Ronald Tanner go when his twenty-four hours were up early that morning.
‘He’s still at home. We’re keeping an eye on him. AC Gervaise is with the CPS as I speak working on possible charges. I did a bit of research into his known associates and there’s a bloke called Carl Utley looks good for the driver. Mutton chops, usually wears a flat cap. He used to be a long-distance lorry driver but he got fired when he was suspected of being involved in the disappearance of some expensive loads. Nothing proven, but enough to lose him his job. He drifted into nightclub work and that’s when he met Tanner. They’re good mates.’
‘Excellent. Follow it up. See if you can have this Utley picked up. No further sign of Michael Lane?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Keep at it. And thanks, Gerry. Get back to me as soon as you hear anything from Annie or the CPS.’
Banks ended the call and went on his way, mulling over how he could use what he had just found out against Havers.
It was a dilapidated sixties office building with about as much charm and character as the shoebox it resembled. However well Havers was doing, he hadn’t moved his business into better digs, somewhere nice and trendy down in Docklands, for example. But maybe this was his cover, and maybe it didn’t matter to him. Banks had learned over the years that criminals had some very odd ideas about what was the best thing to do with their ill-gotten gains. Take Ronald Tanner, for example. He probably didn’t make a fortune, but he could have afforded a larger house and a decent car. Instead he seemed to be broke and on benefits all the time. What did he spend his money on? Banks knew one safecracker who spent most of what he earned on expensive women’s clothes, and they weren’t gifts for a girlfriend, either. A cat burglar he had once arrested collected rare vinyl and lived in a small flat in Gipton on a diet of baked beans and toast. He didn’t even own a record player. Maybe with Havers it was still coke, which could be an expensive habit, or the dogs? Or maybe he had a nice little nest egg hidden away offshore, and when the right moment came, he’d vanish to the Caymans for good. Anything was possible.
Banks took the rickety lift to the fifth floor and found the door marked Havers International Investment Solutions Ltd. He’d heard that it was very much a one-man operation, so he wasn’t expecting the receptionist who greeted him when he knocked and entered.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I’d like to see Mr Havers.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
Banks showed her his warrant card.
She picked up the telephone. ‘If you’d care to—’
But Banks walked straight past her and through the next door, where he found Montague Havers sitting behind a flat-box Staples desk tapping away at a laptop computer. As soon as Havers saw Banks, he closed the lid on the computer and got to his feet. ‘What is this? You can’t just come barging in like that.’
Banks showed his warrant card again. Havers sat down and smoothed his hair. A funny smile crossed his features. ‘Well, why didn’t you say? Sit down, sit down. Always happy to help the police in any way I can.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Banks, sitting down on a very uncomfortable hard-backed chair. ‘It makes my job a lot easier.’ The view, he noticed, was of the railway lines at the back of the main line stations. A trainspotter’s wet dream.
Havers wore his wavy brown hair just a trifle too long for a man of his age, Banks thought. Along with the white shirt and garish bow tie he was wearing, it gave him the air of someone who was desperately trying to look young. Banks wondered, as he peered more closely, if his hair was dyed. Or a rug, even. It looked somehow fake. Maybe that was what he spent his money on: expensive rugs. The rusty moustache on his lip didn’t do much for the youthful effect.
‘So what exactly can I do for you, D— is it DI Banks?’
‘DCI, actually. Am I to call you Malcolm Hackett or Montague Havers?’
‘I changed my name legally six years ago to Montague Havers.’
Banks tilted his head. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Let’s just say that in the business I’m in, it helps if you have an educated-sounding name. Malcolm Hackett was just too… too comprehensive school.’
‘And Montague Havers is more Eton?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but that’s the general idea. Yes.’
Banks looked around the small office, at the crooked blinds, the stained, plasterboard walls, the scratched filing cabinets. ‘And the office?’