“Is there a telephone?”
“There’s a pay phone in the hall.”
“Mind if I have a look around?”
“Please. There’s nothing here.”
Banks could see what he meant. A quick glance under the bed revealed nothing, not even the dust balls one might usually expect to find there. Mohammed was not lying when he said he was thorough. The wardrobe, too, was bare apart from the coat hangers that rattled when he opened it. On the small desk, there was a note about breakfast times, along with a writing tablet and a ballpoint pen. The ubiquitous Gideon’s Bible lay all alone in the top drawer of the bedside table.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you,” Banks said.
“It’s all right. Have you finished now?”
“Yes, I think so. Thanks a lot for answering my questions and for letting me see the room.”
Banks followed Mohammed down the stairs and stopped at the public telephone on the lower landing. There were no phone numbers scribbled on the wall and no directory. “Do you know if he made or received any phone calls while he was here?” Banks asked.
“I don’t think so. He could have done. I wouldn’t necessarily have known. I do hope Mr. Wyman isn’t in any trouble.”
“So do I,” said Banks, taking Mohammed’s card, smiling and shaking hands as he left. “So do I.”
The detective agency looked like a one-man operation housed in a nondescript sixties office tower on Great Marlborough Street, between Regent Street and Soho. Banks had got the address easily from the yellow pages. A group of casually dressed young men and women stood around outside the building smoking, chatting to bicycle couriers. It was about the only place they could smoke now outside of their own homes.
Banks took the jerky lift up to the fifth floor and found the door marked TOM SAVAGE DETECTIVE INVESTIGATIONS, followed by “Please Press Bell and Enter,” which he ignored. When he walked into the room, he was almost expecting a rumpled, hungover, smart-mouthed tough with a bottle of scotch in his filing cabinet, though he had met plenty of private investigators before and none of them had matched that particular stereotype. Savage had a receptionist, but she wasn’t sitting behind her desk polishing her nails; she was actually stuffing papers in folders in a filing cabinet. She had to bend over to do it, too, and her low-slung tight jeans didn’t leave much to the imagination.
On hearing Banks arrive, she stood up, smoothed her jeans and blushed. She knew exactly what he’d been looking at. “Yes?” she challenged him. “I didn’t hear you ring. Can I help you?”
“I didn’t ring,” said Banks. “Mr. Savage in?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then I’m sorry—”
Banks pulled out his warrant card and showed it to her.
She gave him a sharp glance and said, “Why didn’t you say?”
“I just did,” said Banks. “Does it make any difference?”
She read the card again. “Are you... Alan Banks... You’re not?... Are you Brian Banks’s father?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh my God!” She put her hands to her cheeks. Banks thought she was going to jump up and down. “You are. You’re Brian Banks’s father!”
“I’m sorry,” said Banks. “I don’t—”
“I just love the Blue Lamps. I can’t believe it. I only saw them a couple of weeks ago. Your Brian was terrific. I play a bit of guitar myself and write my own songs. Just an amateur band, like, but... When did he start playing? How often did he practice?”
“In his mid-teens, and way too often, when he should have been doing other things,” said Banks. “Like homework.”
She managed a quick smile. It really lit up her face, which was very pretty, a pale oval with good cheekbones, clear, direct emerald eyes and a smattering of freckles framed by straight blond hair down to her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “What must you think of me, acting like a silly schoolgirl?” She stuck out her hand. “Tom Savage. Pleased to meet you. Actually it’s Tomasina, but somehow I don’t think that would go down very well in this business, do you?”
Banks tried not to show his surprise. “And the Savage?”
“My real name.”
“Lucky you. How did you know who I was?”
“I read an article about the band, an interview, and your son mentioned that his father was a detective chief inspector in North Yorkshire. There can’t be that many called Banks. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to gush. It was just the shock.”
“That’s okay,” said Banks. “I’m very proud of him.”
“So you should be. Let’s go through to the main office. It’s more comfortable in there.” She gestured around the reception area. “It’s a one-woman show at the moment, I’m afraid. I really do have to do all the filing myself. I don’t have any client appointments today, hence the casual wear. It’s office clean-up day.”
“I know what you mean,” said Banks, following her into the office and sitting opposite her. The walls looked flimsy and thin, and there was no view. There wasn’t even a window. Her desk was uncluttered, and a slim Mac Air sat in front of her.
“My only extravagance,” she said, patting the sleek laptop. “I noticed you looking at it.”
“I wish I could afford one,” said Banks.
“So,” Tomasina said, resting her palms on the desk. “What can I help you with?”
“Maybe nothing. I found your card in a hotel room that may have been used by a murder suspect.” Banks was embellishing the truth, but he thought it might be the best way of getting her to talk.
“And what?” She pointed at her chest and blinked. “You think I... I mean, you think he hired me to kill someone?”
“No doubt he picked you on the basis of your name in the telephone directory. It sounds tough, like the sort of person who’d be capable of anything.”
“But if he’d known I was Tomasina?”
“Exactly,” said Banks. “Anyway, I’m not accusing you of murder.”
“Well, thank the Lord for that.”
“I just want to know if you accepted an assignment from a man called Derek Wyman, and if you did, what exactly it consisted of.”
She picked up a pencil and started doodling. “You know,” she said, looking down as she spoke, “that there are issues of confidentiality involved here. When people come to me, they come to a private investigator, not someone who’ll shout out their business to the world, or the police.”
“I understand that, and I have no intention of shouting out your business to the world.”
“Even so,” she said, “I can’t tell you who my clients are or what they want me to do. None of it is illegal. I can assure you of that.”
“I’m sure it’s not.” Banks paused. “Look, you can really help me here. I’m going out on a limb on this and I need to know if I’m right. If I’m not, then... well... I don’t know. But if I am...”
“It could lead to a court case in which you’d expect me to testify for the Crown?”
“It won’t come to that.”
“Yeah, and you’ll still respect me in the morning.”
“You’re very cynical for one so young.”
“I’m only trying to protect my interests.” She gave him a direct look. “As you can see, the place isn’t exactly crawling with clients— despite the tough, sexy name. In fact, I’m hard pushed to make ends meet from one week to the next, if truth be told. Now you expect me to throw away my reputation because of some limb you’re out on.”
“Why not try another career? A more lucrative one?”
“Because I like what I do. And I’m good at it. I started out with a big agency, and I did my ABI training and got my advanced diploma. Then I decided I wanted to go out on my own. I’ve done all the courses. And passed them with flying colors. I’m twenty-seven years old, I’ve got degrees in law and criminology, and I’ve had five years’ on-the-job experience with the big boys before I set up my own firm. Why should I search for another career?”