“Are you sure you have no intention of adopting another baby?” Banks asked, feeling his blood start to turn cold.
Mercedes smiled. “No. Of course not. Nina will have her new heart and she will become strong. I know it. Do you think so?”
Banks looked at Mercedes Lambert, saw the desperate hope in her face, and he looked at the pale face buried in the blankets. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, maybe she will.”
The train ride did Annie good, and when she got back to Eastvale around lunchtime she didn’t feel quite so depressed as she had after the raids. Before leaving for the station, she had tried to console Brooke over what he perceived to be a lack of backbone in giving in to “orders from above,” but in the long run she knew it was something he would have to live with and get over by himself. For reasons of their own, the powers that be, maybe through Burgess, had hampered the official police investigation and encouraged Banks to go stirring things up by himself, no doubt in the hope of luring more players out into the open rather than causing them to disappear. And no one had given a damn whether Banks got killed in the process.
When Annie got to the station, Gristhorpe, Stefan, Winsome and Rickerd were all in the squad room and there was an air of celebration around the place. It seemed appropriate. After all, Jennifer Clewes’s killer was dead, along with his boss, and the accomplices were in custody. Case solved.
“I hear you’ve been in the wars,” Gristhorpe said, looking up as she entered.
Annie sat at her desk and automatically turned on the computer. “More like doing battlefield triage,” she said. “Anyway, DI Brooke and the SO19 guys have got it all under control now. My job’s done down there.”
“Congratulations,” said Gristhorpe.
“Anything new, Stefan?” Annie asked.
“I was just telling the superintendent here that we got a quick match on the fingerprints found on DCI Banks’s door: Artyom Charkov. He doesn’t have a record but the prints match the body in the mortuary in London, the one who was shot this morning in the second raid. And they also match the partial we found on the door of Jennifer Clewes’s car. London say they found a gun on Charkov, too, a twenty-two. It’s being checked out.”
“That’s what got him shot,” said Annie. “Opening fire on an armed police officer.”
“Well, I’d have used something with a bit more stopping power than a twenty-two.”
“It’s just as well for the officer concerned that he didn’t. Anyway, it’s all a bit academic now he’s dead, isn’t it?” said Annie.
Stefan looked disappointed.
“Oh, Stefan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to belittle your efforts. There’s always the other one, Boris, the driver.”
“Essex technical support got his print from the crashed Mondeo,” said Stefan, suppressing a smile. “From inside the glove box.”
“Excellent. Things have been happening, then.”
“How’s Alan?” asked Gristhorpe.
“He’s doing okay, as far as I know, sir,” said Annie. “I think he’ll be heading back to Peterborough later today to spend a bit more time with his parents and help organize the funeral. At least he’ll be able to tell them some sort of justice has been done.”
The door opened behind Annie and she saw Gristhorpe get to his feet, a big grin on his face. “Well, if it isn’t Susan Gay,” he said, advancing toward the slightly stocky woman with the tight blond curls who stood in the doorway, Kev Templeton beaming beside her. “Come on in, lass. Join the party.”
“We’ve got him,” Susan said. “Cropley. He’s down in the custody suite under arrest for the murder of Claire Potter. All by the book. We’ve taken a DNA swab and it’s on its way to Derby. We’re also getting three DCs to do the motorway service stations with his photo. But the DNA itself will be enough.”
Templeton was beaming, too, Annie noticed. “Congratulations, Kev,” she said. “Good one.”
Templeton grinned. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Right, then,” said Gristhorpe. “Seeing as we’ve got two reasons to celebrate, who’s going for the beer?”
Banks worked most of it out on his drive back from
Quainton, but he still needed some answers. He tracked Gareth Lambert down at the travel agency on Edgeware Road, leaving his Renault parked outside. Lambert seemed surprised and more than a bit put out at being manhandled into the street as his staff looked on openmouthed, but he went without putting up a struggle.
Banks opened the passenger door and shoved him in. “Buckle up,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve got something to show you.” Banks made his way through the traffic down the side of Hyde Park to Chelsea Bridge, then across the river and along to the old Midgeley’s Castings factory. If Lambert realized where they were going or recognized the place when they arrived, he didn’t show it.
Banks pulled up on the weed-cracked concrete in front of the door and got out. He opened Lambert’s door and practically dragged him out. Lambert was heavier, but he was in poor shape, and Banks’s wiry strength was enough to propel him toward the factory door.
“What the hell’s going on?” Lambert protested. “There’s no need to rough-handle me this way. Roy’s brother or no, I’ll bloody report you.”
Banks pushed Lambert through the door and into the factory. Birds took off through the holes in the roof. The police had finished with the scene, and the chair and ropes were gone, but there were still bloodstains visible on the floor. Roy’s bloodstains. The lab had confirmed it. Banks stopped and shoved Lambert down on a pile of broken pallets and rusty, twisted scrap metal. Lambert groaned as something sharp stuck into his back.
“I’ll have your fucking job for this,” he yelled, red-faced, struggling to get up.
Banks put a foot on his chest and pushed him back. “Stay there,” he said. “And listen to me. This is where they brought Roy. You can still see his bloodstains here.” Banks pointed. “Look at that, Gareth; that’s my brother’s blood.”
“That’s nothing to do with me,” said Lambert, sitting up and rubbing his back. “I’ve never seen this place before. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re rambling.”
He tried to get to his feet, but Banks pushed him down again.
“That’s a good one,” said Banks. “Let me be perfectly clear about it, Gareth. After you and Roy had your little talk in the Albion Club, you rang Hadeon Mazuryk or Max Broda on your mobile from the club’s toilet and asked for help. I’m sure your mobile records will bear this out. You needed to get Roy out of the way. Mazuryk came himself or sent someone else, and they got him in a car outside the club and brought him here. They tortured him, you know, Gareth, to find out how much he knew, what my address was and what I knew. Maybe they even got our parents’ address out of him, because they’ve made threats in that direction, too. He was tied up on a chair just over there, bleeding, knowing he was probably going to die at the end of it all.” Banks felt close to tears of rage as he talked and it was all he could do to hold himself back from thrashing Lambert. He found an iron bar on the floor, picked it up and slapped it against his palm.
Lambert cringed. “I told you,” he said. “It’s nothing to do with me. Why would I do that? The girl and your brother were a danger to Mazuryk, not to me.”
“But you’re connected with Mazuryk. You arranged to get the girls to him after Max Broda bought them at markets in the Balkans.”
“You’ll never find any evidence of anything like that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Banks, “because that wasn’t what it was really all about. At first I thought it was about the girls you and Max Broda conspired to smuggle in for Mazuryk. Girls who had been lured by false job offers or abducted from the street. You wanted Roy in it with you, didn’t you, just like old times, and you’d been talking about it for a while, a couple of months. Roy didn’t know the whole story at first, and he might even have shown a flicker of interest if there was enough money in it for him. Lord knows, church or no, my brother was no saint.