Strange Affair by Peter Robinson Page A

before.
    Was she new on the scene? Annie doubted it. The way Banks had been behaving lately, withdrawn, moody and uncommunicative, was hardly conducive to pulling a new girlfriend. Who would take him on, the shape he was in? And this woman was young enough to be his daughter. Not that age had ever stopped a man, but…Perhaps even more important was that she had ended up with a bullet in her head. Knowing Banks had its dangers, as Annie well knew, but it was not usually fatal.
    “I don’t know, sir. I’d say the most likely explanation is that it’s her own writing. Maybe she copied it down over the phone. We’ll be able to find out for sure when we get a sample of Jennifer Clewes’s writing.”
    “Have you been able to get in touch with DCI Banks?”
    “He’s not at home and his mobile’s turned off. I’ve left messages.”
    “Well, let’s just hope he gets one of them and rings back. I’d really like to know why a young woman was driving up from London to see him in the middle of the night and ended up with a bullet in her head.”
    “He could be anywhere,” Annie said. “He is on holiday, after all.”
    “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
    “He doesn’t tell me much these days, sir.”
    Gristhorpe frowned and scratched his chin, then he leaned back in his big, padded chair and linked his hands behind his head. “How’s he doing?” he asked.
    “I’m the last person to ask, sir. We haven’t really talked much since the fire.”
    “I thought you two were friends.”
    “I like to think we are. But you know Alan. He’s hardly the type to open up when he doesn’t want to. I think perhaps he still blames me for what happened, the fire and all. After all, Phil Keane was my boyfriend. Whatever the reason, he’s been very quiet lately. To be honest, I think it’s partly depression as well.”
    “I can’t say I’m surprised. It happens sometimes after illness or an accident. About all you can do is wait till the fog disperses. What about you?”
    “Me? I’m fine, sir. Coping.” Annie was aware how tight and unconvincing her voice sounded, but she could do nothing about it. Anyway, she was coping, after a fashion. She certainlywasn’t depressed, just hurt and angry, and perhaps a little distracted.
    Gristhorpe held her gaze for just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable, then he went on, “We need to find out why the victim had Alan’s address in her back pocket,” he said. “And we can’t ask her.”
    “There’s a flatmate, sir,” said Annie. “The lads from Lambeth North got bored with hanging around outside and went in for a look. Jennifer Clewes was sharing with a woman called Kate Nesbit. At least there were letters there addressed to a Kate Nesbit and a Jennifer Clewes.”
    “Have they talked to this flatmate?”
    “She’s not home.”
    “Work?”
    “On a Saturday? Maybe. Or she might have gone away for the weekend.”
    Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Better get down there, Annie,” he said. “Let your old pal at Kennington know you’re on your way. Find the flatmate and talk to her.”
    “Yes, sir.” Annie stood up. “There is one other thing.”
    “Yes?”
    Annie gestured towards the scrap of paper. “This address. I mean, it is Alan’s address, but it’s not where he’s living now.”
    “I noticed that,” said Gristhorpe. “You think it might be significant?”
    “Well, sir,” Annie said, hand on the doorknob. “He’s been living at that flat in the old Steadman house for four months now. You’d think everyone who knew him – knew him at all well, at any rate – would know that. I mean, if it was a new girlfriend or something, why give her his old address?”
    “You’ve got a point.” Gristhorpe scratched the side of his nose.
    “What action do you think we should take?”
    “About DCI Banks?”
    “Yes.”
    Gristhorpe paused. “You say he’s not answering his phones?”
    “That’s right, neither his home phone nor his