The Price of Love and Other Stories by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

there was much of the latter – and even going so far as to cut up several of Denise Vancalm’s most elegant dresses and strew them over the bed. It would take most of the night to process the scene.
    “I realize that,” she said. “There’s a small hotel just off the market square, the Jedburgh. My husband often suggested it for clients when they happened to be visiting town.”
    “I can take you there,” said Banks.
    She regarded him coolly with moist, steady blue eyes. “Yes. Thank you. I probably shouldn’t be driving. May I collect a few things? My nightdress? Toothbrush?”
    Banks went into the hallway and saw Detective Constable Winsome Jackman coming through the front door. “Winsome,” he said, “Mrs. Vancalm will be spending the night at the Jedburgh Hotel. Will you accompany her to her room while she gathers a few essentials?”
    Winsome raised her eyes in a “Why me?” expression.
    Banks whispered, certain he was out of Mrs. Vancalm’s earshot, “And make sure there’s someone posted outside the Jedburgh Hotel all night.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Winsome.
    A short while later, as Banks followed Denise Vancalm out into the chilly night, where his Porsche stood waiting, he again remindedhimself why he was taking such precautions and feeling so many reservations in the face of the poor bereaved wife. By the looks of it, Victor Vancalm had disturbed a burglar, who might still have been in the building. Confronted with a dead husband, a wrecked den, and a big empty house, most people would have run for the hills screaming, but Denise Vancalm, after the immediate shock had worn off, had dialed 999 and sat down to wait for the police.
    In the late morning the next day, a weak grey sun cut through the early mist and the sky turned the colour of Victor Vancalm’s corpse spread out on Dr. Glendenning’s post-mortem table. Banks stood on the steps of Eastvale General Infirmary wishing he still smoked. No matter how many post-mortems he attended, he could never get used to them, especially just after a late breakfast. It was something to do with the neatness and precision of the gleaming tools and the scientific process contrasted with the ugly slop of stomach contents and the slithery lump of liver or kidneys. As far as stomach contents were concerned, Victor Vancalm’s last meal had consisted of
currywurst
, a German delicacy available from any number of Berlin street vendors.
    There had been no surprises. Vancalm had been in general good health and the cause of death, barring any googlies from toxicology, was most certainly the head wound. The only interesting piece of news was that Vancalm’s pockets had been emptied. Wallet. Keys. Pen. All gone. In Banks’s experience, burglars didn’t usually rob the persons of anyone they happened to bump into on a job. They didn’t usually bump into people, for that matter; kids on drugs aside, burglars were generally so careful and elusive that one might think them quite shy creatures. They didn’t usually bump people off, either.
    Even after the post-mortem, Dr. Glendenning stuck by his estimate of time of death: between seven and ten. If Mrs. Vancalm had gone straight from work to the Old Oak and from there to the pokerevening with Natasha Goldwell, and if she had not arrived home until eleven-thirty, then she couldn’t have murdered her husband. Banks would still check her alibi with the rest of the poker crowd. It was a job for a detective constable, but he found he was curious about this group of wealthy and powerful women who got together once a month to play Texas hold’em. Did they wear shades, smoke cigars and swear? Perhaps more to the point, could they look you straight in the eye and lie like a politician?
    Banks took a deep breath of fresh air and looked at his watch. It was time to meet DI Annie Cabbot for lunch at the Queen’s Arms, though whatever appetite he might have had had quite vanished down the drain of the autopsy table plughole,