Final Account by Peter Robinson Page B

woman?
    â€œDon’t get me wrong,” Pamela went on. “I’m not bitter or anything. We had a good time, and it was never anything more. We didn’t lie to each other. Neither of us wanted to get too involved. And one thing Robert doesn’t do is mess you around. That’s why we can still be friends. But he made it clear it was over between us—at least in that way—and I got the impression it was because he’d found someone else.”
    â€œDid you ever see this woman?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid he ever speak of her?”
    â€œNo. I just knew . A woman can tell about these things, that’s all.”
    â€œDid you ask him about her?”
    â€œI broached the subject once or twice.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œHe changed it.” She smiled. “He has a way.”
    â€œHow often did you see each other?”
    â€œWhen we were going out?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œJust once or twice a week. Mostly late in the week, weekends sometimes. He travels a lot on business. Anyway, he’s usually at home every week at some time, at least for a day or two.”
    â€œWhat’s his business?”
    â€œDunno. That’s another thing he never said much about. I can’t say I was really that interested, either. I mean, it’s boring, isn’t it, talking about business. I liked going out with Robert because he was fun. He could leave his work at home.”
    â€œDid he smoke?”
    â€œWhat an odd question. Yes, as a matter of fact. Not much, though.”
    â€œWhat brand?”
    â€œBenson and Hedges. I don’t mind people smoking.”
    Encouraged, Banks slipped his Silk Cut out of his pocket. Pamela smiled and brought him a glass ashtray. “What was he like?” Banks asked. “What kind of things did you used to do together?”
    Pamela looked at Banks with a glint of naughty humour in her eyes and raised her eyebrows. Banks felt himself flush. “I mean where did you used to go?” he said quickly.
    â€œYeah, I know. Hmmm … Well, we’d go out for dinner about once a week. Brasserie 44—you know, down by the river—or LaGrillade, until it moved. He likes good food. Let’s see … sometimes we’d go to concerts at the Town Hall, if I wasn’t playing, of course, but he’s not very fond of classical music, to be honest. Prefers that dreadful trad jazz. And sometimes we’d just stay in, order a pizza or a curry and watch telly if there was something good on. Or rent a video. He likes oldies. Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, that kind of thing. So do I. Let me see … we’d go to Napoleon’s every once in a while—”
    â€œNapoleon’s?”
    â€œYeah. You know, the casino. And he took me to the races a couple of times—once at Pontefract and once at Doncaster. That’s about it, really. Oh, and we went dancing now and then. Quite fleet on his feet is Robert.”
    Banks coughed and stubbed out his cigarette. “Dancing? The casino?”
    â€œYes. He loves a flutter, does Robert. It worried me sometimes the way he’d go through a hundred or more some nights.” She shrugged. “But it wasn’t my place to say, was it? I mean it wasn’t as if we were married or anything, or even living together. And he seemed to have plenty of money. Not that that’s what interested me about him.” She pulled at her necklace again. “Can’t you tell me what’s going on, Chief Inspector? It’s not the same person that was murdered, is it? I was so upset when I saw the paper this morning. Tell me it’s a case of mistaken identity.”
    Banks shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe he had a double. Did he ever say anything about being married?”
    â€œNo, never.”
    â€œDid he have an appendix scar?”
    This time, Pamela blushed. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he did. But so do lots of