Unti Peter Robinson #22 by Peter Robinson Page B

Spencer, he wasn’t home, like DI Cabbot said. His neighbor hasn’t seen him all weekend. We didn’t have a search warrant, and he’s ex-­job, so he wouldn’t have us taking a butcher’s. We’ll be needing a search warrant.”
    Banks looked toward AC Gervaise.
    â€œGet back there tomorrow morning and have a good look around,” she said. “Talk to his other neighbors on the site, too. I’ll see to the warrant first thing. But make sure you ask the site manager beforehand and explain your predicament. If he doesn’t have a key, then you’ll have to break in, but only if, and only after, you have the warrant in your hand. OK?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    Gervaise looked at her watch and stood up. “Why don’t you all go home now and get some rest? Tomorrow looks like a busy day. We’ve got a stolen tractor, two young men we’d like to find and talk to and the makings of a suspicious death at an abandoned airfield. For the moment these are separate cases, and I’ll see that actions are issued accordingly. But for crying out loud, keep open minds, all of you.” She pointed toward the timeline on the whiteboard. “You know how I feel about coincidences. If you come across one shred of evidence you think links the cases, then report it to me immediately, and we’ll change our strategy. Clear?”
    Annie and the rest nodded, then they made their way out of the boardroom. After one or two brief conversations in the corridor, the team dispersed. At last, Annie thought, as she picked up her coat from the squad room, it was time to go home. Now she could enjoy what she had been wanting all day: that hot bath and stack of trashy magazines.
    BANKS GOT home to a cold house at about eight o’clock. He turned up the thermostat, promising himself yet again that if he ever got a pay increase, the first thing he would buy was a better heating system. He dumped his bag and satchel on the floor, hung up his coat and picked up the post from the inside mat. It consisted mostly of bills, subscription renewal forms and a box set of Janet Baker CDs that had only just fit through the letter box.
    There was also a postcard from his parents, who were cruising the Amazon: a picture of the Manaus opera house. Banks turned it over and read his mother’s small neat handwriting. His father didn’t like to write, Banks knew, because he was self-­conscious about his spelling and grammar. His mother, with her typical economy, had crammed as many words in the small space as she possibly could. “We thought you might like this, being an opera fan and all. It’s very hot and muggy here, so bad some days your poor dad can hardly breathe. The food is good on the ship. Some of the other passengers are really rude and stuck-­up but we’ve made friends with a ­couple from York and some nice ­people from near Stratford. We went for a boat ride around some islands yesterday and saw a sloth, two iguanas and a conda. Your dad caught a piranha off the side of the boat. He’s proper chuffed with himself!”
    Banks puzzled for a moment over “and a conda,” then guessed his mother meant an anaconda. She was in her eighties, after all. He could just imagine them in their sun hats and long-­sleeved shirts, sweating in the heat, busy spending their inheritance. Good for them, he thought. They had never got much out of life, and they had had to suffer the death of their favorite son, Roy, not so very long ago. Spend it while you’re alive to enjoy it, Banks thought, admiring them for their adventurousness. When he’d been young and excited by all the strange faraway places in the atlas, he could never have imagined his father—­a beer and fish-­and-­chips sort of bloke if ever there was one—­or his mother—­homemaker, queen of the overcooked roast beef and soggy sprouts—­venturing far