The Price of Love and Other Stories Read online

  “I would. Thanks a lot, Annie. Above and beyond, and all that.”

  “Oh, that’s not all.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. While all this was going on, Mr. Salisbury’s mother died. Well, she was old and—”

  “Sick?”

  “How did you guess? She had diabetes. Anyway, she died. Or…”

  Banks felt a tingle go up his spine. “Or what?”

  “Or he helped her on her way. Nothing was ever proven. There weren’t even any charges. But DS Ryan was one of the investigating officers, and he says he was suspicious enough to ask for an autopsy. Negative. The woman was old, she went hyperglycemic, and that was that.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hyperglycemic? It’s something that happens to diabetics, apparently, caused by too much insulin or low food intake.”

  “He gave her an overdose of insulin?”

  “No evidence of that.”

  “But someone could have brought it about, this hyperglycemic coma?”

  “Yes. Hard to prove, though.”

  “What did DS Ryan say?”

  “DS Ryan said that his older sister is a diabetic and she always keeps her bedside drawer full of Mars bars or chocolate of some kind for just that sort of eventuality.”

  “But I thought diabetics had to avoid sugar like the plague?”

  “So did I. Apparently, they do. Unless they go hyperglycemic. Then they need a hit of sugar.”

  “Or?”

  “Coma. Death. And in this case, there were other complications. Weak heart, for example.”

  “And DS Ryan says?”

  “DS Ryan says the doctor didn’t find any traces of sugar products close to Mrs. Salisbury’s bed, and he found that in itself suspicious. In his opinion—DS Ryan’s, that is—Geoff Salisbury was responsible, knowing it was just a matter of time before she’d need a sugar fix.”

  “He killed his own mother. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Mercy killing, but killing all the same.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Banks. “This changes things.”

  “It does?”

  “I’d been thinking of leaving well alone.”

  “But not now?”

  “Not now. Thanks a lot, Annie.”

  “My pleasure. See you tomorrow?”

  “Okay. And thanks again.”

  Missing Mars bars. A faulty oxygen tank valve. Banks wondered who else Geoff Salisbury had assisted in their final moments on earth. He also wondered how long it would be before his own father suffered that fatal angina attack and was unable to find his nitroglycerine tablets in time. Putting his phone in his pocket, he headed straight for Geoff Salisbury’s house.

  XX

  “Look, I can see you’re not going to let this drop, are you,” said Salisbury when Banks had told him he knew about the conviction. “So I’ve been to prison. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I served my time.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Banks, “it is something to be ashamed of. But those who’ve been there rarely seem to think so. Innocent, were you, like everyone else?”

  “No. I did it. I was desperate and she didn’t need the money, so I conned her. I’m not saying I’m proud of that, what I did, but like I said, I served my time, paid my debt to society.”

  Debt to society. Roy’s words exactly, and an odd phrase when you really thought about it. “Would that it were as simple as that,” Banks said. Salisbury’s living room wasn’t quite as clean and tidy as he had expected, but perhaps he used all his energy on other people’s homes and had none left for his own. Dust gathered in the corners, the carpet was rather threadbare and lumps of mold floated on the half-empty coffee cup on the table.

  “All right,” said Salisbury, “suppose, just suppose that I was ripping people off. Some people might actually believe I’m a power for good around here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An estate like this, the old folks need someone on their side, someone to look out for them. They die off, you see, and when they do it’s mostly young ’uns come in off the waiting list. You know the sort. Young lasses barely out of school with three kids and no father in sight. Or that lot next door to your mum and dad’s. Scum. Now, you’re a copper, Alan, you tell me if he doesn’t have prison written all over him. And as for the kids, well, it’ll only be a matter of time. And if it’s not scum like that it’s foreigners. Gypos. Darkies. Pakis. Them with the turbans. All with their funny ways, slaughtering goats in the street and whatever, not giving a toss for our customs and traditions and way of life. See, the old folks, they get frightened when everything around them starts to feel threatening and unfamiliar. Their world’s changing so fast and their bodies can’t do what they used to do, so they end up feeling lost and scared. That’s where someone like me comes in. I reassure them, do odd jobs, give them a friendly and familiar face to relate to. So what if I make a few bob out of it? Hypothetically.”

  “I’d say, hypothetically, that it makes you a thief.”

  “Words, Alan, just words.”

  “Actually, no. Legal concepts.”

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Here’s another one to try on for size. Murder.”

  Salisbury blinked and stared at him. “What?”

  “You heard me, Geoff. Oh, you might have a more fancy name for it, something high-sounding and moral, such as mercy killing, but in my eyes it’s murder plain and simple.”

  Salisbury sat back in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. There was your own mother for a start. Don’t tell me a woman who’s been a diabetic for a good part of her life doesn’t know to keep some sugar on hand in case she goes hyperglycemic.”

  Salisbury banged his fist on the chair arm. “That’s over and done with,” he said. “I wasn’t there. Nobody ever proved anything against me!”

  “I’m not saying you haven’t been clever, Geoff. You never were there, were you? Mr. Green’s faulty valve, for example. Wouldn’t be difficult for a car mechanic, would it? And what about Mrs. Summerville, Geoff, gentle pillow over the face as she slept, was it? Nobody would ask too many questions. Or perhaps a little too much morphia? She was alone. You had a key. They always give you a key, don’t they? And what about the hundred quid you drew out with her bank card the day she died. Mistake, that. She couldn’t get it herself, remember—she was bedridden—and her daughter could find no sign of the money.”

  Salisbury got to his feet. “You can’t prove a damn thing. Get out of here! Go on, get out!”

  Banks didn’t move. “You don’t get away with it that easily, Geoff, especially not when it’s my parents you’re playing with now. I saw the piece of silver paper you folded and dropped in the bin at Mrs. Summerville’s house. I’ll bet it has your prints on it.”

  “So I went there. I helped her. Like I helped the others. So what? That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “I’ll bet if we exhumed the body, though, we’d find some evidence of tampering, some evidence of what you did. She hasn’t been dead a week, Geoff, not like the others. There’ll be forensic evidence. In the house, too.”

  For the first time, Banks saw Salisbury falter and sit down again. He knew he had been guessing, taking a stab in the dark, but it seemed to have touched a nerve. “She had cancer and a weak heart,” he went on. “All it took was a little pressure. She didn’t even have the strength to fight back, did she?”

  “What do you mean, forensic evidence?” Geoff asked. “They’d never dig her up.”

  “Oh, yes they would. On my say-so. And you know exactly what they’d find, don’t you?”

  “But the doctor signed the death certificates. There wasn’t even an inquest, nothing suspicious at all.”

  “Why would there be, Geoff? Don’t you know how it goes? All your victims were medically attended during their illnesses, they’d all been seen by their doctors within fourteen days of
death, and they were all terminally ill, likely to die at any time. There were no grounds for a coroner’s inquest. And remember: none of them was alone with family members when they died. Not even your mother. You made sure you were out of the house that night, didn’t you?”

  “This is absurd. They’ll never open up her coffin.”

  “Yes, they will. We’d just better thank the Lord that she was buried and not cremated, don’t you think? What will they find? Tell me.”

  Salisbury licked his lips, staring at Banks, and said nothing for a long time. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he said at last. “You don’t know nothing about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Suffering.”

  “Tell me about it, Geoff. I want to know.”

  “Why should I? You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Believe me, I’ll try. And it’ll go better for you if you do. If we don’t have to exhume the body. That’s a lot of work. And messy. Nobody wants to do it. I think we’d be able to prove a case against you, Geoff, I really do, but if you help us, if you tell me about it, it’ll go a lot easier for you.”

  “Why do you think they let me cheat them, take their money?”

  Banks frowned. “Come again?”

  “You don’t think they didn’t know what I was doing, do you? They knew all right, and they let it go on. Payment. That’s what it was. They just couldn’t come right out and say it. What they really wanted me to do. But it was their way of paying me, of letting me know what they wanted me to do.”

  “Hang on a minute, Geoff,” said Banks. “Let me get this straight. Did you kill Mr. Green and Mrs. Summerville?”

  “Yes. No. I put them to sleep. I ended their suffering.”

  “And your mother?”

  “It was what she wanted. It was what they all wanted. It was beautiful.”

  “What was?”

  Salisbury’s eyes shone. “The transformation. From pain to peace. Suffering to grace. It was like being God.”

  “Did either Mrs. Green or anyone from the Summerville family suggest that you do what you did?”

  “Not in so many words, no.”

  “But that was how you interpreted their actions in letting you get away with stealing money?”

  “Like I said, they knew. It was their way of paying for what they wanted done. Close family couldn’t do it, could they? They’d soon be suspects, or they didn’t care enough and were never around like you and that Summerville girl. You don’t see their suffering. I do. Day in, day out. I was their savior. Somebody had to be.”

  Banks got up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to ring the local police now, and I want you to tell them what you’ve just told me. Tell them everything. Maybe you’re sick. Maybe you need help. I don’t know.” All I do know, Banks thought as he took out his mobile, is that I want you off this estate and as far away from my parents as possible.

  XXI

  It was about an hour later when two uniformed constables and one detective sergeant, grumpy at being dragged out of the Sunday night pub darts match, arrived at Geoff Salisbury’s house.

  “You know, with all due respect to your rank and all, sir, we don’t particularly appreciate North Yorkshire CID poking around on our patch, doing our job for us,” said the surly DS, whose name was Les Kelly, and who was going prematurely bald. Luckily, Banks hadn’t encountered DS Kelly on his last trip to Peterborough.

  Banks smiled to himself. It would probably have been his reaction, too, had Kelly come up north. At least it would have been if he had been a DS and ten years younger. “Believe me, DS Kelly, it wasn’t my intention,” he said. “I just came for the party.”

  “You what?”

  Banks sighed. “I was brought up around here. Down the street. I came home for my parents’ golden wedding and this is what I found going on.” He gestured toward Salisbury, who was giving his statement to the uniformed officers.

  “How about we go outside for a minute?” said Kelly. “The uniforms can deal with his statement, and I fancy a smoke.”

  Banks and Kelly stood on the path. Kelly lit a cigarette and Banks craved one. A few locals had noted the arrival of the police, and a small crowd had gathered just beyond the patrol car. Not that police cars were a novelty on the estate, but it was nearly bedtime on a Sunday.

  “I was winning, too,” said Kelly.

  “What?”

  “The darts match.”

  Banks smiled. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Never mind. We never sleep. Always ready to bring another wrongdoer to justice. I just transferred here from West Midlands, myself. You say you’re from around these parts?”

  “Uh-huh. Long time ago. Came here when I was twelve. Grew up just down the street. Used to go out with the girl whose mother that bastard killed.”

  “They’ll put him in the nuthouse.”

  “Likely. As long as he’s locked up.”

  Kelly looked around and sniffed the air, then he took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke. “I grew up on an estate pretty much like this one,” he said. “Barrow-in-Furness.”

  “Not a part of the world I know.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Look, while you’re here,” said Banks, “there is another small matter you might be able to help with.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “The family that lives next to my parents,” said Banks. “I don’t know their names but the bloke looks like Fred West—”

  “Ah, the Wyatts.”

  “Is that their name?”

  “Well, it’s easier that way. To be honest, though, I think he’s the only true Wyatt there. She’s a Fisher. Had kids with a Young and a Harrison and a Davies. Need I go on?”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “According to the council, only five. That’s all the place is big enough for.”

  “I saw a sleeping bag on the staircase.”

  “You were in there?”

  “Noise complaint.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, our latest estimation is about twelve, give or take a couple.”

  “Can you do anything?”

  “About what?”

  “Drugs, for a start. And I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those kids are being sexually abused.”

  “Nor me.” Kelly finished his cigarette and stamped it out on the path. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said. “You know how these things can drag on. But we’ve got an eye on them, and the social’s investigating them, too, so sooner or later one of us will come up with something.”

  “And then?”

  Kelly laughed. “And then? You know as well as I do. Then the farce just begins. They’ll end up on another estate much like this one, most likely, and it’ll start all over again.”

  The uniforms came out with Geoff Salisbury, slump shouldered, between them. “Done,” one of them said. Salisbury gave Banks a look that was half pleading for understanding and forgiveness, and half pure hatred. He didn’t know which half he liked least.

  “Right.” Kelly clapped his hands. “Let’s go see what the custody sergeant has to say, shall we? And I’ll say good night to you, for the moment, DCI Banks. We might need you again.”

  Banks smiled. “I’m only a phone call away.”

  XXII

  By Monday morning, when Banks awoke to sunshine and the sound of birds beyond his thin curtains, news of Geoff Salisbury’s arrest had spread around the entire estate. When he went down for breakfast, he found his parents sitting quietly at the table. He poured himself a cup of tea. His mother wouldn’t look at him when he walked in the room.

  “You’ve heard, then?” he asked gently.

  “About Geoff?” she said, tears in her eyes. “Mrs. Wilkins came to tell me. That was your doing, wasn’t it?”

  “I’d no choice, Mum,” said Banks, resting his hand on her arm. She jerked it away.

  “How could you do that? You kn
ow what he meant to us.”

  “Mum, Geoff Salisbury was a murderer. He killed Mr. Green and he killed Kay’s mother.” Not to mention his own mother, Banks thought. “I don’t see how you can defend him. You knew those people. They were your neighbors.”

  Mrs. Banks shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Not Geoff. He wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s gentle as a kitten.”

  “He admitted it.”

  “You must have forced him. Interrogated him until he didn’t know what he was saying.”

  “I don’t work like that, Mum. Believe me, he did it. He might have thought he was doing good, doing the families a favor, but he did it.”

  Banks looked at his father, who caught his eye. He knew right away that they were thinking the same thing: who was next?

  Banks stood up. “Look, Mum, I’ve got to go now.”

  “All you brought was trouble. It was supposed to be a happy occasion. Now look what you’ve gone and done. Spoiled it all, as usual. I wish our Roy was here.”

  Banks’s heart felt heavy, but there was nothing more he could say. There was as much point in telling his mother that Roy didn’t give a shit as there was in telling her that Geoff Salisbury was a cold-blooded murderer.

  “I’m sorry, Mum,” he said, then dashed upstairs to throw his few belongings in his bag. He looked at the boxes of records and exercise books again and decided to leave them. All he took was the poetry.

  Let go.

  He was just standing at the door of his room when he saw his father come slowly up the stairs. They stood on the landing facing each other. “She’s upset,” said Arthur Banks. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. I’ll take care of her. I’ll make sure she knows what’s what.”

  “What is what, Dad? I’m not even sure I know. Did I do the right thing?”

  “Only you know that for certain, lad. But you did your job. You’d no choice. You’re a copper and he was a bad ’un. Your mother’ll get over it. She really liked him, that’s all. He was useful around the house. And he could be a right charmer.”

  “I know,” said Banks. “His type usually is.”

  “You know she never likes admitting she’s wrong about people. But if he killed those people, you were right. You were only doing your job. I don’t mind a bob or two here and there—and don’t think I didn’t notice, but I kept quiet for your mother’s sake—but I draw the line at killing.” He laughed. “Who’s to say it wouldn’t have been me next, eh?”