In the Dark Places by Peter Robinson

Author:Peter Robinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

VENTURE PROPERTY Developments was housed on the sixth floor of a redbrick office complex just south of Granary Wharf, overlooking the tangle of arterial roads south of Leeds city center. The mirrored lift was clean, fast and practically silent. Banks watched Annie “powder her nose” as they went up and was amazed at how quickly she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and brushed her hair into its natural chestnut glory. It had been windy outside, and even the short walk from their parked car to the office had been enough to reduce it to a messy tangle. Banks, of course, had no such problems. The wind hardly made a dent in his closely cropped dark hair. He did notice in the large mirror, though, that the touch of gray seemed to be spreading from his temples.

“You OK?” he asked Annie. She had been fidgety in the car and had phoned Doug Wilson on his mobile twice to check that Alex Preston was safe. She had told Banks on the way about her visit the previous evening, and about Alex’s phone call from Michael Lane.

“I’m fine,” she said, with a forced smile. “Ready to rock and roll.”

The lift doors opened at the reception area of Venture Properties, where an immaculately groomed receptionist, whose name tag read bRENDA, sat behind a semicircular desk under the red company logo on the wall. The area smelled faintly of nail varnish remover.

Brenda smiled her patent smile of greeting, tinged with a hint of suspicion she no doubt reserved for newcomers, and said, “Good morning. Can I help you?”

Banks showed his warrant card. “We’re here to see Mr. Norrington.”

Brenda seemed unimpressed by the official identification. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” said Banks.

“Please take a seat.” She gestured toward a modular orange couch arranged around a glass table, on which was spread a selection of magazines: the Economist, House & Home, along with the Financial Times and a selection of the morning’s papers, all looking untouched.

Brenda busied herself on the telephone, her voice reduced to a distant whisper. When she hung up, she said, “Mr. Norrington will see you in a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?”

“Coffee, please. Black, two sugars,” said Annie.

Banks asked for water.

Brenda disappeared and came back seconds later with a cup and saucer and a plastic bottle of fizzy water. Before Annie had managed to finish her coffee, Brenda’s phone buzzed and she asked them to follow her.

Norrington’s office was at the end of the corridor. It was larger than the entire Eastvale squad room, and the far wall was one giant picture window. The sky was gray, so the venetian blinds were up. Unfortunately, the window didn’t look out over the city center, but toward the south, a flat and dreary wasteland of other office buildings, arterial roads, factory yards and retail warehouse outlets. Banks could even see the sprawling shopping park at Crown Point. Beyond that, lanes of traffic sped on the M621 as it coiled through the run-­down urban areas of Hunslet and Beeston.

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