Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 11

"Not really," said Tony, leaning against the sideboard. "I mean, I came here mostly for the isolation, so I didn't do much mixing." He had a Scottish accent, Gristhorpe noticed, leaning more towards Glasgow than Edinburgh.

"Did you meet them?"

"Just in pa.s.sing."

"Did they introduce themselves?"

"The Manleys. Chris and Connie. That's what they said. They seemed pleasant enough. Always had a smile and a h.e.l.lo whenever we b.u.mped into one another. Look, what's wrong? Nothing's happened to them, has it?"

"When did you last see them?"

Tony frowned. "Let me see ... It was a couple of days ago.

Thursday, I think. Thursday morning. They were going off in the car."

"Did they say where?"

"No. I didn't ask."

"Had they packed all their stuff, as if they were leaving?"

"I'm afraid I didn't notice. Sorry. I was out walking most of the time."

"It's all right," Gristhorpe said. "Just try and remember what you can. Did you see or hear them after that time?"

"Come to think of it, I don't reckon I did. But they never made much noise anyway. Maybe a bit of telly in the evenings. That's about all."

"Did they ever have any visitors?"

"Not that I know of."

"You never heard them arguing or talking with anyone?"

"No."

"Were they out a lot?"

"A fair bit, I'd say. But so was I. I've been doing a lot of walking, meditating, writing. I'm really sorry, but I honestly didn't pay them a lot of attention. I've been pretty much lost in my own world."

"That's all right," Gristhorpe said. "You're doing fine. What did they look like?"

"Well, he ... Chris ... was about medium height, with light, sandy-coloured hair brushed back. Receding a bit. He looked quite fit, wiry, you know, and he had a pleasant, open kind of smile. The kind you could trust."

"Any distinctive features?"

"You mean scars, tattoos, that kind of thing?"

"Anything."

Tony shook his head. "No. He was quite ordinary looking, really. I just noticed the smile, that's all."

"How old would you say he was?"

"Hard to say. I'd guess he was in his late twenties."

"What about the woman?"

"Connie?" Tony blushed a little. "Well, Connie's a blonde. I don't know if it's real or not. Maybe a year or two younger than him. Very pretty. A real looker. She's got lovely blue eyes, a really smooth complexion, a bit pale ..."

"How tall?"

"An inch or two shorter than him."

"What about her figure?"

Tony blushed again. "Nice. I mean, nice so's you'd notice in the street, especially in those tight jeans she wore, and the white T-s.h.i.+rt."

Gristhorpe smiled and nodded. "Did you notice what kind of car they drove?"

"Yes. It was parked outside often enough. It was a Fiesta."

"What colour?"

"White."

"Did they always dress casually?"

"I suppose so. I never paid much attention, except to her, of course. Now I think of it, Chris was a bit more formal. He usually wore a jacket and a tie. You don't think anything's happened to them, do you?"

"Don't worry, Tony," Gristhorpe said. "I'm sure they're fine. Just one more thing. Did you ever hear sounds of a child there at all?"

Tony frowned. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"I'd have noticed. Yes, I'm sure. They didn't have any children."

"Fine. Thanks very much, Tony," Gristhorpe said. "We'll leave you to enjoy the rest of your holiday in peace."

Tony nodded and accompanied them to the door.

"You'll let me know, will you, if they're all right? I mean, I didn't really know them, but they were neighbours, in a way."

"We'll let you know," said Gristhorpe, and followed Richmond to the car.

"Will you be needing me any more?" asked Patricia c.u.mmings.

Gristhorpe smiled at her. "No, thanks very much, Mrs c.u.mmings. You can go home now. Just one thing, could you leave that set of keys with us?"

"Why?"

"So we can let the scene-of-crime team in."

"But-"

"This is important, Mrs c.u.mmings, believe me. I wouldn't ask it otherwise. And don't rent the place out again until we give the OK."

Her cheeks quivered a bit, then she dropped the keys into Gristhorpe's outstretched hand, climbed into her car and drove off with a screech of rubber. Gristhorpe got into the police Rover beside Richmond. "Well, Phil," he said, "what do you think?"

"I'm not sure, sir. The description doesn't fit."

"But it would if they dyed their hair and got dressed up in business clothes, wouldn't it? Both descriptions were vague enough- Brenda Scupham's and Tony Roper's."

"That's true. But what about the car?"

"They could have stolen one for the abduction, or rented one."

"A bit risky, isn't it? And we've checked all the rental agencies."

"But we used the descriptions Brenda Scupham gave us."

Gristhorpe scratched his ear. "Better get back to the rental agencies and find out about any couples their general age and appearance. Mention the man's smile. That seems to be a common factor. And the woman is clearly attractive. Someone might remember them."

Richmond nodded. "You think it was this Manley couple, sir?" "I'm not saying that, but I think we'd better treat them as serious contenders for the moment."

"It certainly seems odd the way they left the place in such a hurry."

"Yes," Gristhorpe muttered. "And that cleaning job. Why?" "Just a fastidious couple, maybe?"

"Maybe. But why did they leave in a hurry?"

"Could be any number of reasons," Richmond said. "A family emergency, maybe?"

"Did you notice a phone in the cottage?"

"No. I suppose that's part of the rustic peace."

"Mm. There is one thing."

"Sir?"

"Let's say, for the sake of argument, that they did have to leave because of a family emergency. n.o.body could have phoned them, but they could have used the nearest phonebox if they had to keep checking on someone who was ill."

"You mean they wouldn't have stayed behind to clean up the place, sir?"

"There's that, aye. But there's something odder. The money. They paid cash in advance. How much do these places go for?"

"I don't know, sir. I forgot to ask."

"It doesn't matter, but it must be a fair whack. Say a hundred and fifty a week."

"Something like that. And probably a deposit, too."

"Then why didn't they ask for some of their money back?"

"They might have had a hard time getting it."

"Perhaps. But they didn't even try. That's three hundred quid we're talking about, Phil. Plus deposit."

"Maybe they were loaded."

Gristhorpe fixed Richmond with the closest his benign features could get to a look of contempt. "Phil, if they were loaded, the first thing they would do is ask for their money back. That's how the rich get that way, and that's how they stay that way."

"I suppose so," Richmond mumbled. "What do we do now?"

"We get the forensic team in, that's what we do," Gristhorpe said, and reached for the radio.

III.

The house was in darkness when Banks got home from the station around ten o'clock that Sat.u.r.day evening. Tracy, he remembered, was at a dance in Relton with her friends. Banks had grilled her thoroughly about who was going and who was driving. He had been undecided, loath to let her go, but Sandra had tipped the balance. She was probably right, Banks admitted. Barring a punch-up between the Eastvale lads and the Relton lads, a fairly regular feature of these local dances, it ought to be a harmless enough affair. And Tracy was a big girl now.

So where was Sandra? Banks turned the lights on, then went into the kitchen thinking he might find a note. Nothing. Feeling anxious and irritated, he sat down, turned on the television and started switching channels: an American cop show, a doc.u.mentary on Africa, a pirate film, a quiz show. He turned it off. The silence in the house closed in on him. This was absurd. Normally he would change into jeans and a sports s.h.i.+rt, pour a drink, put some music on, perhaps even smoke a cigarette if both Sandra and Tracy were out. Now all he could do was sit down and tap his fingers on the chair arm. It was no good. He couldn't stay home.

Grabbing his jacket against the evening chill, he walked along Market Street past the closed shops and the Golden Grill and the Queen's Arms. The light through the red and amber coloured windows beckoned, and he could see people at tables through the small clear panes, but instead of dropping in, he continued along North Market Street, quiet under its old-fas.h.i.+oned gas-lamps, window displays of gourmet teas, expensive hiking gear, imported shoes and special blends of tobacco.

The front doors of the community centre stood open. From the hall, Banks could hear a soprano struggling through Schubert's "Die Junge Nonne" to a hesitant piano accompaniment. It was Sat.u.r.day, amateur recital night. He took the broad staircase to his left and walked up to the first floor. He could hear voices from some of the rooms, mostly used for the meetings of local hobby clubs or for committees of various kinds. The double gla.s.s doors of the gallery were closed, but a faint light shone from behind the part.i.tion at the far end of the room.

Banks walked softly down the carpeted gallery, its walls bare of pictures at the moment, and stopped outside the cramped office at the end. He had already heard Sandra's voice, but she was unaware of his presence.

"But you can't do that," she was pleading. "You've already agreed-"

"What? You don't give a ... Now look-" She moved the receiver away from her ear and swore before slamming it down in its cradle. Then she took two deep breaths, tucked loose strands of blonde hair behind her ears, and picked up the phone again.

"Sandra," Banks said as gently as he could.

She turned round and put her hand to her chest. Banks could see the angry tears burning in her eyes. "Alan, it's you. What are you doing here? You scared me."

"Sorry."

"Look, it's not a good time. I've got so d.a.m.n much to do."

"Let's go for a drink."

She started dialling. "I'd love to, but I-"

Banks broke the connection.

Sandra stood up and faced him, eyes blazing. "What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?"