Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 18

"I'm thinking of writing a detective story."

"Good lord," said Banks, whose knowledge of detective fiction stopped at Sherlock Holmes.

"From what I've read," Linda went on, "it's clear that one can get away without knowing much police procedure, but a little realism does no harm. What I was thinking was-"

The waitress appeared with their food and drinks at that moment, and Linda's attention was diverted towards her chili-burger. Feeling relieved at the interruption, Banks bit into his burger. It was good. But his reprieve was only temporary.

"What I was thinking," Linda went on, wiping the chili sauce from her chin with a paper napkin, "was perhaps that you could advise me. You know, on police procedure. And maybe tell me a bit about some of your cases. Give me an insight into the criminal mind, so to speak."

"Well," said Banks, "I'd be glad to help if you have any specific questions. But I don't really think I can just sit down and tell you all about it." Her eyes narrowed again, and she bit into her burger. When she had finished that mouthful, she went on. "I suppose that's a compromise of sorts. I'm sure your time is too valuable to waste on writers of fiction. Though I did get the impression that you are fairly well read."

Banks laughed. "I like a good book, yes."

"Well, then. Even Hardy and d.i.c.kens had to do their research, you know. They had to ask people about things."

Banks held up his hands. "All right, you've convinced me. Just give me specific questions and I'll do my best to answer them, okay?"

"Okay. I haven't got that far yet, but when I do I'll take you up on it."

"Now, what can you tell me about Adam Harkness?"

"Ah-hah, the interrogation at last. As I said, I can't tell you very much, really. But I don't believe all that phoney anti-apartheid rubbish, for a start."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't square with what I've heard. Oh, I'm sure he probably even believes it himself now, and it's a trendy enough position for white South African expatriates to take. But how do you think his father made his money? You can't tell me he didn't exploit the blacks. Everybody did. And you won't see Adam Harkness giving his money away to support the ANC."

"He told me he left South Africa because he didn't agree with the politics."

"That's not what I heard."

"What did you hear?"

"It's just rumours, but I've a friend lives there, a writer, and she said there was some kind of scandal about to break but the Harknesses hushed it up."

"What kind of scandal?"

"n.o.body really knows. My friend suspects he killed someone, a black mine-worker, but there's no proof."

It was possible, Banks supposed, ten or more years ago to cover up the murder of a black by a rich and powerful white man in South Africa. For all he knew, despite the sc.r.a.pping of racial cla.s.sification, it probably still was. Att.i.tudes don't change overnight, whatever politicians might decree.

"Have you ever heard of a man called Carl Johnson?" Banks asked.

"Only from the papers. He was the one killed, wasn't he, at the old lead mine?"

"That's right. He worked as a gardener for Harkness."

"Did he now?" She leaned forward. "And you think there might be some connection?"

"There might be."

"You surely don't think Adam Harkness murdered him?" "Harkness has an alibi. But a man like him can afford to have things done."

Her eyes opened wide. They looked like oysters on a half-sh.e.l.l. "Do you mean that kind of thing really goes on? In England? Hit men and contracts and all that."

Banks smiled. "It has been known."

"Well ... there's obviously more to this crime business than I realized. But I'm afraid I can't help you any further."

"Could you get in touch with your friend? Ask her for more information?"

"I could try, but I got the impression they put a lid on it pretty securely. Still, if it might help ..."

"It might."

"I've just had a thought."

"Yes?"

"If the rumour's true, about Harkness and the black miner, and if that Johnson person was killed at an old mine, there's a sort of symmetry to that, isn't there?"

"I suppose there is," Banks agreed. Symmetry, for Christ's sake, he thought. Plenty of it in books, but not in real life. "It's just a very isolated spot," he said.

"So why would anyone go there to meet a killer?"

"Obviously it was someone he trusted. He didn't have a car, so someone must have picked him up, or met him somewhere, and taken him there. Perhaps he thought he was going to get money."

"Oh, yes," said Linda. "I see. Well, I'd better leave the police work to you, hadn't I? But, you know, that's exactly the kind of thinking I'm interested in. Now, I'm going to have a chocolate sundae and you can tell me all about your most interesting case."

III.

Gristhorpe and Richmond stood in the rain outside Parkinson's house. Semi-detached, with a frosted-gla.s.s door and a pebble-dash facade, it was more modern than the row of tiny limestone cottages that faced it across the lopsided square of unkempt gra.s.s. Gristhorpe hadn't realized that Parkinson's house was so close to the abandoned cottage. This was the extreme north-western edge of Eastvale, and both the new and the old houses shared a superb view west along the valley bottom. Not today, though; everything was lost in the grey haze of rain.

Richmond wore a belted navy-blue Aquascutum over his suit, and Gristhorpe a rumpled fawn raincoat with the collar turned up. Neither wore a hat. It was the kind of rain that you felt inside rather than out, Gristhorpe thought, already registering the aches in his joints. Outside you merely got beaded in moisture, but inside you were damp and chilled to the marrow.

They had already tried the semis to the west, the last pair, with only the Helmthorpe Road and a dry-stone wall between them and the open country, but found n.o.body home. In fact, as Gristhorpe stood there looking around, he noticed how quiet and secluded the area was. Given that Parkinson had kept his car in the garage at the back of his house, it wouldn't have been at all difficult for someone to "borrow" it without being seen. Apart from a few cars and delivery vans on the main road, there was nothing else around.

They walked up the path and rang the bell of the semi adjoining Parkinson's. A few moments later a man answered and, after they had showed their identification, he invited them in.

"Come in out of the rain," he said, taking their coats. "I'll put the kettle on."

He was about forty, small and thick-set, with spa.r.s.e fair hair and lively grey eyes. His right arm, encased in plaster, hung in a sling over the lower part of his chest.

They settled down in the cheerful living-room, where the element of an electric fire took some of the chill out of their bones, and their host, Mr David Ackroyd, came in with mugs of tea and joined them. Two women were talking on the radio about menopause. He turned it off and sat down. Richmond installed himself in the armchair opposite, long legs crossed, notebook and pen in hand.

"What happened?" Gristhorpe asked, indicating the arm.

"Broke it on Sunday. Doing a bit of climbing out Swainshead way." He shook his head. "Silly b.u.g.g.e.r I am. I ought to know I'm too old for that sort of thing."

"So you're not usually home weekdays?"

"Good lord, no. I'm a civil servant ... well, civil as I can be to some of the riff-raff we get in the job centre these days." His eyes twinkled. "And servant to the devil, according to some. I'll be back at work again in a couple of days. The doctor says I just need a bit of a rest to get over the shock."

"Are you married?"

He frowned. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Does your wife work?"

"She's an auditor with the tax office."

"So she's usually out all day, too?"

"Yes. Most people around here are. Have to be to pay the mortgages, prices being the way they are. What's going on?"

"Just trying to feel out the lie of the land, so to speak," Gristhorpe said. "Did you know Mr Parkinson's car was stolen while he was away?"

"Yes. He came das.h.i.+ng in to tell me as soon as he checked the mileage. I told him to go to the police."

"Did you notice anything at all?"

"No. Of course, I was out at work all the time until the weekend. Everything seemed quite normal."

"Did he often make these trips?"

"Yes. Quite proud of himself he was about it too. He got a promotion in the company a short while ago. Exports. They do a bit of business with the Common Market countries. You know how it is, everything's Euro-this and Euro-that these days."

"And he always left his car in the garage?"

"Yes. Look, between you and me, Bruce is a bit tight. Short arms and deep pockets, if you know what I mean. He hasn't quite got to the company-car level yet but his boss, the bloke who usually goes with him, has. He lives a few miles north of here, so it's easy for him to pick Bruce up."

"How many people do you think knew about this arrangement?" "I couldn't say."

"But Mr Parkinson was the sort to talk about such things in public?"

"Well, I suppose so. I mean, it's nothing, is it, really? Just idle chatter, pub talk. He liked to let people know how important he was, how he got to travel to Europe on business and all that. I don't think he was worried that someone might overhear him and take off with his car."

"Could that have happened?"

"Easily enough, I suppose." He rubbed the plaster on his arm.

Gristhorpe noticed that a couple of people had signed it in ball-point just below the elbow. "We ought to be more careful, oughtn't we?" Ackroyd went on. "Lord knows, we hear enough about crime prevention on telly, we should know better than to go blabbing all our holiday and business plans in a pub. You just don't think, do you?"

"Which pub is this, Mr Ackroyd?"

"Pub? Well, I was speaking figuratively, really, but there's a local in the next street. It's called The Drayman's Rest. Nothing special really, but they do a decent pint and the company's all right."

"Do you and Mr Parkinson go there regularly?"

"I suppose you could say that. Not that we're big drinkers, mind you." He laughed. "Bruce always drinks halves and makes them last. It's just the social thing, the local, isn't it? A chat and a few laughs with the lads after work, that sort of thing."

"Do you know most of the regulars?"

"Oh, aye. Except we get a few strangers in from the holiday cottages over the road. They never cause any trouble, though, and we make them welcome enough."

"Get friendly with them, do you?"

"Well, some are easier than others, if you know what I mean. Some just like to keep to themselves, grab a sandwich and a pint and sit in the corner reading the paper. But there's outgoing ones. I like talking to people. That's how you learn, isn't it?"

"Have you met any interesting strangers in there recently?" "What?"

"The past couple of weeks. Anyone been especially friendly?"

Ackroyd rubbed his chin. "Aye, well now you mention it, there was Chris and Connie."

Gristhorpe looked over at Richmond. "The Manleys?"

"That's it. I always thought it a bit odd that they liked to stand at the bar and talk to the locals."

"Why?"

"Well, with a bird like her I wouldn't be in the pub in the first place," Ackroyd said, and winked. "But usually it's the couples tend to keep to themselves."

"They didn't?"

"No. Oh, they weren't pushy or anything. Just always there with a h.e.l.lo and a chat. Nowt special. It might be the weather, the news ... that kind of thing."

"And Mr Parkinson's European business trips?"

"Well, he did go on a bit... . Now wait a minute, you can't be suggesting that Chris and Connie ... ? No, I don't believe it. Besides, they had a car of their own. I saw them in it."

"A white Fiesta?"

"That's right."

"What kind of impression did they give you, Mr Ackroyd?"

"They just seemed like regular folk. I mean, Chris liked to talk about cars. Bit of a know-it-all, maybe. You know, the kind that likes to dominate conversations. And she seemed happy enough to be there."

"Did she say much?"

"No, but she didn't need to. I mean most of the men in that place would've given their right arms-" He stopped, looked at his cast and laughed. "No, that wasn't how I got it, honest. But what I'm trying to say is that it wasn't just that she was a looker, though she was that all right. The long blonde hair, those lovely red lips and the blue eyes. And from what I could tell she had all her curves in the right places, too. No, it wasn't just that. She was s.e.xy. She had a presence. Like she didn't have to do anything. Just walk in, smile, stand there leaning on the bar. There was something about her you could feel, like an electric charge. I am rambling on, aren't I? Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so, Mr Ackroyd." Some women just gave out an aura of s.e.x, Gristhorpe knew. That kind of s.e.x appeal was common enough on screen-the way Marilyn Monroe's clothes always seemed to want to slip off her body, for example-but it also happened in real life. It was nothing to do with looks, though a combination of beauty and s.e.x appeal could be deadly when it occurred, and some women didn't even realize they had it.

"How did Mr Manley act towards her?" he asked.

"No special way in particular. I mean, he wasn't much to look at himself. I got the impression he was sort of pleased that so many men obviously fancied her. You knew she was his and you could look but you couldn't touch. Now I think about it, he definitely seemed to be showing her off, like."