Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 19

"n.o.body tried to chat her up?"

"No." He scratched his cheek. "And that's a funny thing, you know. Now you've got me talking I'm thinking things that never really entered my head at the time. They were just an interesting couple of holidaymakers, but the more I think about them ..."

"Yes?"

"Well, the thing that really struck you about Chris was his smile. When he smiled at you, you immediately wanted to trust him. I suppose it worked with the women too. But there was something ... I mean, I can't put my finger on it, but you just sort of knew that if you really did try it on with Connie, outside a bit of mild flirting, that is, then he'd be something to reckon with. That's the only way I can express it. I suppose everyone picked up on that because n.o.body tried it on. Not even Andy Lumsden, and he goes after anything in a skirt as a rule."

"Where were they from?"

"Chris and Connie? Do you know, I couldn't tell you. He didn't have a Yorks.h.i.+re accent, that's for certain. But it was hard to place.

South, maybe. It was sort of characterless, like those television newsreaders."

"They didn't say where they were from?"

"Come to think of it, no. Just said they were taking some time off and travelling around for a while, having a rest from the fast lane. They never really said anything about themselves. Funny that, isn't it?"

"They didn't even say what they were taking time off from?"

"No."

Gristhorpe stood up and nodded to Richmond. He shook Mr Ackroyd's good hand and wished him well, then they walked back out into the drizzle.

"What now?" Richmond asked.

Gristhorpe looked at his watch. "It's half past two," he said. "I reckon we've just got time for a pint and a sandwich at The Drayman's Rest, don't you?"

IV.

Susan Gay parked her red Golf outside and went up to her flat. She had had a busy day going over mug-shots with Edwina Whixley- to no avail-and questioning the other occupants of 59 Calvin Street again. She had also made an appointment to see the governor of Armley Jail, where Johnson had served his time, at four-thirty the following afternoon. She knew she could probably have asked him questions over the phone, but phone calls, she always felt, were too open to interruptions, and too limiting. If the governor needed to consult a warden for additional information, for example, that might prove difficult over the phone. Besides, she was old-fas.h.i.+oned; she liked to be able to watch people's eyes when she talked to them.

She put her briefcase by the door and dropped her keys on the hall table. She had made a lot of changes to the place since her promotion to CID. It had once been little more than a hotel suite, somewhere to sleep. But now she had plants and a growing collection of books and records.

Susan favoured the more traditional, romantic kind of cla.s.sical music, the ones you remember bits from and find yourself humming along with now and then: Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, bits of opera from films and TV adverts. Most of her records were "greatest hits," so she didn't have their complete symphonies or anything, just the movements everyone remembered.

Her reading was still limited mostly to technical stuff, like forensics and criminology, but she made s.p.a.ce on her shelves for the occasional Jeffrey Archer, d.i.c.k Francis and Robert Ludlum. Banks wouldn't approve of her tastes, she was sure, but at least now she knew she had tastes.

As usual, if she was in, she had "Calendar" on the television as she fussed around in the kitchen throwing together a salad. Normally, she would just be listening, as the TV set was in the living-room, but this evening, an item caught her attention and she walked through, salad bowl in hand and stood and watched open-mouthed.

It was Brenda Scupham and a gypsyish looking woman on the couch being interviewed. She hadn't caught the introduction, but they were talking about clairvoyance. Brenda, in a tight lemon chiffon blouse tucked into a black mini-skirt much too short for a worried mother, sat staring blankly into the camera, while the other woman explained how objects dear to people bear psychic traces of them and act as conduits into the extrasensory world.

Brenda nodded in agreement occasionally. When Richard Whiteley turned to her and asked her what she thought, she said, "I don't know. I really don't know," then she looked over at the other woman. "But I'm convinced my Gemma is still alive and I want to beg whoever knows where she is to let her come back to her mother, please. You won't be punished, I promise."

"What about the police?" he asked. "What do they think?" Brenda shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I think they believe she's dead. Ever since they found her clothes, I think they've given up on her."

Susan flopped into her armchair, salad forgotten for the moment. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, she thought, Superintendent Gristhorpe's going to love this.

NINE.

I.

Gristhorpe was indeed furious when he heard about Brenda Scupham's television appearance. As he had no TV set of his own, though, he didn't find out until Wednesday morning.

"It's been over a week now since Gemma Scupham disappeared," he said, shaking his head over coffee and toasted teacakes with Banks at the Golden Grill. "I can't say I hold out much hope. Especially since we found the clothes."

"I can't, either," Banks agreed. "But Brenda Scupham's got some b.l.o.o.d.y psychic to convince her that Gemma's alive. Who would you rather listen to, if you were her?"

"I suppose you're right. Anyway, it all connects: the abandoned cottage, the borrowed car, the hair-dye. We've got descriptions of the Manleys out-both as themselves and as Peterson and Brown. Somebody, somewhere must know them. How about you?"

Banks sipped some hot black coffee. "Not much. The lab finally came through with the scene a.n.a.lysis. The blood in the mill matched Johnson's, so we can be pretty certain that's where he was killed. Glendenning says it was a right-handed upthrust wound. Six-inch blade, single-edged. Probably some kind of sheath-knife, and you know how common those are. No handy footprints or tire tracks, and no sign of the weapon. I'm off to see Harkness again, though I don't suppose it'll do much good."

"You think he did it?"

"Apart from the mysterious stranger seen leaving Johnson's building, he's the only lead I've got. I keep telling myself that just because I didn't take to the man it doesn't mean he's a killer. But n.o.body gets that rich without making a few enemies. And Johnson was a crook. He could have been involved somewhere along the line."

"Aye, maybe you're right. Be careful, though, the last thing I need right now is the ACC on my back."

Banks laughed. "You know me. Diplomacy personified."

"Aye, well ... I'd better be off to see Mrs Scupham. See if I can't talk some sense into her. I want a word with that b.l.o.o.d.y psychic, too. I've got Phil out looking for her." He looked outside. A fine mist nuzzled the window.

"Hang on a minute, sir," Banks said. "You know, Brenda Scupham might be right."

"What?"

"If Gemma is alive, a television appeal won't do any harm. It might even do some good."

"I realize that. We can't have any idea what the woman's going through. All I want to do is rea.s.sure her that we are doing the best we can. If Gemma is alive, we've more chance of finding her than some b.l.o.o.d.y tea-leaf reader. There's a trail to follow somewhere in all this, and I think we're picking it up. But these people, the Manleys or whatever they call themselves now, they talked to enough people, got on well enough with the locals, but they gave nothing away. We don't even know where they come from, and we can't be sure what they look like, either. They're still two-dimensional."

"What about the notes they used to pay for the cottage?"

"Patricia c.u.mmings, the estate agent, said she paid the cash directly into the bank. Right now it's mixed up with all the rest of the money they've got in their vaults."

"How did they hear about the cottage? Did they say?"

"Told her they'd read about it in The Dalesman."

"You could get-"

"I know, I know-the list of subscribers. We're checking on it. But you can buy The Dalesman at almost any newsagent's, in this part of the country, anyway."

"Just a thought."

Gristhorpe finished his teacake and wiped his mouth with the paper serviette. "At the moment it looks like our best bet lies with the descriptions-if that's what they really look like. Christ knows, maybe they're Hollywood special-effects people underneath it all. We've got the artist working with Parkinson and the crowd in The Drayman's Rest. Should be ready for tomorrow's papers. And I was thinking about the whitewash they found on Gemma's clothes, too. I've seen it in two places recently: Melville Westman's, the Satanist, or whatever he calls himself, and the holiday cottage."

"I suppose the Manleys could have kept Gemma there," Banks said. "Perhaps they drugged her. She's not very big. It wouldn't be difficult to get her out of the cottage after dark."

"Aye, that's true enough. Still, I'm getting a warrant and sending a few lads to give Westman's place a good going-over."

"You don't like him any better than I like Harkness, do you?"

Gristhorpe grinned. "No," he said. "No, I don't." He pushed his chair back. "Must be off. See you later, Alan." And he walked out into Market Street.

II.

Adam Harkness's house clearly hadn't been vacuumed or tidied since Banks's last visit. At least a crackling fire took the chill out of the damp air in the library. The french windows were firmly closed. Beyond the streaked gla.s.s, drops of rain pitted the river's surface. Lyndgarth and Aldington Edge were shrouded in a veil of low grey cloud.

"Please, sit down," Harkness said. "Now what can I do for you, Chief Inspector? Have you found Carl's killer?"

Banks rubbed his hands in front of the fire, then sat. "Not yet," he said. "There's a couple of points you might be able to help me clear up, though."

Harkness raised a challenging eyebrow and sat in the chair opposite Banks. "Yes?"

"We've learned that Johnson might have met with a certain individual on a couple of occasions shortly before his murder. Did he talk to you about any of his friends?"

"I've already told you. He was my gardener. He came a couple of times a week and kept the garden in trim. That's all."

"Is it? Please think about it, Mr Harkness. Even if Johnson was only the hired help, it would be perfectly natural to have a bit of a chat now and then about innocuous stuff, wouldn't it?" He felt that he was giving Harkness a fair chance to come up with something he may have forgotten or chosen not to admit earlier, but it did no good.

Harkness folded his hands in his lap. "I knew nothing whatsoever about Carl Johnson's private life. The moment he left my property, his life was his own, and I neither know nor care what he did."

"Even if it was of a criminal nature?"

"You might believe he was irredeemably branded as a criminal. I do not. Besides, as I keep telling you, I have no knowledge of his activities, criminal or otherwise."

Banks described the man Edwina Whixley had seen coming down the stairs of Johnson's building: thick-set, medium height, short dark hair, squarish head. "Ever see or hear about him?"

Harkness shook his head. "Carl always came here alone. He never introduced me to any of his colleagues."

"So you never saw this man?"

"No."

"How did Johnson get here?"

"What?"

"Carl Johnson? How did he get here? He didn't have a car."

"There are still buses, Chief Inspector, including a fairly regular service from Eastvale to Lyndgarth. There's a bus-stop just by the bridge."

"Of course. Did Johnson ever mention any of his old prison friends?"

"What? Not to me. It would hardly have been appropriate, would it?" Harkness picked up the poker and jabbed at the fire. "Look, why don't you save us both a lot of wasted time and energy and accept that I'm telling the truth when I say I knew nothing about Carl's private life?"

"I don't know what gives you the impression I don't believe you."

"Your att.i.tude, for a start, and the questions you keep on asking over and over again."

"Sir," said Banks, "you have to understand that this is a murder investigation. People forget things. Sometimes they don't realize the importance of what they know. All I'm doing is trying to jog your memory into giving up something that Johnson might have let slip in a moment of idle chatter. Anything. It might mean nothing at all to you-a name, a date, an opinion, whatever-but it might be vital to us."

Harkness paused. "Well ... of course, yes ... I suppose I see what you mean. The thing is, though, there really is nothing. I'm sure if he'd said anything I would have remembered it by now. The fact is we just didn't talk beyond discussing the garden and the weather. Basically, we had nothing else in common. He seemed a reticent sort of fellow, anyway, kept himself to himself, and that suited me fine. Also, remember, I'm often away on business."

"Was there ever any evidence that Johnson had used the house in your absence?"

"What do you mean, 'used the house'? For what purpose?"

"I don't know. I a.s.sume he had a key?"

"Yes. But ..."

"Nothing was ever out of place?"

"No. Are you suggesting he might have been stealing things?"

"No. I don't think even Carl Johnson would have been that stupid. To be honest, I don't know what I'm getting at." Banks scratched his head and glanced at the river and the copper beech, leaves dripping, beyond the french windows. "This is a fairly out-of-the-way place. It could be suitable for criminal activities in any number of ways."

"I noticed nothing," Harkness said, with a thin smile. "Not even a muddy footprint on my carpet."

"You see," Banks went on, "Johnson's life is a bit of a mystery to us. We've got his record, the bald facts. But how did he think? We don't seem to be able to find anyone who was close to him. And there are years missing. He may have been to Europe, Amsterdam perhaps. He may even have had friends from South Africa."

Harkness sat bolt upright and gripped the arms of the chair. "What are you insinuating?"

"I've heard rumours of some sort of a scandal. Something involving you back in South Africa. There was some sort of cover-up. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

Harkness snorted. "There are always scandals surrounding the wealthy, Chief Inspector. You ought to know that. Usually they derive from envy. No, I can't say I do know what you're talking about."

"But was there any such scandal involving you or your family out there?"

"No, nothing that stands out."

Banks got that almost-infallible tingle that told him Harkness was holding back. He gave his man-of-the-world shrug. "Of course, I'm not suggesting there was any truth in it, but we have to investigate everything that comes up."

Harkness stood up. "It seems to me that you are spending an unusual amount of time investigating me when you should be looking for Carl Johnson's killer. I suggest you look among his criminal cronies for your killer."

"You've got a point, there. And, believe me, we're trying to track them down. Just out of interest, did Johnson ever mention South Africa to you?"

"No, he did not. And don't think I don't know what you're getting at. You're suggesting he was blackmailing me over some secret or other, aren't you, and that I killed him to silence him? Come on, is that what you're getting at?"

Banks stood up and spoke slowly. "But you couldn't have killed him, could you, sir? You were dining at the Golf Club at the time of the murder. A number of very influential people saw you there." He regarded Harkness, who maintained an expression of outraged dignity, then said, "Thank you very much for your time," and left.

As he drove down to the main road with the windscreen-wipers tapping time to Gurney's "Sleep," he smiled to himself. He had got at least some of what he had wanted: a sure sense that Harkness was holding something back; and the satisfying knowledge that the man, rich, confident and powerful notwithstanding, could be rattled. Time now to make a few overseas phone calls, then perhaps have another chat with Mr Adam Harkness.