Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 27

"Be daft if they were, wouldn't they? But I don't mind saying I was scared s.h.i.+tless those two nights sleeping out. I kept thinking there was someone creeping up on me to cut my throat. You know what it's like out in the country, all those animal noises and the wind blowing barn doors." He shuddered.

"Is that everything, Les?"

"Cross my heart."

Banks noticed he didn't say "hope to die" this time. "It'd better be," said Banks, standing and stretching. He walked over to the door and peered outside, then turned to Gristhorpe. "Looks like they've got Jim away somewhere. What shall we do now?"

Gristhorpe a.s.sessed Poole with a steady gaze. "I think he's told us all he knows," he said finally. "We'd better take him to the charge room then lock him up."

"Good idea," Banks said. "Give him a nice warm cell for the day. For his own safety."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe. "What'll we charge him with?"

"We could start with indecent exposure."

They spent another hour or so going over Poole's statement with him, and Poole made no objections as the constable finally led him down to the charge room. He just looked anxiously right and left to make sure Hatchley wasn't around. Banks wandered to his office for a cigarette and another cup of coffee. Gristhorpe joined him there, and a few minutes later Jim Hatchley walked in with a big grin on his face.

"Haven't had as much fun since the last rugby club trip," he said. "How did you know he'd be going for a p.i.s.s anyway? I was getting a bit fed up stuck in there. I'd read the Sport twice already."

"People want to urinate a lot when they're anxious," Banks said. "He did before. Besides, tea's a diuretic, didn't you know that?"

Hatchley shook his head.

"Anyway, he'd have wanted to go eventually. We'd just have kept him as long as necessary."

"Aye," said Hatchley, "and me in the f.u.c.king s.h.i.+thouse."

Banks smiled. "Effective, though, wasn't it? More dramatic that way."

"Very dramatic. Thinking of doing a bit of local theatre, are you?"

Banks laughed. "Sometimes that's what I think I am doing already." He walked over to the window and stretched. "Christ, it's been a long morning," he muttered.

The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock stood at ten-twenty. Susan Gay walked in and out with the latest developments. Not much. There had been more reports of Chivers, from Welshpool, Ramsgate and Llaneilian, and all had to be checked out by the locals. So far, they didn't have one clear lead. Just after eleven, the phone rang, and Banks picked it up.

"Detective Inspector Loder here. Dorset CID."

Banks sighed. "Not another report of Chivers?"

"More than that," said Loder. "In fact, I think you'd better get down to Weymouth if you can."

Banks sat upright. "You've got him?"

"Not exactly, but we've got a dead blonde in a hotel room, and she matches the description you put out."

TWELVE.

I.

Gristhorpe sat in the pa.s.senger seat of the unmarked police car with a road map spread out on his knees. Banks drove. He would have preferred his own Cortina, mostly because of the stereo system, but Sandra needed it for all her gallery work. Besides, Gristhorpe was tone deaf; for all his learning, he couldn't appreciate music. Banks had packed his Walkman and a couple of tapes in his overnight bag; he knew it wouldn't be easy getting to sleep in a strange hotel room, especially after what awaited them in Weymouth, and music would help.

They were heading down the M1 past Sheffield with its huge cooling towers, shaped like giant whalebone corsets, and its wasteland of disused steel factories. It was almost one-thirty in the afternoon, and despite the intermittent rain they were making good time.

Gristhorpe, after much muttering to himself, decided it would be best to turn off the motorway just south of Northampton and go via Oxford, Swindon and Salisbury. Banks drove as fast as he could, and just over an hour later they reached the junction with the A43. They skirted Oxford in the late afternoon and didn't get held up until they hit Swindon at rush-hour.

After Blandford Forum, they pa.s.sed the time reading signposts and testing one another on Hardy's names for the places. They managed to keep abreast until Gristhorpe went ahead with Middleton Abbey for Milton Abbas.

After a traffic snarl-up in the centre of Dorchester, they approached Weymouth in the early evening. Loder had given clear directions to the hotel, and luckily it was easy to spot, one of the Georgian terraces on the Dorchester Road close to the point where it merged with The Esplanade.

A plump, curly-haired woman called Maureen greeted them in the small lobby and told them that Inspector Loder and his men had been gone for some time but had left a guard outside the room and requested she call them at the station as soon as Banks and Gristhorpe arrived. Their booking for the night had already been made: two singles on the third floor, one floor down from where the body had been discovered.

Out of courtesy, Banks and Gristhorpe waited for Loder to arrive before going up to the room. They had requested that, as far as possible, things should be left as they were when the chambermaid discovered the body that morning. Of course, Loder's scene-of-crime men had done their business, and the Home Office pathologist had examined the body in situ, but the corpse was still there, waiting for them, in the position she been found.

Loder walked in fifteen minutes later. He was a painfully thin man with a hatchet face and a spa.r.s.e fuzz of grey hair. Close to retirement, Banks guessed, and tired. His worn navy blue suit hung on him, and his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses seemed precariously balanced near the end of his long, thin nose. As he spoke, his grey-green eyes peered over the tops of the lenses.

After the formalities were over, the three men headed up the thickly carpeted stairs to room 403.

"We tried to do as you asked," Loder said as they climbed. "You might see some traces of the SOCO team's presence, but otherwise ..." He had a local accent, a kind of deep burr like a mist around his vowels, and he spoke slowly, pausing between thoughts.

The uniformed constable stepped aside at Loder's gesture, and they entered the room and turned on the light. They had no need to wear surgical gloves, as the forensic scientists had already been over the scene. What they were getting was part preservation, part re-creation.

First, Banks studied the room in general. It was unusually s.p.a.cious for a seaside hotel room, with a high ceiling, ornate moulding and an oriel window overlooking the sea, now only a dim presence beyond the Esplanade lights. The window was open a fraction and Banks felt the pleasant chill of the breeze and heard the distant wash of waves on the beach. Gristhorpe stood beside him, similarly watchful. The wallpaper, a bright flower pattern, gave a cheerful aura, and a framed watercolour of Weymouth's seafront hung over the writing-desk. There was little other furniture: armchair, television, dressing-table, wardrobe and bedside tables-and the large bed itself. Banks left that until last.

The shape of a woman's body was clearly defined by the twisted white sheet that covered it. At first glance, it looked like someone sprawled on her back in the morning just before stretching and getting up. But instead of her head resting on the pillow, the pillow was resting on her head.

"Is this how you found her?" Banks asked Loder.

He nodded. "The doc did his stuff, of course, but he tried not to disturb her too much. We put the body back much as it was, as you requested."

There was an implied criticism in his tone. Why on earth, Loder seemed to be asking, did you want us to leave the body? But Banks ignored him. He always liked to get the feel of a scene; somehow it told him much more than photographs, drawings and reports. There was nothing morbid in his need to see the body where it lay; in fact, in many instances, this included, he would far rather not. But it did make a difference. Not only did it give him some sort of contact with the victim, the symbolism of having touched the corpse, something he needed to fuel him through a murder investigation, but it also sometimes enabled him to enter the criminal's and the victim's minds. He didn't think there was anything particularly psychic about this; it was more a Holmesian manner of working back from the little things one observed to the circ.u.mstances that created them. There was no denying, though, that sometimes he did get a true feel for the way the killer thought and what his next moves might be.

From the disapproval in his tone, Banks formed the impression that Loder was a highly moral man, outraged not only by the murder but by the delay in getting the corpse to its proper place. It was a woman's body, too, and that seemed to embarra.s.s him.

Slowly, Banks walked over to the bed and picked up the pillow. Gristhorpe stood beside him. The woman's long blonde hair lay spread out on the undersheet. She had been beautiful, no doubt about that: fine bone structure, a clear complexion, full lips. Apart from her head, only her neck and shoulders were exposed, alabaster skin clouded with the bluish tinge of cyanosis.

Her left hand grasped the top of the sheet and bunched it up. She wore red nail polish, but Banks thought he could also detect traces of blood around the tips of her fingers and smeared on the white sheet. He lifted the sheet. She was naked underneath. Carefully, he replaced it, as if to avoid causing her further embarra.s.sment. Loder wasn't the only sensitive one, no matter what he thought.

Gristhorpe opened one of her eyelids. "See that," he said pointing to the red pinp.r.i.c.ks of blood in the once-blue eye.

Banks nodded. It was a petechial haemorrhage, one sign of asphyxiation, most likely in this case caused by the pillow.

Banks touched her right hand and s.h.i.+vered; it was cold and stiff with rigor.

"We've got the skin and blood samples, of course," said Loder, when he saw Banks examining the nails. "Looks like she put up a bit of a struggle. We should be able to type the killer, maybe even do a DNA profile."

"We don't have time for that," Gristhorpe said. "This one's got to be stopped fast."

"We-ell," said Loder, in his slow burr, "at least it'll come in useful in court. Is it her, the one you're looking for?"

"We didn't have a very good description," Gristhorpe answered. "Alan?"

"Couldn't say." Banks turned to Loder. "She was with the man, though, you said?"

"Yes. The one with the nice smile. You mentioned it specifically in the papers. That's why we called you boys in."

"Any identification?" Gristhorpe asked.

Loder shook his head. "Nothing. Whoever did it took everything. Clothes, handbag, the lot. We tried her fingerprints but they're not on file." He paused. "It looks as if she was killed here, and the doc says she certainly hasn't been moved since she died. He's anxious to get to the PM, of course, but ruling out drugs, his findings so far are consistent with asphyxiation."

"Any idea of the time?"

"Doc puts it between six and nine in the morning."

"Anything else we should know?"

Loder glanced towards the body and paused for a moment before speaking. "Nothing else unusual about the body," he said, "unless you count the fact that she'd had s.e.x around the time she was killed."

"Forced?"

"Not so far as the doc could make out." Loder walked towards the window, leaned on the sill and looked out over the Esplanade lights. "But it probably wouldn't be, would it, if she was sleeping with the bloke. Now, if you gentlemen are through, could we possibly get out of here? I seem to have spent far too much time with her already today." He sounded weary, and Banks wondered if he were not only tired but ill; he certainly seemed unusually thin and pale.

"Of course," said Gristhorpe, looking over at Banks. "Just a couple more questions first, while they're fresh in my mind."

Loder sighed. "All right."

"I don't suppose the chambermaid actually cleaned the room, did she, given what she found here?"

"No," said Loder, a thin smile on his lips. "No, she didn't. I'm sure you'll want to talk to her yourselves, but the one odd thing- and I noticed it, too-was that the room looked as if it had just been cleaned. The SOCO team tried to disturb things as little as possible. They took their samples, dusted for prints and so on, but you can see what it was like."

Indeed they could. The room looked spotless, clean and tidy. Under the thin patina of fingerprint powder, wood surfaces gleamed with recent polis.h.i.+ng. Gristhorpe glanced in the small bathroom toilet, and it was the same, as if the fixtures and fittings had been scrubbed with Ajax, the towels hung neatly on the racks. There wasn't a smear of toothpaste or a trace of stubble stuck to the sides of the sink.

"The cottage the Manleys left in Eastvale was just the same," Gristhorpe said. "What do you make of it, Alan?"

Banks shrugged. "Partly getting rid of evidence, I suppose," he said. "Though he kindly left us s.e.m.e.n samples, not to mention blood and skin under her fingernails. Maybe he's got a pathological obsession with cleanliness and neatness. I've heard it's not uncommon among psychopaths. Something to ask Jenny about, anyway." He pointed to two thin, glossy leaflets on the dressing-table. "Were those there when the chambermaid came in?"

"No," said Loder. "Sorry. One of the crime-scene boys found them and forgot to put them back."

"Would you show us where?"

Loder opened one of the drawers, which was lined with plain paper, and slipped the brochures under. "Like this," he said. "I thought maybe he'd forgotten them, or they slipped under the lining by accident. The chambermaid said she cleans out the drawers thoroughly between guests, so they can't have been there before. They're ferry timetables, see. For Cherbourg and the Channel Islands. We reckon that's where he must have gone."

"What time do the ferries start?"

"Early enough."

"Did he have a car?"

"Yes, parked out back. A white Fiesta. See, he wouldn't need it to get to the ferry dock, and once he gets over to the Channel Islands or France, well ... Anyway, our lads have taken it to the police garage."

"Is there anything else?" Gristhorpe asked.

Loder shook his head.

"All right, let's get out of here. Tell your boys they can get her to the mortuary. Will the pathologist be able to start the autopsy tonight?"

"I think so." Loder closed the door behind them. "As I said, he's been chomping at the bit all day as it is." The police guard resumed his post and Loder led the way downstairs.

"Good," said Gristhorpe. "I think we can leave it till morning to talk to the hotel staff. I trust your lads have already taken statements?"

Loder nodded.

"We'll see what a good night's sleep does for their memories then. Anything else you can think of, Alan?"

Banks shook his head, but couldn't prevent his stomach from rumbling.

"Oh, aye," said Gristhorpe. "I forgot we hadn't eaten all day. Better see what we can rustle up."

II.

"Is this the place?" Susan Gay asked.

Richmond nodded. "Looks like it."

Rampart Street sounded as if it should have been situated near the castle, but instead, for reasons known only to town-planners, it was a nondescript cul-de-sac running south off Elmet Street in Eastvale's west end. One side consisted of pre-war terrace houses without gardens. Mostly they seemed in a state of neglect and disrepair, but some tenants had attempted to brighten things up with window-boxes and bra.s.s door-knockers.

The other side of the street, with a small Esso garage on the corner, consisted of several shops, including a greengrocer's with tables of fruit and vegetables out front; a betting shop; a newsagent-c.u.m-video rental outlet; and the incongruously named Rampart Antiques. However one defines "antique," whether it be by some kind of intrinsic beauty or simply by age, Rampart Antiques failed on both counts.

In the grimy window, Susan spotted a heap of cracked Sony Walkmans without headphones, two stringless acoustic guitars and several dusty box-cameras, along with the occasional chipped souvenir plate with its "hand-painted" scene of Blackpool tower or London Bridge wedged among them. One corner was devoted to old LPs-Frank Sinatra, the Black d.y.k.e Mills Band, Bobby Vinton, Connie Francis-covers faded and curled at the edges after too long in the sun. An old Remington office typewriter, which looked as if it weighed a ton, stood next to a cracked Coronation mug and a bulbous pink china lamp-stand.

Inside was no less messy, and the smell of dust, mildew and stale tobacco made Susan's nose itch.

"Can I help you?"

The man sat behind the counter, a copy of Penthouse open in front of him. It was hard to tell how tall he was, but he certainly had the short black hair, the squarish face and the broken nose that the woman in Johnson's building had mentioned.

"John Fairley?" Richmond asked.

"That's me."

Richmond and Susan showed their warrant cards, then Richmond said, in his formal voice, "We have received information which leads us to believe that there may be stolen property on these premises." He handed over a copy of the search warrant they had spent all afternoon arranging. Fairley stared at it, open-mouthed.

By then, both Richmond and Susan were rummaging through the junk. They would find nothing on display, of course, but the search had to be as thorough as possible. Susan flipped through the stacks of old 45s on wobbly tables-Ral Donner, B. b.u.mble and the Stingers, Karl Denver, Boots Randolph, the Surfaris, names she had never heard of. One table groaned under the whole of Verdi's Rigoletto on 78s. There were also several shelves of books along one wall: Reader's Digest condensed editions; old Enid Blytons with torn paper covers that said 2/6 on the front; books with stiff pages and covers warped and stained by water-damage, most by authors she had never heard of. She doubted whether even Banks or Gristhorpe would have heard of them, either. Who on earth would want to buy such useless and smelly junk?