Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 31

"No. I don't want to listen to this. You're frightening me. Go away. Leave me alone."

"But Brenda, I-"

"Go on." Brenda pointed at the door, tears burning her eyes. "Go away. Get out!"

Lenora shook her head slowly, then, shoulders slumped, she got up and left the room. When Brenda heard the door close, she sank back into her chair. She was shaking now and tears burned down her cheeks. Dammit, why wouldn't they all leave her alone? And why couldn't she know for sure? Every day that Gemma stayed missing was more like h.e.l.l. Why couldn't they find her body, then Brenda could get her grieving done with, organize the funeral, move on. But no. Just day after day of misery. And it was all her fault, all Brenda's fault for not loving her daughter enough, for losing control and shaking her so much she was terrified what she might do the next time.

She stared at the large TV screen and saw her own reflection distorted through her tears. She remembered the interview she had watched over and over again. Vanity. Madness. It had all been madness. In a sudden burst of rage, she drew back her arm and flung her mug as hard as she could at the screen.

IV.

Just a few hours ago the wind had been cool, and there had been only enough blue sky to make baby a new bonnet. Now, as Banks and Susan drove to Harkness's, the wind had dropped, the sun had come out and the afternoon had turned out fine. Gristhorpe had been out when Banks went to find him, so he had left a message and found Susan, who happened to be in the corridor at the time.

Enjoying probably the last fine weekend of the season, families sat out on the green at Fortford eating picnics, even though it wasn't particularly warm and the gra.s.s must still be damp. Banks turned right on the Lyndgarth road, and as they approached the bridge, they saw even more people ambling along The Leas or sitting on the riverbank fis.h.i.+ng.

Banks drove in silence, tense and angry over the forthcoming confrontation. They turned in the drive just before the old pack-horse bridge, and the car flung up gravel as they stopped. They had no evidence, he reminded himself, only supposition, and everything depended on bluffing and scaring Harkness into blabbing. It wouldn't be easy; it never was with those so used to having things their own way. Piet's information wasn't anywhere near enough to get him in court. But Harkness had known Johnson, and Johnson had known Chivers. Jenny said the paedophile was likely to be over forty, lived alone, and probably knew Gemma. Well, Harkness hadn't known Gemma, but he could have heard of her through Johnson and Chivers. It made sense.

After the conversation, Banks had checked the time and, finding they were only two hours ahead, tried the South African police again. They still had nothing to report, and he got the impression they were dragging their feet. He could only speculate on the nature of the crime there, and on the depth of the cover-up. He had tried Linda Fish from the Writers' Circle again, too, but she had heard no more from her writer friend. He had felt too edgy simply to wait around for more information to come in.

Harkness answered the door at the first ring. He seemed nervous to see them, Banks thought, fidgety and too talkative as he led them this time into the living-room and bade them sit.

"Have you found out who killed Carl?"

"We're looking for a man called Jeremy Chivers," Banks said. "Someone Johnson knew. Did he ever mention the name?"

"Let's not go through all that again." Harkness walked over to the mantelpiece. "Who is this Chivers?"

"A suspect."

"So why have you come to pester me again?"

Banks scratched the little scar by his right eye. It wasn't always reliable, but it did have a tendency to itch in warning when he hadn't quite realized that something was wrong. "Well, I'll tell you, Mr Harkness. I've just had a chat with a friend of mine on the Amsterdam police, and he told me some very odd things."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You lived there for some time, didn't you?"

"Yes, you know I did. But I can a.s.sure you I never came into contact with the police."

"Clever there, sir, weren't you?" said Susan suddenly. Harkness looked from one to the other, reddening. "Look, what is this?" he said. "You can't just come in here-"

Banks waved him to silence, ready to make his accusation. But just before he opened his mouth to speak, he paused. Something was definitely bothering him. Even now, he didn't know what it was: tension in the air, a feeling of dej vu, or that little s.h.i.+ver when someone steps on your grave. It would come. He went on, "Everyone knows you can get anything you want in Amsterdam. If you know where to go. If you can pay for it."

"So what? It's hardly different from any other city in that way, I should think." Harkness paced, hands in his pockets.

"True," said Banks, "though it does have something of a reputation for s.e.x in various forms, straight and other."

"What are you suggesting? Get to the point."

"That's just it. We have information leading us to believe that you frequented a brothel. A very special kind of brothel. One that made young children available to its customers."

"What! This is monstrous. I've already told you the a.s.sistant Chief Commissioner is a good friend of mine, the Commissioner, too. If you don't take back your slanderous allegations, I'll make sure you're out of the force before bedtime tonight. d.a.m.n it, I think I'll do it anyway."

"I don't think so," said Banks. "The Commissioner is particularly upset about this case. He has grandchildren the same age as Gemma Scupham, so I don't think the fact that you belong to the same golf club will cut a lot of ice with him, sir."

"But this is preposterous! You can't possibly be suggesting that I had anything to do with that?"

"Well, I-" Banks stopped, suddenly aware of what was bothering him. He shot Susan a quick glance and stood up. Looking puzzled, she followed suit. "Probably not," he said, "but I had to find out. I'm sorry, Mr Harkness. I just wanted to test your reaction to the allegations."

"You've got a d.a.m.ned nasty way of going about your business, Banks. I most certainly will be talking to your superior."

"As you wish." Banks followed Susan to the door. "But please understand, we have to follow every lead, however incredible, however distasteful. I'm very sorry to have bothered you, sir. I think I can safely say we won't be troubling you again."

"Well ..." Harkness looked confused. He opened his mouth as if to complain more, then seemed to think better of it, realizing they were leaving, and stood there gulping like a fish. "I should d.a.m.n well think so," he muttered finally. "And don't think I don't mean it about talking to the Commissioner."

"What is it?" Susan asked as they drove back onto the road. "Sir? Why did you do that?"

Banks said nothing. When they were out of sight of the house, about half a mile down the road, hidden by the roadside trees, he pulled into a lay-by.

"What is it?" Susan asked again. "I picked up signal to get out, but why? You were rattling him. We could have had him."

"This is the third time I've visited Harkness," Banks said slowly, hands still gripping the wheel. "Both times before the place has been a bit of a mess-dusty, untidy, a typical bachelor dwelling."

"So?" said Susan. "He's had the cleaning lady in."

"I don't think so. He said he didn't employ one. Notice how clean the surfaces were, and that silver goblet on the coffee-table?"

"Yes. Polished so you could see your face."

"You weren't there," Banks said, "but it's the same polish smell as in the Weymouth hotel room, something with a strong scent of pine."

"You can't be thinking ... surely?"

Banks nodded. "That's just what I am thinking, Susan. We've got to radio for help." He gestured with his thumb back towards the house. "I think Chivers is in there somewhere, and he's armed."

FOURTEEN.

I.

To the casual observer, nothing unusual occurred around The Leas and Devraulx Abbey that fine Sunday afternoon in late September. If one fisherman approached another, had a chat, then replaced him at the riverbank, or if a picnicking family, shortly after having a few words with a pa.s.sing rambler complete with rucksack and stick, decided to pack up and leave because the wasps were bothering them, then what of it? The Abbey closed early, and there were a few more cars on the road than usual, but then, it was such a surprisingly beautiful afternoon that everyone wanted to enjoy a bit of it before the rain and wind returned.

Still in the same position, about half a mile down the road, out of sight of the Harkness house, Banks and Susan waited. Birds called, insects hummed, a light breeze hissed through the trees. At last, another car joined them, and Superintendent Gristhorpe got out, along with DS Richmond, and strode purposefully over to Banks's Cortina. There wasn't much to say; everything had been taken care of on the radio. The replacement fishermen were policemen in plain clothes; the picnicking families had all been cleared from the area, and a tight circle had been drawn around Harkness's house and grounds.

"If he's in there," Gristhorpe said. "He won't get away. Alan, let's you and I go back to the house, say we have a few more questions. Let's see if we can't defuse this mess before it blows up."

"But sir," said Susan. "I think I should go, too."

"No," said Gristhorpe. "Stay here with Phil."

"But-"

"Look. I'm not doubting your competence, Susan. But what we need here is experience. Alan?"

"I agree," said Banks.

Gristhorpe took a .38 Smith and Wesson from his pocket and handed it to Banks, who automatically checked it, though he knew Gristhorpe would have already done so. Susan's lips drew tight and Banks could feel the waves of humiliation flowing from her. He knew why-she had potential, but she was young, inexperienced, and she had made mistakes before-and he agreed completely with the superintendent's judgment. There was no room for error in dealing with someone like Chivers.

"Ready?" said Gristhorpe.

Banks nodded and joined him in the unmarked Rover, leaving Susan to fume and Richmond to console her in Banks's own Cortina.

"How do you read it?" Gristhorpe asked, as Banks drove slowly back towards the pack-horse bridge.

"Harkness is nervous, and I think he's s.h.i.+t-scared, too. And it's not just because of what I think he's done to Gemma Scupham. If I had to guess, I'd say Chivers is either in the house somewhere, or he's been there and he's hiding out nearby. And Harkness isn't harbouring him out of the kindness of his heart. He's d.a.m.n close to being held hostage. There's nothing he can do, though, without incriminating himself."

"All right," said Gristhorpe. "Let me do the talking. Keep your eyes peeled. We'll try and get Harkness out of there if we can."

Banks nodded, turned into the driveway and crunched over the gravel. He felt a claw tighten at the pit of his stomach; the gun hung heavy in his pocket.

They rang the doorbell. Harkness flung the door open and growled, "You again? What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l do you want this time?"

Gristhorpe introduced himself. "I think it might be best if we did this at the station," he said to Harkness.

"Am I under arrest? You can't be serious. This is nothing but a tissue of unsubstantiated lies."

He was sweating.

"I think it would be best, sir," said Gristhorpe. "Of course, you have the right to consult your solicitor."

"I'll sue the both of you for wrongful arrest. I'll have you off the force. I'll-"

Banks thought he noticed a flash of movement behind Harkness on the staircase, but it was hard to see into the house clearly. What followed next was so sudden and so unexpected, he realized in retrospect that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

They heard a sound like a dull pop and Harkness's eyes seemed to fill with blood. His forehead opened like a rose in time-lapse photography. Both Banks and Gristhorpe flung themselves out of the way by instinct. As Banks flattened himself against the wall of the house, he became aware of the blood and tissue on his face and chest. Harkness's. He wanted to be sick.

Time seemed to hang like over-ripe fruit ready to fall at any moment. Harkness lay half in and half out the door, only a small hole showing in the back of his closely cropped skull and a pool of dark blood thickening under his face around his head. Gristhorpe stood back, flat against the wall on one side of the door, Banks on the other. From inside, they heard nothing but silence. Then, it could have been minutes or just seconds after the shooting, they heard a crash from the far side of the house, followed by a curse and the sound of someone running.

They glanced quickly at one another, then Gristhorpe nodded and swung himself into the doorway first, gun sweeping the hall and stairwell. Nothing. Banks followed, adopting the stance he had learned in training: gun extended in one hand, other hand gripping the wrist. They got to the front room and found no one. But there, beyond the french windows, one of which had been smashed by a careless elbow as he dashed by, they saw Chivers running down the lawn towards the riverbank.

"Get on the radio, Alan," said Gristhorpe. "Tell them to close in. And tell them to be b.l.o.o.d.y careful. Get an ambulance here, too."

Banks dashed to the car and gave the message to the plain-clothes watchers, all of whom carried police radios in their fis.h.i.+ng boxes or picnic hampers. After he had radioed headquarters for an ambulance, he hurried through the house after Gristhorpe and Chivers.

Chivers was in the garden, heading for the river. As he ran, he turned around and fired several times. A window shattered, slate chips showered from the roof, then Gristhorpe went down. Banks took cover behind the copper beech and looked back at the superintendent's body sprawled on the lawn. He wanted to go to him, but he couldn't break cover. Carefully, he edged around the tree trunk and looked for Chivers.

There weren't many places Chivers could go. Fences and thick hedges blocked off the riverbank to the east and west, enclosing Harkness's property, and ahead lay the water. With a quick glance right and left and a wild shot, Chivers charged into the water. Soon it was up to his hips, then his waist. He aimed towards the tree and fired again. The bullet thudded into the bark. When Banks looked around the trunk again, he saw the other police in a line across the river, all with guns, closing fast. Gristhorpe must have commandeered the whole b.l.o.o.d.y dale, he thought. Glancing back towards the house, he saw Susan Gay and Phil Richmond framed by the french window staring at Gristhorpe. He waved to them to take cover.

Chivers stopped when the water came up to his armpits and fired again, but the hammer fell with an empty click. He tried a few more times, but it was empty. Banks shouted for Richmond and Susan to see to the superintendent, then he walked down the slope.

"Come on," he said. "Look around you. It's over."

Chivers looked and saw the men lining the opposite bank. They were in range now. He looked again at Banks. Then he shrugged, tossed the gun in the water, and smiled.

II.

Everything had been done by the book; Banks saw to that. Thus, when they finally got to talk to Chivers, the custody record had been opened; he had been offered the right to legal advice, which he had repeatedly refused; offered the chance to inform a friend or relative of his arrest, at which he had laughed; and even offered a cup of tea, which he had accepted. The desk sergeant had managed to rustle up a disposable white boiler suit to replace his wet clothes, as according to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, "a person may not be interviewed unless adequate clothing has been offered to him." And the interview room they sat in, while not especially large, was at least "adequately heated, lit and ventilated" according to the letter of the law. If questioning went on for a long time, Chivers would be brought meals and allowed periods of rest.

In addition, Jenny Fuller had turned up at the station and asked if she could be present during the questioning. It was an unusual request, and at first Banks refused. Jenny persisted, claiming her presence might even help, as Chivers seemed to like to show off to women. Finally, Banks asked Chivers's permission, which galled him, and Chivers said, "The more the merrier."

Back at Harkness's house, Banks knew, the SOCO team would be collecting evidence, Glendenning poring over Harkness's body, a group of constables digging up the garden that Carl Johnson had so lovingly tended, and police frogmen searching the river.

Sometimes, thought Banks, the creaking machinery of the law was a welcome prophylactic on his desire to reach out and throttle someone. Hampered as he had often felt by the Act, today, ironically enough, he was glad of it as he sat across the table looking at the man who had murdered at least three people, wounded Superintendent Gristhorpe and abducted Gemma Scupham.

As he looked, he certainly felt the impulse to kill Chivers, simply to swat him as one would a troublesome wasp. But it wasn't an impulse he was proud of. All his life, both in spite of and because of his job, Banks had tried to cultivate his own version of compa.s.sion. If crime really was part of what made us human, he thought, then it merited deep study. If we simply kill off the pests that bother us, we make no progress at all. He knew that he could, in some strange way, learn from Chivers. It was a knowledge he might deeply wish to reject, but spiritual and intellectual cowardice had never been among his failings.

Banks sat opposite Chivers, Richmond stood behind him, by the door, and Jenny sat by the window, diagonally across from him.

Close up, the monster didn't look like much at all, Banks noted. About Banks's height, and with the same kind of lean, wiry strength, he sat erect, hands placed palms down on the table in front of him, their backs covered with ginger down. His skin was pale, his hair an undistinguished shade of sandy brown, and his general look could only be described as boyish-the kind of boy who pulled pranks and was amused to see their effects on the victims.

If there was anything outstanding about him at all, it was his eyes. They were the kind of green the sea looks sometimes, and when he wasn't smiling they looked just as cold, as deep and as unpredictable as the ocean itself. When he did smile, though, they lit up with such a bright, honest light you felt you could trust him with anything. At least, it was almost like that, Banks thought, if it weren't for that glint of madness in them; not quite insanity, but close enough to the edge. Not everyone would notice, but then not everyone was looking at him as a murderer.

Banks turned on the tape-recorder, repeated the caution and reminded Chivers of his rights. "Before we get onto the other charges against you," he said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions about Gemma Scupham."

"Why not?" said Chivers. "It was just a lark really." His voice, a little more whiny and high-pitched than Banks had expected, bore no trace of regional accent; it was as bland and characterless as a BBC 2 announcer's.

"Whose idea was it?"

"Mr Harkness wanted a companion."

"How did he get in touch with you?"

"Through Carl Johnson. We'd known each other for a while. Carl was ... well, between you and me he wasn't too bright. Like that other chap, what's his name?"

"Poole?"

"That's right. Small-time, the two of them. Low-lifes."

"How did you first meet Harkness?"

"Look, does any of this really matter? It's very dull stuff for me, you know." He s.h.i.+fted in his chair, and Banks noticed him look over at Jenny.

"Humour us."