Piece Of My Heart

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In a village like Lyndgarth, Banks knew, the best way to find out about any resident was to ask at the local pub or at the post office. In the case of Vic Greaves, it was Jean Murray, in the post office-cum-newsagent’s, who directed him toward the last cottage on the left on Darlington Road, telling him that “Mr. Jones” had been there for a few years now, was definitely a bit strange, not quite right in the head, but that he seemed harmless enough, and he always paid his newspaper bill on time. He was a bit of a recluse, she added, and he didn’t like visitors. She had no idea what he did with his time, but there had been no complaints about him. Her daughter, Susan, added that he had few visitors, but she had seen a couple of cars come and go. She couldn’t describe them.

Banks left his car parked on the cobbles by the village green. It was another miserable day, with wind and rain from the east, for a change, and the flagstone roofs of the houses looked as dark green as moss pools. Bare tree branches waved beyond the TV aerials, and beyond them lay the washed-out backdrop of a dishwater-gray sky.

At the top right of the village green, between the old Burgundy Hotel and the dark, squat Methodist chapel, a narrow lane led down toward a wooded beck. On each side was a terrace of small, one-up-one-down limestone cottages, once used to house farm laborers. Banks stood for a moment in front of the end one on the left and listened. He could hear no signs of life, see no lights. The downstairs curtains were closed, but the upstairs ones were open, as were the windows.

Finally, he knocked on the door.

Nothing happened, so he knocked again, harder this time.

When it seemed that no one was going to answer, the door opened and a figure stood there, looking anxious. It was hard to say whether it was Vic Greaves or not, as Banks only had the old group photographs to go by, when Greaves had been a promising twenty-something rock star. Now he must be in his late fifties, Banks thought, but he looked much older. Round-shouldered with a sagging stomach the size of a football, he wore a black T-shirt with a silver Harley Davidson on the front, baggy jeans and no shoes or socks. His eyes were bruised and hollow, his dry skin pale and lined. He was either bald or shaved his head regularly, and that accentuated the boniness of his cheeks and the hollowness of his eyes. He looked ill to Banks, and light-years from the pretty young boy all the girls adored, who had set the career of the Mad Hatters in motion.

“I’m looking for Vic Greaves,” Banks said.

“He’s not here today,” the man said, his expression unchanging.

“Are you sure?” Banks asked.

This seemed to puzzle the man and cause him some distress. “He might have been. He might have been, if he hadn’t been trying to go home. But his car’s broken down. The wheels won’t work.”

“Pardon?”

Suddenly, the man smiled, revealing a mouthful of stained and crooked teeth, with the odd gap here and there, and said, “He’s nothing to do with me.” Then he turned and walked back inside the house, leaving the door wide open. Puzzled, Banks followed him. The door led straight into the front room, the same as it did in Banks’s own cottage. Because the curtains were closed, the downstairs was in semidarkness, but even in the poor light Banks could see that the room was cluttered with piles of books, newspapers and magazines. There was a slight odor of sour milk about the place, and of cheese that had been left out of the fridge too long, but a better smell mingled with it: olive oil, garlic and herbs.

Banks followed the man through to the back, which was the kitchen, where a bit more light filtered in through the grimy windows and past half-open floral curtains. Inside, the place was spotlessly clean and neat, all the pots and pans gleaming on their wall hooks, dishes and cups sparkling in their glass-fronted cupboards. Whatever Greaves’s problem was – and Banks believed he was Greaves – it didn’t stop him from taking care of his home better than most bachelors Banks had known. The man stood with his back to Banks, stirring a pot on the gas range.

“Are you Vic Greaves?” Banks asked.

No answer.

“Look,” said Banks, “I’m a police officer. DCI Banks. Alan, my name is Alan. I need to talk to you. Are you Vic Greaves?”

The man half turned. “Alan?” he said, peering curiously at Banks. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know any Alans. I don’t know you, do I?”

“I just told you. I’m a police officer. No, you don’t know me.”

“They weren’t really meant to grow so high, you know,” the man said, turning back to his pot. “Sometimes the rain does good things.”

“What?”

“The hillsides drink it.”

Banks tried to position himself so that he could see the man’s face. When the man half turned again and saw him, he looked surprised. “What are you doing here?” he asked, as if he had genuinely forgotten Banks’s presence.

“I told you. I’m a policeman. I want to ask you some questions about Nick Barber. He did come and talk to you, didn’t he? Do you remember?”

The man shook his head, and his face turned sad for a moment. “Vic’s gone down to the woods today,” he said.

“Vic Greaves is in the woods?” Banks asked. “Who are you?”

“No,” he said. “He had to get some stuff, you know, he needed it for the stew.”

“You went to the woods earlier?”

“He sometimes walks there on nice days. It’s peaceful. He likes to listen to the birds and look at the leaves and the mushrooms.”

“Do you live here alone?”

He sighed. “I’m just passing through.”

“Tell me about Nick Barber.”

He stopped stirring and faced Banks, his expression still blank, unreadable. “Someone came here.”

“That’s right. His name was Nick Barber. When did he come? Do you remember?”

The man said nothing, just stared at Banks in a disturbing way. Banks was beginning to feel thoroughly unnerved by the entire experience. Was Greaves off his face on drugs or something? Was he likely to turn violent at any moment? If so, there was a handy rack of kitchen knives within his reach. “Look,” he said, “Nick Barber is dead. Somebody killed him. Can you remember anything about what he said?”

“Vic’s gone down to the woods today,” the man said again.

“Yes, but this man, Nick Barber. What did he ask you about? Was it about Robin Merchant’s death? Was it about Swainsview Lodge?”

The man put his hands over his ears and hung his head. “Vic can’t hear this,” he said. “Vic won’t hear this.”

“Think. Surely you can remember? Do you remember Swainsview Lodge?”

But Greaves was just counting now. “One, two, three, four, five…”

Banks tried to talk, but the counting got louder. In the end, he gave up, turned away and left. He would have to come back. There had to be a way of getting some answers from Vic Greaves.

On his way out of the village, Banks passed a sleek silver Merc, but thought nothing of it. All the way back to the station he thought about the strange experience he had just had, and even Pink Floyd’s “I Remember a Day” on the stereo could not dispel his gloom.

“Kev. What have you dug up?” Annie Cabbot asked, when a dusty and clearly disgruntled DS Templeton trudged over to her desk and flopped down on the visitor’s chair early that afternoon.

Templeton sighed. “We ought to do something about that basement,” he said. “It’s a bloody health hazard.” He brushed some dust off his sixty quid Topman distressed jeans and plonked a collection of files on the desk. “It’s all here, ma’am,” he said. “What there is of it, anyway.”

“Kev, I’ve told you before not to call me ma’am. I know that Detective Superintendent Gervaise insists on it, but that’s her prerogative. A simple ‘guv’ will suffice, if you must.”

“Right, Guv.”

“Give me a quick run-down.”

“Top and bottom of it is,” said Templeton, “that there was no full investigation, as such. The coroner returned a verdict of accidental death, and that was the end of it.”

“No reservations?”

“Not so far as I can tell, Guv.”

“Who was in the house at the time?”

“It’s all in that file, there.” Templeton tapped a thick buff folder. “For what it’s worth. Statements and everything. Basically, there were the band members, their manager, Lord Jessop, and various assorted girlfriends, groupies and hangers-on. They’re all named on the list, and they were all questioned.”

Annie scanned the list quickly and put it aside. Nothing, or no one, she hadn’t expected, though most of the names meant nothing to her.

“It happened after a private party to celebrate the success of their second album, which was called – get this – He Whose Face Gives No Light Shall Never Become a Star.”

“That’s Blake,” Annie said. “William Blake. My dad used to quote him all the time.”

“Sounds like a right load of bollocks to me,” Templeton said. “Anyway, the album was recorded at Swainsview Lodge over the winter of 1969-1970. Lord Jessop had let them convert an old banquet room he didn’t use first into a rehearsal space and then into a private recording studio. Quite a lot of bands used it over the next few years.”

“So what happened on the night of the party?”

“Everybody swore Merchant was fine when things wound up around two or three o’clock, but the next morning the gardener found him floating on his back, naked, in the pool. The postmortem found a drug called Mandrax in his system.”

“What’s that?”

“Search me. Some kind of tranquilizer?”

“Was there enough to kill him?”

“Not according to the pathologist. But he’d been drinking, too, and that enhances the effects, and the dangers. Probably been smoking dope and dropping acid, as well, but they didn’t have toxicology tests for them back then.”

“So what was the cause of death?”

“Officially, he slipped on the side of the swimming pool, fell in the shallow end, smashed his head on the bottom and drowned. The Mandrax might have slowed down his reactions. There was water in his lungs.”

“What about the blow to the head? Any way it could have been blunt-object trauma?”

“Showed impact with a large flat area rather than a blunt object.”

“Like the bottom of a swimming pool?”

“Exactly, Guv.”

“What did the party guests say?”

“What you’d expect. Everyone swore they were asleep at the time, and nobody heard anything. To be honest, they probably wouldn’t have even noticed if they were all full of drugs and he just fell in the pool. Not much to hear. He was already unconscious from hitting his head.”

“Any speculation as to why he was naked?”

“No,” said Templeton. “But it was par for the course back then, wasn’t it? Hippies and all that stuff. Free love. Orgies and whatnot. Any excuse to get their kit off.”

“Who carried out the investigation?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Cecil Grant was SIO – he’s dead now – but a DS Keith Enderby did most of the legwork and digging around.”

“Summer 1970,” said Annie. “He’ll be retired by now, most likely, but he might still be around somewhere.”

“I’ll check with Human Resources.”

“Kev, did you ever get the impression, reading through the stuff, that anyone put the kibosh on the investigation because a famous rock band and a peer of the realm were involved?”

Templeton scratched his brow. “Well, now you come to mention it, it did cross my mind. But if you look at the facts, there was no evidence to say that it happened any other way. DS Enderby seems to have done a decent enough job under the circumstances. On the other hand, they all closed ranks and presented a united front. I don’t believe for a minute that everyone went to sleep at two or three in the morning and heard nothing more. I’ll bet you there were people up and about, on the prowl, though perhaps they were in no state to distinguish reality from fantasy. Someone could easily have been lying to protect someone else. Or two or more of them could have been in it together. Conspiracy theory. The other thing, of course, is that there was no motive.”

“No strife within the band?”

“Not that anyone was able to put their finger on at the time. Again, though, they weren’t likely to tell the investigating officers about it if there was, were they?”

“No, but there might have been rumors in the music press. These people lived a great deal of their lives in the public eye.”

“Well, if there was anything, it was a well-kept secret,” said Templeton. “I’ve checked some of the stuff online and at that time they were a successful group, definitely going places. Maybe if someone dug around a bit now, asked the right questions… I don’t know… it might be different.”

“Why don’t you see if you can track down this Enderby, and I’ll have a chat with DCI Banks.”

“Yes, Guv,” said Templeton, standing up. “Want me to leave the files?”

“Might as well,” said Annie. “I’ll have a look at them.”

Thursday, 18th September, 1969

Rick Hayes’s Soho office was located above a trattoria in Frith Street, not too far from Ronnie Scott’s and any number of sleazy sex shops and strip clubs. Refreshed by an espresso from the Bar Italia across the street, Chadwick climbed the shabby staircase and knocked at the glass pane on the door labeled HAYES CONCERT PROMOTIONS. A voice called out for him to come in, and he entered to see Hayes sitting behind a littered desk, hand over the mouthpiece of his telephone.

“Inspector. What a surprise,” Hayes said. “Sit down. Can you just hang on a moment? I’ve been trying to get hold of this bloke forever.”

Chadwick waited, but instead of sitting, he wandered around the office, a practice that he found usually made people nervous. Framed signed photos of Hayes with various famous rock stars hung on the walls, unfamiliar names, for the most part: Jimi Hendrix, Pete Townsend, Eric Clapton. Filing cabinets stuffed with folders. He was opening drawers in a cabinet near the window when his snooping obviously made Hayes worried enough to end his phone call prematurely.

“What are you doing?” Hayes asked.

“Just having a look around.”

“Those are private files.”

“Yes?” Chadwick sat down. “Well, I’m a great believer in not wasting time sitting around doing nothing, so I thought I’d just use a bit of initiative.”

“Have you got a search warrant?”

“Not yet. Why? Do I need one?”

“To look at those files you do.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think there’s anything there of interest to me. The reason I’m here is that you’ve been lying to me since the moment we met, and I want to know why. I also want to know what you have to do with the murder of Linda Lofthouse.”

“Linda Lofthouse?”

“Don’t play games with me, laddie,” Chadwick snarled, his Glaswegian accent getting stronger the more angry he became. “You’ll only lose. That’s the victim’s name.”

“How was I to know?”

“It’s been in the papers.”

“Don’t read them.”

“I know, they’re all full of establishment lies. I don’t care whether you read the papers or not. You saw the body at Brimleigh. You were there at the scene even before I arrived.”

“So?”

“You were in a perfect position to mislead us all, to tamper with evidence. She was right there, lying dead at your feet, and you told me you hadn’t seen her before.”

“I told you later that I might have seen her backstage. There were a lot of people around and I was very busy.”

“So you said. Later.”

“Well?”

“There were two important things I didn’t know then, things you could have told me but didn’t.”

“You’ve lost me. What are you talking about?”

Chadwick counted them off on his fingers. “First, that the victim’s name was Linda Lofthouse, and second, that you knew her a lot better than you let on.”

Hayes picked up a rubber band from his desk and started wrapping it around his nicotine-stained fingers. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his lank hair needed a wash. He was wearing jeans and a red collarless shirt made of some flimsy material. “I’ve told you everything I know,” he said.

“Bollocks. You’ve told me bugger all. I’ve had to piece it all together from conversations with other people. You could have saved me a lot of trouble.”

“It’s not my job to save the fuzz trouble.”

“Enough of that phony hippie nonsense. It doesn’t suit you. You’re a businessman, a filthy capitalist lackey, just like the rest, no matter how you dress and how infrequently you wash. You knew Linda Lofthouse through Dennis Nokes, the house on Bayswater Terrace, Leeds, and through her cousin Vic Greaves of the Mad Hatters. You also knew Linda’s friend Tania Hutchison, the girl she was with at Brimleigh, but you didn’t bother to tell us that, either, did you?”

Hayes’s jaw dropped. “Who told you all this?”

“That doesn’t matter. Is it true?”

“What if it is?”

“Then you’ve been withholding important information in a murder investigation, and that, laddie, is a crime.”

“I didn’t think we were living in a police state yet.”

“Believe me, if we were, you’d know the difference. When did you first meet Linda Lofthouse?”

Hayes glowered at Chadwick, still playing with the rubber band. “At Dennis’s place,” he said.

“When?”

“I don’t know, man. A while back.”

“Weeks? Months? Years?”

“Look, Dennis is an old mate. Whenever I’m in the area I drop by and see him.”

“And one time you did this, you met Linda?”

“That’s right. She was staying at Dennis’s.”

“With Dennis?”

“No way. Linda was untouchable.”

So it looked as if Nokes was telling the truth about that, at least. “This would have been the winter of 1967, early 1968, right?”

“If you say so.”

“How often have you seen her since?”

“Just a couple of times, you know.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

“I’ve done some concerts with the Hatters, and she was at one of them. I met her up at Dennis’s again, too, but I didn’t, like, know her or anything. I mean, we weren’t close. We were just around the same scene sometimes, like lots of other people were.”

“So why did you lie about knowing her if it was all so innocent?”

“I don’t know, man. I didn’t want to get involved. You guys would probably take one look at me and think I did it. Besides, every minute I was standing around in that field I was losing money. You don’t know what this business is like, how hard it is just to break even sometimes.”

“So you lied because you thought that if you told the truth I’d keep you from your work and you’d lose money?”

“That’s right. Surely you can understand that?”

“Oh, I can understand it well enough,” said Chadwick. “You’re speaking my language now. Concern over money is a lot more common than you think.”

“Then…?”

“What were you doing after you introduced Led Zeppelin on Sunday night?”

“Listening to their set whenever I had a moment. They were incredible. Blew me away.”

“Where were you listening?”

“Around. I still had things to do. We were looking to pack up and get out of there as soon as possible after the show, so I couldn’t waste time. As it turned out…”

“But where did you go to listen to them? The press enclosure was roped off in front of the stage. Apparently that was the best place to watch from. Did you go there?”

“No. Like I said, I didn’t have time to just stand there and watch. I had other things to do. It was pandemonium around there, man. We had people falling off the stage stoned and people trying to sneak in the front and back. Managers wanted paying, there were cars blocking other cars, limos turning up for people, pieces of equipment to be accounted for. I tell you, man, I didn’t have time to kill anyone, even if I wanted to. Which I didn’t. I mean, what possible motive could I have for killing Linda? She was a great bird. I liked her.” He lit a cigarette.

“I notice you’re left-handed,” Chadwick said.

“Yeah. So?”

“The killer was left-handed.”

“Lots of people are.”

“Do you own a flick-knife?”

“No way, man. They’re illegal.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you know the law.”

“Look, are we finished, because I’ve got a lot of phone calls to make?”

“We’re finished when I say we are.”

Hayes bristled but said nothing.

“I hope you realize the extent of the trouble you’re in,” Chadwick went on.

“Look, I did what anybody would do. You’ve got to be crazy these days to give the fuzz an inch, especially if you’re a bit different.”

“In your case, it didn’t work, did it? I’ve found out anyway. All we need now is one person – just one person – who saw you leaving the backstage area for the woods while Led Zeppelin were playing. Are you so sure that no one saw you? After all, we’ve discovered all your other little lies. Why not this one?”

“I did not leave the enclosure, and I didn’t see Linda leave, either.”

“We’re reinterviewing all the security personnel and everyone else we can think of who was there. Are you certain that’s the story you want to stick to?”

“I did not leave the enclosure. I did not go into those woods.”

“What did you do with the knife?”

“I can’t believe this! I never had a knife.”

Chadwick spread his hands on the table, the gesture of a reasonable man laying out his cards. “Look, Mr. Hayes, I’m not persecuting you because you’re different. In fact, I don’t believe you’re that much different from most of the petty villains I come into contact with. You just wear a different uniform, that’s all. Why don’t you make it easy on us all and tell me how it happened?”

“I want my solicitor.”

“What about Tania Hutchison? Did you try it on with her, too?”

“I’m not saying another word.”

“But it was Linda you really wanted, wasn’t it? Linda, who seemed so unattainable. ‘Untouchable.’ Isn’t that the word you used? She was so beautiful. Thought you weren’t good enough for her, did she? Even your money and your famous contacts didn’t impress her, did they? So how did it happen? She wandered off into the woods. You did your MC duties, and when everyone was enthralled and deafened by Led Zeppelin, you followed Linda into the woods. She rejected you again, and this time was once too many. She was having her period. Did she tell you that? Did you think it was just an excuse? Well, you were wrong. It was true. Maybe you were high? Maybe you’d been taking drugs? You could probably plead that you weren’t responsible for your actions. But she turned her back on you for the last time. You grabbed her from behind and stabbed her. Then, when you realized what you’d done, you knew you had to throw us off the scent. It was a clumsy attempt, but the best you could come up with under pressure. You walked to the edge of the field, were lucky enough to steal a sleeping bag without being seen, and the body was still undiscovered when you got back to it. You shoved her in the sleeping bag – very carelessly, I might add, and that was my first indication she hadn’t been killed in it – and you carried her to the field. While everyone’s attention was riveted on the stage, in the dark, you set the sleeping bag down at the very edge of the crowd so we wouldn’t link her with the backstage lot and hurried back to your duties. I don’t suppose it took long. Was there a lot of blood to wash off your hands? I don’t think so. You rubbed them on the leaves, then you rinsed them off in the beck. Did you get any on your clothes? Well, we can always check. Where did you hide the knife?”

As Chadwick talked, Hayes turned pale. “It’s one thing accusing me of all this,” he said finally, “but it will be quite another proving it.”

“All we need is one witness who saw you leave the enclosure at the relevant time.”

“And the nonexistent knife.”

That was clever of him, Chadwick thought. The knife would help a lot, especially if it had Hayes’s fingerprints and Linda Lofthouse’s blood on it. But cases had proceeded on less, and been won on less. Hayes might get a haircut and wear a suit for the jury, but people could still see through him.

Chadwick leaned forward and picked up Hayes’s telephone. “I’m going to call a contact at West End Central,” he said, “and in no time we’ll have search warrants for your office, your house and anywhere else you’ve spent more than ten minutes over the past two weeks. If there are any traces of Linda’s blood, believe me, we’ll find them.”

“Go ahead,” said Hayes, with less confidence than he was aiming for. “And as soon as you’ve done that, I’ll have my solicitor down here and sue you for wrongful arrest.”

“I haven’t arrested you,” said Chadwick, dialing. “Not yet.”

“Yes, I know what Mandrax is. Or was,” said Banks to Annie over an off-duty pint in the Queen’s Arms early that evening.

It was dark outside, and the pub was noisy with the after-work crowd, along with those who never worked and had been there all day, mostly loud kids with foul mouths telling fart jokes over the pool table in the back. A big mistake that table was, Banks had told Cyril, the landlord, but he had replied that he had to move with the times, or the younger crowd would all go to the Duck and Drake or the Red Lion. Good riddance, Banks thought. Still, it wasn’t his livelihood.

The mix of accents said a lot about the changing Dales; Banks could discern London, Newcastle and Belfast mixed in with the locals. The yob factor was getting stronger in Eastvale, too. Everyone had noticed, and it had become a matter of concern, written up in the newspaper, argued over by members of the council and local MPs. That was why Neighbourhood Policing had been set up and Gavin Rickerd transferred, to keep tabs on known troublemakers and share that intelligence with other communities.

Even the police station’s location right on the edge of the market square didn’t seem to make any difference to the drunken louts who ran wild after closing time every Saturday night, leaving a trail of detritus and destruction in their wake on the ancient cobbles, not to mention the occasional bleeding human being. Town-center shopkeepers and pub landlords scrubbing away the vomit and sweeping up broken glass on a Sunday morning was a common sight for the Eastvale churchgoers.

“Mandrax was a powerful sedative,” Banks said. “A sleeping tablet, known affectionately as ‘mandies.’ Been off the market since the seventies.”

“If they were sleeping pills,” Annie asked, “why didn’t they just put people to sleep?”

Banks took a swig of Black Sheep, the only pint he was allowing himself before the drive home to Gratly. “That’s what they were supposed to do. The thing was, if you mixed them with booze and rode out the first waves of tiredness, they gave you a nice, mellow buzz. They were also especially good for sex. I expect that was why Robin Merchant was naked.”

“Were they?”

“What?”

“Good for sex?”

“I don’t know. I only took two once and I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time. I fell asleep.”

Annie patted his arm. “Poor Alan. So, was Merchant on his way toward an assignation or was he just taking a post coital stroll?”

“What did the files say?” Banks asked.

“They were remarkably silent on the subject. No one admitted to sleeping with him. Of course, if he’d been in the water all night, it would have been difficult for the pathologist to tell whether he’d had sex or not.”

“Who was his girlfriend at the time?”

“No one in particular,” said Annie. “No information on Robin Merchant’s sexual habits or preferences made it to the official case notes.”

“This Enderby character might remember something, if and when Templeton tracks him down.”

“Maybe he was gay?” Annie suggested. “Him and Lord Jessop in the sack together? I could see why they might want to suppress that.”

“There’s no evidence to suggest that Lord Jessop was gay,” said Banks. “Apparently he liked the ladies. For a while, at any rate.”

“What happened?”

“He became a heroin addict, though he functioned well enough for years. Many addicts do, if they can get a regular and reliable supply. But heroin doesn’t do a lot for your sex drive. In the end he got AIDS from an infected needle.”

“You’d think he could afford clean needles, wouldn’t you, him being a lord and all?”

“He was broke by then,” Banks said. “Apparently, he was rather a tragic figure toward the end. He died alone. All his friends had deserted him, including his rock-star pals. He’d spent his inheritance, sold off most of his land. Nobody wanted to buy Swainsview Lodge, and he had no heirs. He’d sold everything else he had.”

“Is that where he died, Swainsview?”

“Ironically enough, yes,” said Banks. “That place has a sad history.”

They both paused to take in the implications of that, then Annie said, “So they caused disorientation and tiredness, these mandies?”

“Yes. I mean, if Robin Merchant had been taking mandies and drinking, he could easily have lost his footing. I suppose when he hit his head on the bottom of the shallow end he’d already be feeling the effects of the drug and might have drowned. It’s like Jimi Hendrix, in a way, you know, choking on his own vomit because he had so much Vesperax in his system that he couldn’t wake up and stop it happening. Usually the body’s pretty good at self-preservation – gag reflexes and such – but certain drugs can inhibit or depress those functions.”

Across the room, a white ball cracked into a triangle of reds, breaking the frame and launching a new game. Someone started arguing loudly and drunkenly about the rules.

“So what happened to Mandrax?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know the exact details, but they took it off the market in the late seventies. People soon replaced it with Mogadon, which they called ‘moggies.’ Same sort of thing, but a tranquilizer, not a sedative, and probably not as harmful.”

Annie sipped some beer. “But someone could have pushed him, couldn’t they?”

“Of course they could. Even if we could find a motive, though, we might have a devil of a job proving it after all this time. And strictly speaking, it’s not our job.”

“It is if it’s linked to Nick Barber’s murder.”

“True enough. Anyway, I can’t see Vic Greaves being much help.”

“That really upset you, didn’t it, talking to him?”

“I suppose it did,” said Banks, toying with his beer mat. “I mean, it’s not as if he was one of my idols or anything, but just to see him in that state, to see that emptiness in his eyes up close.” Banks gave an involuntary shudder.

“Was it drugs? Was he really an acid casualty?”

“That’s what everyone said at the time. You know, there was even a kind of heroic stature about it. He was put on a pedestal for being mad. People thought there was something cool about it. He attracted a cult following, a lot of weirdos. They still hound him.” Banks shook his head. “What a time. The way they used to glorify tramps and call madmen visionaries.”

“You think there was something else to it?”

“I don’t know how much LSD he took. Probably bucketfuls of the stuff. I’ve heard he’s done a few stints in various psychiatric establishments over the years, along with group therapy and any other kinds of therapy that happened to be fashionable at the time, but as far as I know there’s still no official diagnosis. None of them seemed to know exactly what his problem was, let alone cure him. Acid casualty, psychotic, schizophrenic, paranoid schizophrenic. Take your pick. None of it really matters in the long run. He’s Vic Greaves and his head’s fucked. It must be hell inside there.”

Brian and Emilia were in the entertainment room watching La Dolce Vita on the plasma screen when Banks got home. They were on the sofa, Brian sitting up with his feet on the pouf, his arm around Emilia, who leaned against him, head on his chest, face hidden by a cascade of hair. She was wearing what looked like one of Brian’s shirts. It wasn’t tucked in at the waist because she wasn’t wearing anything to tuck it into. They certainly looked as if they had made themselves at home during the couple of days they’d been around, and Banks realized sadly that he had been so busy he had hardly seen them. A tantalizing smell drifted from the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, Dad,” said Brian, putting the DVD on pause. “Got your note. We were out walking around Relton way.”

“Not a very nice day for it, I’m afraid,” said Banks, flopping onto one of the armchairs.

“We got soaked,” said Emilia.

“It happens,” said Banks. “Hope it didn’t put you off?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Banks. It’s beautiful up here. I mean, even when it’s gray and rainy it’s got a sort of romantic, primitive beauty, hasn’t it? Like Wuthering Heights.”

“I suppose it has,” said Banks. He gestured toward the screen. “And call me Alan, please. Didn’t know you were Fellini fans. It’s one of your Uncle Roy’s. I’ve been trying to watch them all. Bergman. Truffaut. Chabrol. Kurasawa. I’m getting quite used to the subtitles now, but I still have a bit of trouble following what’s going on half the time.”

Brian laughed. “I heard someone talking about La Dolce Vita a while ago, how great it was, and there it was, right in front of me. Emmy here’s an actress.”

“I thought I’d seen you somewhere before,” Banks said. “You’ve done TV, right?”

Emilia blushed. “A little. I’ve had small parts in Spooks, Hustle and Bad Girls, and I’ve done quite a bit of theater, too. No movies yet.” She stood up. “Please excuse me a moment.”

“Of course.”

“What’s that smell?” Banks asked Brian when she had left the room.

“Emilia’s making us dinner.”

“I thought we’d get a take-away tonight.”

“This’ll be better, Dad, believe me. You took us out on Sunday. Emilia wants to repay you. She’s a gourmet cook. Leg of lamb with garlic and rosemary. Potatoes dauphinois.” He put his fingers to his lips and made a kissing sound. “Fantastic.”

“Well,” said Banks, “I’ve never been one to turn down a gourmet meal, but she doesn’t have to feel obliged.”

“She likes doing it.”

“Then I’d better open a nice bottle of wine.”

Banks walked to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Peter Lehmann Australian Shiraz, which he thought would go well with the lamb. When Emilia came in, she was wearing jeans, with the shirt tucked in at the waist and her long hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She smiled at him, cheeks glowing, and bent to open the oven. The smell was even stronger.

“Wonderful,” said Banks.

“It won’t be long now,” said Emilia. “The lamb and potatoes are almost done. I’m just going to make a salad. Pear and blue cheese. That’s okay, isn’t it? Brian said you like blue cheese.”

“It’s fine,” said Banks. “Sounds delicious, in fact. Thank you.”

Emilia flashed him a shy smile, and he guessed she was a little embarrassed because he’d caught her with her trousers down, so to speak.

Banks poured a glass of Shiraz, offered one to Emilia, who said she’d wait until later, then went back to sit with Brian, who had now turned off the DVD and was playing the first Mad Hatters CD, which Banks had bought at the HMV on Oxford Street, along with their second and third albums.

“What do you think of it?” he asked Brian.

“It must have been quite something in its time,” Brian said. “I like the guitar and keyboards mix they’ve got. That sounds quite original. Really spacey. It’s good. Especially for a debut. Better than I remember. I mean, I haven’t listened to them in years.”

“Me, neither,” said Banks. “I met Vic Greaves today. At least, I think I did.”

“Vic Greaves? Jesus, Dad. He’s a legend. What was he like?”

“Strange. He spoke in non sequiturs. Referred to himself in the third person a lot.” Banks shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone says he took too much LSD.”

Brian seemed deep in thought for a few moments, then he said, “Acid casualties. Makes it sound like war, doesn’t it? But things like that happened. It’s not as if he was the only one.”

“I know that,” said Banks, finding himself starting to wonder about Brian. He was living the rock-star life, too, as Vic Greaves had. What did he get up to? How much did he know about drugs?

“Dinner’s ready!” Emilia called out.

Banks and Brian got up and went into the kitchen, where Emilia had lit candles and presented the salad beautifully. They talked about Brian’s music and Emilia’s acting ambitions as they ate, a pleasant relief for Banks after his distressing encounter with Vic Greaves. This time, Banks actually got as far as dessert – raspberry brûlée – before the phone rang. Cursing, he excused himself.

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Winsome here. Sorry to bother you, Guv, but it’s Jean Murray. You know, from the post office in Lyndgarth. She rang about five minutes ago about Vic Greaves. Said she was out walking her dog and heard all sorts of shenanigans up at the house. Lights going on and off, people shouting and running around and breaking things. I thought I should tell you.”

“You did right,” said Banks. “Did you send a car?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Don’t. Is there more than one person involved?”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“Thanks, Winsome,” said Banks. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He thanked Emilia for a wonderful dinner, made his apologies and left, saying he wasn’t sure how late he would be back. He didn’t think Brian minded too much, the way he was looking at Emilia and holding her hand in the candlelight.