Piece Of My Heart

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Detective Sergeant Kevin Templeton relished his latest assignment, and even more he relished the fact that Winsome was to accompany him as an observer. Even though he had got nowhere with Winsome, not for lack of trying, he still found her incredibly attractive, and the sight of her thighs under the taut material of her pinstripe trousers still brought him out in a sweat. He’d always thought of himself as a breast man, but Winsome had soon put the lie to that. He tried not to make his glances obvious as she drove out of town and on to the main Lyndgarth Road. The farmhouse was at the end of a long muddy track, and no matter how close to the door they parked, there was no way of avoiding getting their shoes muddy.

“Christ, it bloody stinks here, dunnit?” Templeton moaned.

“It’s a farmyard,” said Winsome.

“Yeah, I know that. Look, let me do the questioning, right? And you keep a close eye on the father, okay?” Templeton hopped on one leg by the doorway, trying to wipe some of the mud off his best pair of Converse trainers.

“There’s a shoe scraper,” said Winsome.

“What?”

She pointed. “That thing there with the raised metal edge, by the door. It’s for scraping the mud off the undersides of your shoes.”

“Well, you live and learn,” said Templeton, making a try at the shoe scraper. “Whatever will they think of next?”

“They thought of it a long time ago,” said Winsome.

“I know that. I was being sarcastic.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nearby, a dog was growling and barking fit to kill, but luckily it was chained up to a post.

Templeton shot Winsome a glance. “No need for you to be sarcastic as well. Don’t think I didn’t catch your tone. Are you okay with the way the super wants us to play it?”

“I’m fine.”

Templeton’s eyes narrowed. “Am I to take it you don’t-”

But before he could finish, the door opened and Calvin Soames stood there. “Police, isn’t it?” he said. “What do you want this time?”

“Just come to clear a couple of things up, Mr. Soames,” said Templeton, bringing out his best smile and offering his hand. Soames ignored it. “Is your daughter at home?”

Soames grunted.

“All right if we come in?”

“Wipe your feet.” And with that he turned back into the gloom and left them to their own devices.

After further wiping their feet on a bristly mat, they followed him into the inner recesses of the house and heard him call out, “Kelly! It’s for you.”

The girl came downstairs, and her face registered disappointment when she saw Templeton and Winsome standing there in the hallway. “You’d better come through,” she said, leading them into the kitchen, which was marginally brighter and smelled of bleach and overripe bananas. A black-and-white cat stirred lazily, jumped off its chair and sidled out of the room.

They all sat on sturdy hard-backed chairs around the table. Calvin Soames muttered something about work and headed out, but Templeton called him back. “This concerns you, too, Mr. Soames,” he said. “Please sit down.”

Soames let a moment pass, then he sat.

“What’s this all about?” asked Kelly. “I’ve told you everything already.”

“Well, that’s just it, you see,” said Templeton. “Being the untrusting detectives that we are, we don’t take anything at face value, or on first account. It’s like first impressions, see, they can so often be wrong. Any chance of a cup of tea?”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Kelly.

She was definitely fit, Templeton thought, as he watched her move toward the range with just the barest swinging of her hips, encased in tight jeans. Her waist was slender as a wand and she wore a jet belly-piercing, which made a nice contrast to her pale skin. Her blond hair was tied back, but a few tresses had escaped and framed her pale oval face. Her breasts moved tantalizingly under the short yellow T-shirt, and Templeton guessed that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Lucky bugger, that Barber, Templeton thought. If the last thing on earth he had done was shag Kelly Soames, then it can’t have been such a bad way to go. He began to wonder if, perhaps when they’d got this business over and done with, he might be in with a chance himself.

When the tea was served, Winsome took out her notebook and Templeton sat back in his chair. “Right,” he said. “Now, you, Mr. Soames, returned back here at about seven o’clock on Friday evening. Am I right?”

“That’s right.”

“To check if you’d turned off the gas ring?”

“It’s sometimes on so low,” he answered, “that a puff of air would blow it out. A couple of times I’ve come home and smelled gas. I thought it best to check, as I don’t live far from the Cross Keys.”

“About a five-minute drive each way, is that right?”

“About that, aye.”

“And you, Miss Soames, you were working at the Cross Keys all evening, right?”

Kelly chewed her thumbnail and nodded.

“How long have you been working there?”

“About two years now. There’s not much else to do around here.”

“Ever thought of moving to the big city?”

Kelly looked at her father and said, “No.”

“Nice place to work, is it, the Cross Keys?”

“It’s all right.”

“Good spot to meet lads?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, come on, Kelly. You’re a barmaid. You must meet lots of lads, get chatted up a lot, nice-looking girl like you.”

She blushed at that, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face, Templeton noticed. Maybe he was in with a chance after all. As Calvin Soames looked on, the frown deepened on his forehead in a series of lines down to the bridge of his nose.

“Do they tell you their troubles?” Templeton went on. “How their wives don’t understand them and they’re wasted on the jobs they’re doing?”

Kelly shrugged. “Sometimes,” she said. “When it’s quiet.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Dunno. Go out with my mates, I suppose.”

“But where do you go? There’s not exactly a lot for a young girl to do around here, is there? It can’t be very exciting.”

“There’s Eastvale.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure you enjoy a Saturday night out in Eastvale with the lads, listening to dirty jokes, getting bladdered and puking your guts up with the rest of them around the market cross. No, I mean, a girl like you, there must be something better, something more. Surely?”

“There’s dances sometimes, and bands,” Kelly said.

“Who do you like?”

“Dunno.”

“Come on, you must have a favorite.”

She shifted in her chair. “I dunno, really. Keane. Maybe.”

“Ah, Keane.”

“You know them?”

“I’ve heard them,” said Templeton. “Nick Barber was really into bands, wasn’t he?”

Kelly seemed to tense up again. “He said he liked music,” she said.

“Didn’t he say he could get you into all the best concerts down in London?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never been to London.”

Templeton felt Winsome’s gaze boring into the side of his head. Her legs were crossed, and one of them was twitching. She clearly didn’t like the way he was drawing the interview out, postponing the moment of glory. But he was enjoying himself. He closed in for the kill.

“Did Nick Barber promise to take you there?”

“No.” Kelly shook her head, panic showing on her face. “Why would he do that?”

“Gratitude, perhaps?”

Calvin Soames’s face darkened. “What are you saying, man?”

Templeton ignored him. “Well, Kelly?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about. I only talked to him at the bar when he ordered his drink. He was nice, polite. That’s all.”

“Oh, come off it, Kelly,” said Templeton. “We happen to know that you slept with him on two occasions.”

“What-” Calvin Soames tried to get to his feet but Templeton gently pushed him back down. “Please stay where you are, Mr. Soames.”

“What’s this all about?” Soames demanded. “What’s going on?”

“Wednesday evening and Friday afternoon,” Templeton went on. “A bit of afternoon delight. Beats the dentist’s any day, I’d say.”

Kelly was crying now and her father was fast turning purple with fury. “Is this true, Kelly?” he asked. “Is what he’s saying true?”

Kelly buried her face in her hands. “I feel sick,” she said between her fingers.

“Is this true?” her father demanded.

“Yes! All right, damn you, yes!” she said, glaring at Templeton. Then she turned to her father. “He fucked me, Daddy. I let him fuck me. I liked it.”

“You whoring slut!” Soames raised his hand to slap her but Winsome grabbed it first. “Not a good idea, Mr. Soames,” she said.

Templeton looked at Soames. “Are you telling me you didn’t already know this, Mr. Soames?” he said.

Soames bared his teeth. “If I’d’ve known I’d have…”

“You’d have what?” Templeton asked, shoving his face close to Soames’s. “Beat up your daughter? Killed Nick Barber?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Is that what you did? You found out what Kelly had been doing, and you waited until she was back working behind the bar, then you made an excuse to leave the pub for a few minutes. You went to see Barber. What happened? Did he laugh at you? Did he tell you how good she was? Or did he say she meant nothing to him, just another shag? Was the bed still warm from their lovemaking? You hit him over the head with a poker. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill him. Maybe something just snapped inside you. It happens. But there he was, dead on the floor. Is that how it happened, Calvin? If you tell us now it’ll go better for you. I’m sure a judge and jury will understand a father’s righteous anger.”

Kelly lurched over to the sink and just made it in time. Winsome held her shoulders as the girl heaved.

“Well?” said Templeton. “Am I right?”

Soames deflated into a sad, defeated old man, all the anger drained out of him. “No,” he said, without inflection. “I didn’t kill anyone. I had no idea…” He looked at Kelly bent over the sink, tears in his eyes. “Not till now. She’s no better than her mother was,” he added bitterly.

Nobody said anything for a while. Kelly finished vomiting and Winsome poured her a glass of water. They sat down at the table again. Her father wouldn’t look at her. Finally, Templeton got to his feet. “Well, Mr. Soames,” he said. “If you change your mind, you know where to get in touch with us. And in the meantime, as they say in the movies, don’t leave town.” He pointed at Kelly. “Nor you, young lady.”

But nobody was looking at him, or paying attention. They were all lost in their own worlds of misery, pain and betrayal. That would pass, though, Templeton knew, and he’d see Kelly Soames again under better circumstances, he was certain of it.

Outside at the car, dodging the puddles and mud as best he could, Templeton turned to Winsome, rubbed his hands together and said, “Well, I think that went pretty well. What do you think, Winsome? Do you think he knew?”

Banks had a great deal of information to digest, he thought as he parked down by the Co-Op store at the inner harbor and walked toward the shops and restaurants of West Cliff. He passed a reconstruction of the yellow-and-black HMS Grand Turk, used in the Hornblower TV series, and stood for a moment admiring the sails and rigging. What a hell of a life it must have been at sea back then, he thought. Maybe not so bad if you were an officer, but for the common sailor: the bad, maggot-infested food, the floggings, the terrible wounds of battle, butchery thinly disguised as surgery. Of course, he’d got most of his ideas from Hornblower and Master and Commander, but they seemed pretty accurate to him, and if they weren’t, how would he know?

Thinking back on what Keith Enderby had just told him, he realized he would have been living in Notting Hill at around the same time as Linda Lofthouse and Tania Hutchison. He was sure he would have remembered seeing someone as beautiful as Tania, even though she wasn’t famous then, but he couldn’t. There were, he remembered, a lot of beautiful young women in colorful clothes around at the time, and he had met his fair share of them.

But Tania and Linda would have moved in very different circles. Banks didn’t know anyone in a band, for a start; he paid for all his concert tickets, like everyone else he knew. He also didn’t have the musical talent to perform in local clubs, though he often went to listen to those who did. But most of all, perhaps, was that he had always felt like an outsider, had felt, somehow, merely on the fringes of it all. He never wore his hair too long; couldn’t get much beyond wearing a flowered shirt or tie, let alone caftans and beads; couldn’t bring himself to join in the political demonstrations; and most times he found himself involved in any sort of counterculture conversation he thought it all sounded simplistic, childish and boring.

Banks leaned on the railing and watched the fishing boats bobbing at anchor in the harbor, then he walked to a café he remembered that served excellent fish and chips, one thing you could usually rely on in Whitby. He went into the café, which was almost empty, and ordered a pot of tea and jumbo haddock and chips, with bread and butter for chip butties, from a bored young waitress in a black apron and white blouse.

He sat down at the window, which looked out over the harbor to the old part of town, with its 199 steps leading up to the ruined abbey and St. Mary’s Church, where the salt wind had robbed the tombstones of their names. A group of young Goths, all black clothes, white faces and intricate silver jewelry, walked by the sheds where the fishermen unloaded their boats and sold their catch.

From what Banks had read about them, and the music he had heard, they seemed obsessed with death and suicide, as well as with the undead and the “dark side” in general, but they were passive and pacifist and concerned with social matters, such as racism and war. Banks liked Joy Division, and he had heard them described as the archetypal Goth band. On balance, he thought, Goths were no weirder than the hippies had been, with their fascination with the occult, poetry and drug-induced enlightenment.

The year 1969 was a period of great transition for Banks. After leaving school with a couple of decent A levels, he was living in a bedsit in Notting Hill and taking a course in business studies in London. He hadn’t felt much in common with his fellow students, though, so he had tended to fall in with a crowd from the art college, two of whom lived together in the same building as him, and they formed his real introduction, rather late in the day, to that strange blend of existentialism, communalism, hedonism and narcissism that was his take on late-sixties culture. They shared joints with him and Jem from across the hall, went to concerts and poetry readings, discussed squatters’ rights, Vietnam and Oz, and played “Alice’s Restaurant” over and over again.

Banks had no idea what to do with his life. His parents had made it clear that they wanted him to have a crack at a white-collar career, rather than ending up in the brick factory, or the sheet-metal factory like his father, so business studies seemed like a logical step. And he did so much need to escape the stifling provinciality of Peterborough.

He loved the music and had hitchhiked with his first real girlfriend, Kay Summerville, to the Blind Faith concert in Hyde Park the summer of that year, when he was still living at home in Peterborough, and to the Rolling Stones concert in memory of Brian Jones, at which Mick Jagger freed all the caged butterflies that hadn’t already died from the heat. He also remembered Dylan at the Isle of Wight, coming on late and singing “She Belongs to Me” and “To Ramona,” two of Banks’s favorites.

But in Peterborough, he had been fairly isolated from the trendy fashions, causes and ideologies of the times, embarrassingly ignorant of what was really happening out there. For all the hyped-up change and revolution of the decade, it was a salutary lesson to bear in mind that “Strawberry Fields Forever” was kept from reaching number one by Engelbert Humperdinck’s “Release Me,” and growing up in Peterborough, you could easily see why.

That first college year, he remembered following with horror the saga of the Manson family, eventually arrested for the murders of Sharon Tate, Leno LaBianca and others. It had all passed into the history books now, of course, but then, as the story unfolded day by day in the newspapers and on television, and as the real horrors came to light, it had a powerful impact, not least because the Manson “family” seemed a bit like hippies and quoted the Beatles and revolutionary slogans. And then there were the girls, Manson’s “love slaves,” with strange names like Patricia Krenwinkel, Squeaky Fromme and Leslie Van Houten. The way they dressed and wore their hair they might have been living in Notting Hill. The famous photo of the bearded, staring Manson had given Banks almost as many nightmares as the one of Christine Keeler sitting naked on a chair had prompted wet dreams.

Altamont had taken place in late 1969, too, he remembered, where someone was stabbed by a Hell’s Angel during the Stones’ performance. There were other things he vaguely remembered: the police charging a house in Piccadilly to evict squatters, rioting in Northern Ireland, stories of women and children murdered by American troops in My Lai, violent antiwar protests, four students shot by the National Guard at Kent State.

Maybe it was hindsight, but things seemed to be taking a turn for the worse back then, falling apart, or perhaps that had been happening for a while, and he had only just noticed because he was there, in the thick of it. He probably wouldn’t have noticed the change in political climate if he’d stayed in Peterborough. Perhaps the business career would have worked out if he hadn’t got caught up in the tail end of the sixties in Notting Hill. As it was, by the end of his first year, he had lost all interest in cost accounting, industrial psychology and mercantile law.

But he had no memory of hearing about the murder of a girl at a festival in Yorkshire. Back then, the provinces, especially in the north, were of little interest to those at the center of things, and local police forces worked far more independently of one another than they did today. He wondered if Enderby was right about Linda Lofthouse’s murder being the one Nick Barber had referred to. He had been so certain it was Robin Merchant, and he still wasn’t ruling that possibility out. But the news about Linda Lofthouse brought a whole new complexion to things, even if her murder had been solved. Was the killer still in jail? If not, could he somehow be involved in Nick Barber’s death? The more Banks thought about it, no matter what Catherine Gervaise said, the more he thought he was right, and that Barber had died for digging up the past, which that someone wanted to remain buried.

Banks noticed a few clouds drift in from the east as he ate his haddock and chips, and by the time he had finished it was starting to drizzle. He paid, left a small tip and headed for his car. Before he set off, he phoned Ken Blackstone in Leeds and asked him to find out what he could about Stanley Chadwick and the Linda Lofthouse investigation.

Sunday, 21st September, 1969

Steve answered the door late that Sunday afternoon, and when he saw Yvonne standing there, he turned away and walked down the hall. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he said. “You’ve got a bloody nerve showing up here.”

Yvonne followed him into the living room. “But, Steve, it wasn’t my fault. It was McGarrity. He tried to force himself on me. He’s dangerous. You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know what to do.”

Steve turned to face her. “So you went straight to Daddy.”

“I was upset. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You never told me your father was a pig.”

“You never asked. Besides, what does it matter?”

“What does it matter? He violated our space. Him and the others. We got busted. That’s what matters. Now we’re going to have to go to court tomorrow morning. I’ll get a fine at least. And if my parents find out, I’m fucked. They’ll stop my allowance. That’s all down to you.”

“But it wasn’t my fault, Steve. I’m sorry, really I am. I didn’t know they were going to bust you.” Yvonne moved toward him and reached out to touch him.

He jerked away and sat down in the armchair. “Oh, come off it. You must have known damn well we’d be sitting around here smoking a few joints and listening to music. It’s not as if you haven’t done it with us often enough.”

Yvonne knelt at his feet. “But I never sent them here. Honestly. I thought they would just arrest McGarrity, that’s all. You know I’d never do anything to get you in trouble.”

“Then you’re more stupid than I thought you were. Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t want you coming around here anymore. Whether you wanted to or not, you’ve brought nothing but trouble. Who knows who might follow you?”

Yvonne’s heart pounded in her chest. She still had one card to play. “McGarrity told me you’ve been seeing someone else.”

Steve laughed. “If only you could hear yourself.”

“Is it true?”

“What if I have?”

“I thought we… I mean… I didn’t…”

“Oh, Yvonne, for God’s sake, grow up. You sound like such a child sometimes. We can both see whoever we want. I thought that was clear from the start.”

“But I don’t want to see anyone else. I want to see you.”

“What you’re really saying is that you don’t want me to see anyone else. You can’t own someone, Yvonne. You can’t control their affections.”

“But it’s true.”

Steve turned away his face. “Well, I don’t want to see you. That’s just not on anymore.”

“But-”

“I mean it. And you won’t be welcome at Bayswater Terrace or Carberry Place, either. They got raided as well, in case you didn’t know. People got busted, and they’re not happy with you. Word gets around, you know. It’s still a small scene.”

“So what should I have done? Tell me what I should have done.”

“You shouldn’t have done anything. You should have kept your stupid mouth shut. You should have known bringing the pigs in would only mean trouble for us.”

“But he’s my father. I had to tell someone. I was so upset, Steve, I was shaking like a leaf. McGarrity…”

“I’ve told you before he’s harmless.”

“That’s not the way he seemed to me.”

“You were stoned, the way I hear it. Maybe your imagination was running away with you. Maybe you even wanted him to touch you. Maybe you should run away with your imagination instead.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve sighed. “I can’t trust you anymore, Yvonne. We can’t trust you anymore.”

“But I love you, Steve.”

“No you don’t. Don’t be stupid. That’s not real love you’re talking about, that’s just romantic schoolgirl crap. It’s possessive love, all jealousy and control, all the negative emotions. You’re not mature enough to know what real love is.”

Yvonne flinched at his words. She felt herself turn cold all over, as if she had been hit by a bucket of water. “And you are?”

He stood up. “This is a fucking waste of time. Look, I’m not arguing with you anymore. Why don’t you just go? And don’t come back.”

“But, Steve-”

Steve pointed to the door and raised his voice. “Just go. And don’t send your father and his piggy friends around here again or you might find yourself in serious trouble.”

Yvonne got slowly to her feet. She had never known Steve to look or sound so cruel. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Never mind. Just fuck off.”

Yvonne looked at him. He was bristling with anger. There was clearly going to be no more talking to him. Not this afternoon, maybe not ever. Feeling the tears start to burn down her cheeks, she turned away from him abruptly and left.

“It’s not so much what he said or did, Guv,” said Winsome, “it was the pleasure he took in doing it.”

Annie nodded. She was treating Winsome to an after-work drink in the Black Lion, off an alley behind the market square, away from the prying eyes and ears of Western Area Headquarters. Winsome was visibly upset, and Annie wanted to get to the bottom of it. “Kev can be insensitive at times,” she said.

“Insensitive?” Winsome took a gulp of her vodka and tonic. “Insensitive? It was more like bloody sadistic. I’m sorry, Guv, but I’m still shaking. See?”

She stuck her hand out. Annie could see it was trembling slightly. “Calm down,” she said. “Another drink? You’re not driving, are you?”

“No. I can walk home from here. I’ll have the same again, thanks.”

Annie went to the bar and got the drinks. There was nobody else in the place except the barmaid and a couple of her friends at the far end. One of them was playing the machines, and the other was sitting down watching over two toddlers, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other. Every time one of the little boys started to cry or make any sort of noise, she told him to shut up. Time after time. Cry. Shut up. Cry. Shut up. There was a tape of old music playing loudly – “House of the Rising Sun,” “The Young Ones,” “Say a Little Prayer for Me,” “I Remember You” – the sort of stuff Banks would remember, competing with the TV blaring out Murder She Wrote on one of the Sky channels. But the noise certainly drowned out anything Annie and Winsome were talking about.

Annie was going to get a Britvic Orange for herself, as she had to get back to Harkside, but she was still furious after her session with Superintendent Gervaise, feeling far from calm, and she needed another bloody stiff drink herself, so she ordered a large vodka with her orange juice. If she had too much, she’d leave the car and get one of the PCs to drive her home, or get a taxi if the worst came to the worst. It couldn’t cost all that much. She had been thinking of moving to Eastvale recently, as it would be convenient for the job, but house prices there had gone through the roof, and she didn’t want to give up her little cottage, even though it was now worth nearly twice what she had paid for it.

Winsome thanked Annie for the drink. “That poor girl,” she said.

“Look, Winsome, I know how you feel. I feel just as bad. I’m sure Kelly thinks I’m the one who betrayed her trust. But DS Templeton was only doing his job. Superintendent Gervaise had asked him to check the girl’s story against her father’s and that was the way he did it. It might seem harsh to you, but it worked, didn’t it?”

“I can’t believe you’re defending them,” Winsome said. She took a gulp of vodka, then put the drink down on the table. “You weren’t there or you’d know what I’m talking about. No. I’m not working with him again. You can transfer me. Do what you want. But I won’t work with that bastard again.” She folded her arms.

Annie sipped her drink and sighed. She had been foreseeing problems ever since Kevin Templeton got his promotion. He had passed his sergeant’s boards ages ago, but he didn’t want to go back to uniform and he didn’t want to transfer, so it took a while for this opportunity to come up. Then he nipped a possible serial killer’s career in the bud and became the golden boy. Annie had always found him just a bit too full of himself, and she worried what a little power might do to his already skewed personality. And if he thought she didn’t notice the way he had practically drooled down the front of her blouse the other day, then he was seriously deluding himself. The thing was, he got the job done, as he had done now. Banks did, too, but he managed to do it without treading on everyone’s toes – only the brass’s, usually – but Templeton was one of the new breed; he didn’t care. And here was Annie defending him when she knew damn well that Winsome, who had also passed her boards with flying colors and didn’t want to leave East-vale, would have been a much better person for the job. Where is positive discrimination when you really need it? she wondered. Obviously not in Yorkshire.

“I shouldn’t have made a promise I couldn’t possibly keep,” Annie said. “The blame’s entirely mine. I should have done it myself.” She knew that she had deliberately not made any such promise to Kelly Soames, but she felt as if she had.

“Pardon me, Guv, but like I said, you weren’t there. Listen to me. He enjoyed it. Enjoyed every minute of it. The humiliation. Taunting her. He drew it out to get more pleasure from it. And in the end he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. I don’t know if that’s the worst part of it all.”

“Okay, Winsome, I’ll admit DS Templeton has a few problems.”

“A few problems? The man’s a sadist. And you know what?”

“What?”

Winsome shifted in her chair. “Don’t laugh, but there was something… sexual about it.”

“Sexual?”

“Yes. I can’t explain it, but it was like he was getting off on his power over her.”

“Are you certain?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was just me, reading things wrongly. It wouldn’t be the first time. But there was something really creepy about the whole thing, even when the girl was being sick-”

“Kelly was physically sick?”

“Yes. I thought I’d told you that.”

“No. How did it happen?”

“She was just sick.”

“What did DS Templeton do?”

“Just carried on as if everything was normal.”

“Have you told anyone else what happened?”

“No, Guv. I’d tell Superintendent Gervaise if I thought it would do any good, but she thinks the sun shines out of Kevin Templeton’s arse.”

“She does, does she?” That didn’t surprise Annie. Just the mention of Gervaise made her bristle. The sanctimonious cow, putting Annie on statement reading, a DC’s job at best, and making gibes about her private life.

“Anyway,” Winsome went on, “I don’t have to put up with it. There’s nothing in the book says I have to put up with behavior like that.”

“That’s true,” said Annie. “But life doesn’t always go by the book.”

“It does when you agree with what the book says.”

Annie laughed. “So what do you want to do about it?”

“Dunno,” said Winsome. “Nothing I can do, I suppose. ’Cept I don’t want to be near the creep anymore, and if he ever tries anything I’ll beat seven shades of shit out of him.”

Annie laughed. The phrase sounded odd coming from Winsome with her Jamaican lilt. “You can’t avoid him all the time,” she said. “I mean, I can do my best to make sure you’re not paired up or anything, but Superintendent Gervaise can overrule that if she wants, and she seems to want to interfere with our jobs a bit more than Superintendent Gristhorpe did.”

“I liked Mr. Gristhorpe,” said Winsome. “He was old-fashioned, like my father, and he could be a bit frightening sometimes, but he was fair and he didn’t play favorites.”

Well, Annie thought, that wasn’t strictly true. Banks had certainly been a favorite of Gristhorpe’s, but in general Winsome was right. There was a difference between having favorites and playing them. Gristhorpe hadn’t set out to build a little empire, pick his teams and set people against one another the way it seemed Gervaise was doing. Nor did he interfere in people’s private lives. He must have known about her and Banks, but he hadn’t said anything, at least not to her. He might have warned Banks off, she supposed, but if he had, it hadn’t affected their relationship either on or off the job.

“Well, Gristhorpe’s gone and Gervaise is here,” said Annie, “and for better or worse we’ve got to live with it.” She looked at her watch. She still had half her drink left. “Look, I’d better go, Winsome. I’m not over the limit yet, but I will be if I have any more.”

“You can stay at mine, if you like.” Winsome looked away. “I’m sorry, Guv, I don’t mean to be presumptuous. I mean, you being an inspector and all, my boss, but I’ve got a spare room. It’s just that it helps talking about it, that’s all. And I don’t know about you, but I feel like getting rat-arsed.”

Annie thought for a moment. “What the hell?” she said, finishing her drink. “I’ll get another round.”

“No, you stay there. It’s my shout.”

Annie sat and watched her walk to the bar, a tall, graceful, long-legged Jamaican beauty about whom she knew… well, not very much at all. But then she didn’t really know very much about anyone, when it came right down to it, she realized, not even Banks. And as she watched, she smiled to herself. Wouldn’t it be funny, she thought, if she did stay at Winsome’s and Superintendent Gervaise found out. What would the sad cow make of that?

Monday, 22nd September, 1969

“But we’ve got no real evidence, Stan,” Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen argued on Monday morning. They were in his office and rain spattered the windows, blurring the view.

Chadwick ran his hand over his hair. He’d thought this out in advance, hadn’t done anything else but think it over, all night. He didn’t want Yvonne involved; that was the main problem. He had seen the bruise McGarrity had caused on her arm, and it was enough to bring assault charges, but once he went that route he wouldn’t be able to do anything for Yvonne. She was upset enough as it was, and he didn’t want to drag her through court. If truth be told, he didn’t want his name tainted by his daughter’s folly, either. He thought he could make a decent case without her, and he laid it out carefully for McCullen.

“First off, he’s got form,” he said.

McCullen raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“The most recent’s for possession of a controlled substance, namely LSD. November 1967.”

“Only possession?”

“They think he dumped his stash down the toilet when he heard them coming. Unfortunately, he still had two doses in his pocket.”

“You said most recent?”

“Yes. The other’s a bit more interesting. March 1958.”

“How old was he then?”

“Twenty-two.”

“And?”

“Assault causing bodily harm. He stabbed a student in the shoulder during a town-and-gown altercation in Oxford, which apparently is where he comes from. Unfortunately the student happened to be the son of a local member of Parliament.”

“Ouch,” said McCullen, a sly smile touching his lips.

“It didn’t help that McGarrity was a teddy boy as well. Apparently the judge didn’t like teds. Threw the book at him. He was a Brasenose man, too, same as the student. Gave McGarrity eighteen months. If the wound had been more serious, and if it hadn’t been inflicted defensively during a scuffle – apparently the gown lot were carrying cricket bats, among other weapons – then he’d have got five years or more. Another interesting point,” Chadwick went on, “is that the weapon used was a flick-knife.”

“The same weapon used on the girl?”

“Same kind of weapon.”

“Go on.”

“There’s not much more,” Chadwick said. “We spent yesterday interviewing the people at the three houses who knew McGarrity. He definitely knew the victim.”

“How well?”

“There’s no evidence of any sort of relationship, and from what I’ve found out about Linda Lofthouse I very much doubt that there was one. But he knew her.”

“Anything else?”

“Everyone said he was an odd duck. They often didn’t understand what he was talking about, and he had a habit of playing with a flick-knife.”

“What kind of flick-knife?”

“Just a flick-knife, with a tortoiseshell handle.”

“Why did they put up with him?”

“If you ask me, sir, it’s down to drugs. Our lads found five ounces of cannabis resin hidden in the gas meter at Carberry Place. Apparently the lock was broken. We think it belonged to McGarrity.”

“Defrauding the gas company too, I’ll bet?”

Chadwick smiled. “Same shilling, again and again. The drugs squad think he’s a mid-level dealer, buys a few ounces now and then and splits them up into quid deals. Probably what he used the knife for.”

“So the kids tolerate him?”

“Yes, sir. He was also at the festival, and according to the people he went with he spent most of the time roaming the crowd on his own. No one can say where he was when the incident occurred.”

McCullen tapped his pipe on the ashtray, then said, “The knife?”

“No sign of it yet, sir.”

“Pity.”

“Yes. I suppose it might be a coincidence that McGarrity simply lost his knife around the same time a young woman was stabbed with a similar weapon, but we’ve gone to court with less before.”

“Aye. And lost from time to time.”

“Well, the judge has bound him over on the dealing charge. No fixed abode, so no bail. He’s all ours.”

“Then get cracking and build up a murder case if you think you’ve got one. But don’t get tunnel vision here, Stan. Don’t forget that other bloke you fancied for it.”

“Rick Hayes? We’re still looking into him.”

“Good. And, Stan?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Find the knife. It would really help.”

Some people, Banks realized, never travel very far from where they grow up, and Simon Bradley was one of them. He had, he said, transferred several times during his career, to Suffolk, Cumbria and Nottingham, but he had ended up back in Leeds, and when he had retired in 2000 at the age of fifty-six and the rank of superintendent, Traffic, he and his wife had settled in a nice detached stone-built house just off Shaw Lane in Headingley. It was, he told Banks, only a stone’s throw from where he grew up in more lowly Meanwood. Beyond the high green gate was a well-tended garden that, Bradley said, was his wife’s pride and joy. Bradley’s pride and joy, it turned out, was a small library of floor-to-ceiling shelves, where he kept his collection of first-edition crime and thriller fiction, primarily Dick Francis, Ian Fleming, Len Deighton, Ruth Rendell, P. D. James and Colin Dexter. It was there he sat with Banks over coffee and talked about his early days at Brotherton House. Sitting in the peaceful book-lined room, Banks found it hard to believe that just down the road was Hyde Park, where one of that summer’s suicide bombers had lived.

“I was young,” Bradley said, “twenty-five in 1969, but I was never really one of that generation.” He laughed. “I suppose that would have been difficult, wouldn’t it, being a hippie and a copper at the same time? Sort of like being on both sides at once.”

“I’m a few years behind you,” said Banks, “but I did like the music. Still do.”

“Really? Dreadful racket,” said Bradley. “I’ve always been more of a classical man myself: Mozart, Beethoven, Bach.”

“I like them, too,” said Banks, “but sometimes you can’t beat a bit of Jimi Hendrix.”

“Each to his own. I suppose I always associated the music too closely with the lifestyle and the things that went on back then,” Bradley said with distaste. “A sound track for the drugs, long hair, promiscuity. I was something of a young fogy, a square, I suppose, and now I’ve grown up into an old fogy. I went to church every Sunday, kept my hair cut short and believed in waiting until you were married before having sex. Still do, much to my son’s chagrin. Very unfashionable.”

Bradley was almost ten years older than Banks, and he was in good physical shape. There was no extra flab on him the way there had been on Enderby, and he still had a fine head of hair. He was wearing white trousers and a shirt with a gray V-neck pullover, a bit like a cricketer, Banks thought, or the way cricketers used to look before they became walking multicolored advertisements for everything from mobile phones to trainers.

“Did you get on well with DI Chadwick?” Banks asked, remembering Enderby’s description of “Chiller” as cold and hard.

“After a fashion,” said Bradley. “DI Chadwick wasn’t an easy man to get close to. He’d had certain… experiences… during the war, and he tended toward long silences you didn’t dare interrupt. He never spoke about it – the war – but you knew it was there, defining him, in a way, as it did many of that generation. But yes, I suppose I got along with him as well as anyone.”

“Do you remember the Linda Lofthouse case?”

“As if it were yesterday. Bound to happen eventually.”

“What was?”

“What happened to her. Linda Lofthouse. Bound to. I mean, all those people rolling in the mud on LSD and God knows what. Bound to revert to their primitive natures at some point, weren’t they? Strip away that thin but essential veneer of civilization and convention, of obedience and order, and what do you get – the beast within, Mr. Banks, the beast within. Someone was bound to get hurt. Stands to reason. I’m only surprised there wasn’t more of it.”

“But what do you think it was about Linda Lofthouse that got her killed?”

“At first, when I saw her there in the sleeping bag, you know, with her dress bunched up, I must confess I thought it was probably a sex murder. She had that look about her, you know?”

“What look?”

“A lot of young girls had it then. As if she’d invite you into her sleeping bag as soon as look at you.”

“But she was dead.”

“Well, yes, of course. I know that.” Bradley gave a nervous laugh. “I mean, I’m not a necrophiliac or anything. I’m just telling you the first impression I had of her. Turned out it wasn’t a sex crime after all, but some madman. As I said, bound to happen when you encourage deviant behavior. She’d had an illegitimate baby, you know.”

“Linda Lofthouse?”

“Yes. She was on the pill when we found her, like most of them, of course, but obviously not when she was fifteen. Gave it up for adoption in 1967.”

“Did anyone find out what became of the child?”

“It didn’t concern us. We tracked down the father, a kid called Donald Hughes, garage mechanic, and he gave us a couple of ideas as to the sort of life Linda was leading and where she was living it, but he had an alibi, and he had no motive. He’d moved on. Got a proper job, wanted nothing to do with Linda and her hippie lifestyle. That was why they split up in the first place. If she hadn’t been seduced by that corrupt lifestyle, the baby might have grown up with a proper mother and father.”

The child’s identity might be an issue now, Banks thought. A child born in the late sixties would be in his late thirties now, and if he had discovered what had happened to his birth mother… Nick Barber was thirty-eight, but he was the victim. Banks was confusing too many crimes: Lofthouse, Merchant, Barber. He had to get himself in focus. At least the connection between Barber and Lofthouse was something he could check into and not come away looking too much of a fool if he was wrong.

“What was the motive?”

“We never found out. He was a nutcase.”

“That being the technical term for a psychopath back then?”

“It’s what we used to call them,” Bradley said, “but I suppose psychopath or sociopath – I never did know the difference – would be more politically correct.”

“He confessed to the murder?”

“As good as.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t deny it when faced with the evidence.”

“The knife, right?”

“With his fingerprints and Linda Lofthouse’s blood on it.”

“How did this person – what’s his name, by the way?”

“McGarrity. Patrick McGarrity.”

“How did this McGarrity first come to your attention?”

“We found out that the victim was known at various houses around the city where students and dropouts lived and sold drugs. McGarrity frequented these same places, was a drug dealer, in fact, which was what we first arrested him for after a raid.”

“And then DI Chadwick became suspicious?”

“Well, yes. We heard that McGarrity was a bit of a nutcase, and even the people whose houses he frequented were a bit frightened of him. There was a lot of tolerance for weird types back then, especially if they provided people with drugs, which is why I say I’m surprised these things didn’t happen more often. This McGarrity clearly had severe mental problems. Dropped on the head at birth, for all I know. He was older than the rest, for a start, and he also had a criminal record and a history of violence. He had a habit of playing with this flick-knife. It used to make people nervous, which was no doubt the effect he wanted. There was also some talk about him terrorizing a young girl. He was a thoroughly unpleasant character.”

“Did this other young girl come forward?”

“No. It was just something that came up during questioning. McGarrity denied it. We got him on the other charges, and that gave us all we needed.”

“You met him?”

“I sat in on some of the interviews. Look, I don’t know why you want to know all this now. There’s no doubt he did it.”

“I’m not doubting it,” said Banks, “I’m just trying to find a reason for Nick Barber’s murder.”

“Well, it’s got nothing to do with McGarrity.”

“Nick Barber was writing about the Mad Hatters,” Banks went on, “and Vic Greaves was Linda Lofthouse’s cousin.”

“The one that went bonkers?”

“If you care to put it that way, yes,” said Banks.

“How else would you put it? Anyway, I’m afraid I never met them. DI Chadwick did most of the North Riding side of the investigation with a DS Enderby. I do believe they interviewed the band.”

“Yes, I’ve talked to Keith Enderby.”

Bradley sniffed. “Bit of a scruff, and not entirely reliable, in my opinion. Rather more like the types we were dealing with, if you know what I mean?”

“DS Enderby was a hippie?”

“Well, not as such, but he wore his hair a bit long, and on occasion he wore flowered shirts and ties. I even saw him in sandals once.”

“With socks?”

“No.”

“Well, thank the Lord for that,” said Banks.

“Look, I know you’re being sarcastic,” said Bradley with a smug smile. “It’s okay. But the fact that remains is that Enderby was a slacker, and he had no respect for the uniform.”

Banks could have kicked himself for letting the sarcasm out, but Bradley’s holier-than-thou sanctimony was starting to get up his nose. He felt like saying that Enderby had described Bradley as an arse-licker, but he wanted results, not confrontation. Time to hold back and stick to relevant points only, he told himself.

“You say you think this writer was killed because he was working on a story about the Mad Hatters, but do you have any reason for assuming that?” Bradley asked.

“Well,” said Banks, “we do know about the story he was working on, that he mentioned to a girlfriend that it might involve a murder, and we know that Vic Greaves now lives very close to the cottage in which Nick Barber was killed. Unfortunately, all Barber’s notes were missing, along with his mobile and laptop, so we were unable to find out more. That in itself is also suspicious, though, that his personal effects and notes were taken.”

“It’s not very much, though, is it? I imagine robbery’s as common around your patch as it is everywhere these days.”

“We try to keep an open mind,” said Banks. “There could be other possibilities. Did you have any other suspects?”

“Yes. There was a fellow called Rick Hayes. He was the festival promoter. He had the freedom of the backstage area and he couldn’t account for himself during the period we think the girl was killed. He was also left-handed, as was McGarrity.”

“Those were the only two?”

“Yes.”

“So it was the knife that clinched it?”

“We knew we had the right man – you must have had that feeling at times – but we couldn’t prove it at first. We were able to hold him on a drugs charge, and while we were holding him we turned up the murder weapon.”

“How long after you first questioned him?”

“It was October, about two weeks or so.”

“Where was it?”

“In one of the houses.”

“I assume those places were searched as soon as you had McGarrity in custody?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t turn up the knife then?”

“You have to understand,” said Bradley, “there were several people living in each of these houses at any one time. They were terribly unsanitary and overcrowded. People slept on the floors and in all kinds of unlikely combinations. There was all sorts of stuff around. We didn’t know what belonged to whom, they were all so casual in their attitudes toward property and ownership.”

“So how did you find out in the end?”

“We just kept on looking. Finally, we found it hidden inside a cushion. A couple of the people who lived there said they’d seen McGarrity with such a knife – it had a tortoiseshell handle – and we were fortunate enough to find his prints on it. He’d wiped the blade, of course, but the lab still found blood and fiber where it joined the handle. The blood matched Linda Lofthouse’s type. Simple as that.”

“Did the knife match the wounds?”

“According to the pathologist, it could have.”

“Only could have?”

“He was in court. You know what those barristers are like. Could have been her blood, could have been the knife. A blade consistent with the kind of blade… blah blah blah. It was enough for the jury.”

“The pathologist didn’t try to match the knife with the wound physically, on the body?”

“He couldn’t. The body had been buried by then, and even if it had been necessary to exhume it, the flesh would have been too decomposed to give an accurate reproduction. You know that.”

“And McGarrity didn’t deny killing her?”

“That’s right. I was there when DI Chadwick presented him with the evidence and he just had this strange smile on his face, and he said, ‘It looks like you’ve got me, then.’”

“Those were his exact words. ‘It looks like you’ve got me, then’?”

Bradley frowned with annoyance. “It was over thirty years ago. I can’t promise those were the exact words, but it was something like that. You’ll find it in the files and the court transcripts. But he was sneering at us, being sarcastic.”

“I’ll be looking at the transcripts later,” said Banks. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with the investigation into Robin Merchant’s death?”

“Who?”

“He was another member of the Mad Hatters. He drowned about nine months after the Linda Lofthouse murder.”

Bradley shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

“Mr. Enderby was able to tell me a bit about it. He was one of the investigating officers. I was just wondering. I understand DI Chadwick had a daughter?”

“Yes. I only ever saw her the once. Pretty young thing. Yvonne, I think she was called.”

“Wasn’t there some trouble with her?”

“DI Chadwick didn’t confide in me about his family life.”

Banks felt a faint warning signal. Bradley’s answer had come just a split second too soon and sounded a little too pat to be quite believable. The clipped tones also told Banks that he perhaps wasn’t being entirely truthful. But why would he lie about Chadwick’s daughter? To protect Chadwick’s family and reputation, most likely. So if Enderby was right and this Yvonne had been in trouble, or was trouble, it might be worth finding out exactly what kind of trouble he was talking about. “Do you know where Yvonne Chadwick is now?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not. Grown up and married, I should imagine.”

“What about DI Chadwick?”

“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for years, not since the trial. I should imagine he’s dead by now. I mean, he was in his late forties back then and he wasn’t in the best of health. The trial took its toll. But I transferred to Suffolk in 1971, and I lost touch. No doubt records will be able to tell you. More coffee?”

“Thanks.” Banks held his mug out and gazed at the spines of the books. Nice hobby, he thought, collecting first editions. Maybe he’d look into it. Graham Greene, perhaps, or Georges Simenon. There were plenty of those to spend a lifetime or more collecting. “So even after confessing, McGarrity pleaded not guilty?”

“Yes. It was a foolish move. He wanted to conduct his own defense, too, but the judge wasn’t having any of it. As it was, he kept getting up in court and interrupting, causing a fuss, making accusations that he’d been framed. I mean, the nerve of him, after he’d as good as admitted it. Things didn’t go well for him at all. We got the similar fact evidence about the previous stabbing in. The bailiffs had to remove him from the court at least twice.”

“He said he’d been framed?”

“Well, they all do, don’t they?”

“Was he more specific about it?”

“No. Couldn’t be really, could he, seeing as it was all a pack of lies? Besides, he was gibbering. There’s no doubt about it, Patrick McGarrity was guilty as sin.”

“Perhaps I should have a chat with him.”

“That would be rather difficult,” said Bradley. “He’s dead. He was stabbed in jail back in 1974. Something to do with drugs.”