Piece Of My Heart

CHAPTER SIX

There were some advantages to being a DCI, Banks thought on Sunday morning as he lingered over a second cup of coffee in the conservatory and read his way through the Sunday papers. Outside, the wind had dropped over the past couple of hours, the sun was shining and the weather had turned a little milder, though there was an unmistakable edge of autumn in the air – the smell of the musty leaves and a whiff of acrid smoke from a distant peat fire.

He was still senior investigating officer, of course, and in a short while he would go to interview Calvin Soames. At some point he would also drop by at the station and the incident van to make his presence felt and get up-to-date with developments, if there were any. In an investigation like this, he could never be far away from the action for any length of time, but the team had enough to occupy itself for the moment, and the SOCOs had plenty of trace evidence to sift through. He was always only a phone call away, so barring a major breakthrough, there was no reason for him to appear at the office at the crack of dawn every day; he would only get lumbered with paperwork. First thing tomorrow morning, he and Annie would be on the train to London, and perhaps there they would find out more about Nick Barber. All Annie had been able to find out on Google was that he had written for MOJO magazine and had penned a couple of quickie rock star biographies. It was interesting, and Banks thought he recognized the name now he saw it in context, but it still wasn’t much to go on.

Just as Banks thought it was time to tidy up and set off for Soames’s farm, he heard a knock at the door. It couldn’t be Annie, he thought, because she had gone to see Nick Barber’s parents near Sheffield. Puzzled, he ambled through to the front room and answered it. He was stunned to see his son, Brian, standing there.

“Oh, great, Dad, you’re in.”

“So it would appear,” said Banks. “You didn’t ring.”

“Battery’s dead and the car charger’s fucked. Sorry. It is okay, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Banks said, smiling, putting his hand on Brian’s shoulder and stepping back. “Come on in. It’s always good to see you.”

Banks heard rather than saw a movement behind Brian, then a young woman came into view. “This is Emilia,” said Brian. “Emilia, my dad.”

“Hi, Mr. Banks,” said Emilia, holding out a soft hand with long, tapered fingers and a bangled wrist. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Can we bring the stuff in from the car?” Brian asked.

Still puzzled by it all, Banks just said okay and stood there while Brian and Emilia pulled a couple of hold-alls from the boot of a red Honda that looked as if it had seen better days, then walked back to the cottage.

“We’re going to stay for a few days, if that’s okay with you,” Brian said, as Banks gestured them into the cottage. “Only I’ve got some time off before rehearsals for the next tour, and Emilia’s never been to the Dales before. I thought I’d show her around. We’ll do a bit of walking – you know, country stuff.”

Brian and Emilia put their bags down, then Brian took his mobile phone from his pocket and searched for the lead in the side pouch of his holdall. “Okay if I charge up the phone?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Banks, pointing to the nearest plug socket. “Can I get you something?” He looked at his watch. “I have to go out soon, but we could have some coffee first.”

“Great. Coffee’s fine,” said Brian.

Emilia nodded in agreement. She looked terribly familiar, Banks thought.

“Come through to the conservatory, then,” said Banks.

“Conservatory. Lah-di-dah,” said Brian.

“Enough of your lip,” Banks joked. “There’s something very relaxing about conservatories. They’re like a sort of escape from the real world.”

But Brian was already poking his nose into the entertainment room. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Look at this stuff. Is this what you told me you got from Uncle Roy?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Your grandparents didn’t want it, so…”

“Fantastic,” said Brian. “I mean, it’s sad about Uncle Roy and all, but look at that plasma screen, all those movies. That Porsche out there is yours, too, isn’t it?”

“It was Roy’s, yes,” said Banks, feeling a bit guilty about it all now. He left Brian and Emilia nosing around the growing CD collection and headed for the kitchen, where he put the coffeemaker on. Then he picked up the scattered newspapers in the conservatory and set them aside on a spare chair. Brian and Emilia came through via the doors from the entertainment room. “I wouldn’t have had you down for a Streets fan, Dad,” he said.

“Just shows how little you know me,” said Banks.

“Yeah, but hip-hop?”

“Research,” said Banks. “Have to get to know the criminal mind, don’t I? Besides, it’s not really hip-hop, is it? And the kid tells a great story. Sit down, both of you. I’ll fetch the coffee. Milk? Sugar?”

They both said yes. Banks brought the coffee and sat on his usual white wicker chair opposite Brian and Emilia. He knew it was unlikely – Brian was in his twenties, after all – but his son seemed to have grown another couple of inches since he had last seen him. He was about six foot two and skinny, wearing a green T-shirt with the band’s logo, the Blue Lamps, and cream cargos. He had also had his hair cut really short and gelled. Banks thought it made him look older, which in turn made Banks feel older.

Emilia looked like a model. Only a couple of inches shorter than Brian, slender as a reed, wearing tight blue low-rise jeans and a skimpy belly-top, with the requisite wide gap between the two, and a green jewel gracing her navel, she moved with languorous grace and economy. Her streaky brown-blond hair hung over her shoulders and halfway down her back, framing and almost obscuring an oval face with an exquisite complexion, full lips, small nose and high cheekbones. Her violet eyes were unnaturally bright, but Banks suspected contact lenses rather than drugs. He’d seen her somewhere before; he knew it. “It really is good to see you again,” he said to Brian, “and nice to meet you, Emilia. I’m sorry you caught me unawares.”

“Don’t tell me, there’s no food in the house?” Brian said. “Or worse, no booze?”

“There’s wine, and a few cans of beer. But that’s about it. Oh, there’s also some leftover vegetarian lasagna.”

“You’ve gone veggie?”

“No. Annie was over the other evening.”

“Aha,” said Brian. “You two an item again?”

Banks felt himself redden. “Don’t be cheeky. And no, we’re not. Can’t a couple of colleagues have a quiet dinner together?”

Brian held his hands up, grinning. “Okay. Okay.”

“Why don’t we eat out later? Pub lunch, if I can make it. If not, dinner. On me.”

“Okay,” said Brian. “That all right with you, Emmy?”

“Of course,” said Emilia. “I can hardly wait to try some of this famous Yorkshire pudding.”

“You’ve never had Yorkshire pudding before?” said Banks.

Emilia blushed. “I’ve led a sheltered life.”

“Well, I think that can be arranged,” said Banks. He glanced at his watch. “Right now, I’d better be off. I’ll phone.”

“Cool,” said Brian. “Can you tell us which room we can have and we’ll take our stuff up while you’re out?”

Saturday, 13th September, 1969

The Sandford Estate was older than the Raynville, and it hadn’t improved with age. Mrs. Lofthouse lived right at the heart of things in a semidetached house with a postage-stamp garden and a privet hedge. Across the street, a rusty Hillman Minx without tires was parked on a neighbor’s overgrown lawn, and three windows were boarded up in the house next door. It was that kind of estate.

Mrs. Lofthouse, though, had done as much as she could to brighten the place up with a vase of chrysanthemums on the windowsill and a colorful painting of a Cornish fishing village over the mantelpiece. She was a small, slight woman in her early forties, her dyed-brown hair recently permed. Chadwick could still read the grief in the lines around her eyes and mouth. She had just lost her husband, and now he was here to burden her with the death of her daughter.

“It’s a nice house you have,” said Chadwick, sitting on the flower-patterned armchair with lace antimacassars.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Lofthouse. “It’s a rough estate, but I do my best. And there are some good people here. Anyway, now Jim’s gone I don’t need all this room. I’ve put my name down for a bungalow out Sherbourne in-Elmet way.”

“That should be a bit quieter.”

“It’s about Linda, isn’t it?”

“You know?”

Mrs. Lofthouse bit her lip. “I saw the sketch in the paper. Ever since then I just… I’ve been denying it, convincing myself it’s not her, it’s a mistake, but it is her, isn’t it?” Her accent was noticeably Yorkshire, but not as broad as Carol Wilkinson’s.

“We think so.” Chadwick slipped the photograph from his briefcase. “I’m afraid this won’t be very pleasant,” he said, “but it is important.” He showed her the photograph. “Is this Linda?”

After a sharp intake of breath, Mrs. Lofthouse said, “Yes.”

“You’ll have to make a formal identification down at the mortuary.”

“I will?”

“I’m afraid so. We’ll make it as easy for you as we can, though. Please don’t worry.”

“When can I… you know, the funeral?”

“Soon,” said Chadwick. “As soon as the coroner releases the body for burial. I’ll let you know. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Lofthouse, but I do have to ask you some questions. The sooner the better.”

“Of course. I’ll be all right. And it’s Margaret, please. Look, shall I make some tea? Would that be okay?”

“I could do with a cuppa right now,” said Chadwick with a smile.

“Won’t be a moment.”

Margaret Lofthouse disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt to give private expression to her grief as she boiled the kettle and filled the teapot in the time-honored, comforting ritual. A clock ticked on the mantel beside a framed photograph. Twenty-five to one. Broome and his pal would be well on their way to Sheffield by now, if they weren’t there already. Chadwick got up to examine the photograph. It showed a younger Margaret Lofthouse, and the man beside her with his arm around her waist was no doubt her husband. Also in the picture, which looked as if it had been taken outside in the country, was a young girl with short blond hair staring into the camera.

Margaret Lofthouse came back with a tray and caught him looking. “That was taken at Garstang Farm, near Hawes, in Wensleydale,” she said. “We used to go for summer holidays up there a few years ago, when Linda was little. My uncle owned the place. He’s dead now and strangers have bought it, but I have some wonderful memories. Linda was such a beautiful child.”

Chadwick watched the tears well up in her eyes. She dabbed at them with a tissue. “Sorry,” she said. “I just get all choked up when I remember how things were, when we were a happy family.”

“I understand,” said Chadwick. “What happened?”

Margaret Lofthouse didn’t seem surprised at the question. “What always seems to happen these days,” she said, with a sniffle. “She grew up into a teenager. They expect the world at the age of sixteen these days, don’t they? Well, what she got was a baby.”

“What did she do with the child?”

“Put him up for adoption – it’s a boy – what else could she do? She couldn’t look after him, and Jim and I were too old to start caring for another child. I’m sure he’s gone to a good home.”

“I’m sure,” agreed Chadwick. “But it’s not the baby I’m here to talk about, it’s Linda.”

“Yes, of course. Milk and sugar?”

“Please.”

She poured tea from a Royal Doulton teapot into fragile-looking cups with gold-painted rims and handles. “This was my grandmother’s tea set,” she said. “It’s the only real thing of value I own. There’s nobody left to pass it on to now. Linda was an only child.”

“When did she leave home?”

“Shortly after the baby was born. The winter of 1967.”

“Where did she go?”

“London. At least that’s what she told me.”

“Where in London?”

“I don’t know. She never said.”

“You didn’t have her address?”

“No.”

“Did she know people down there?”

“She must have done, mustn’t she? But I never met or heard of any of them.”

“Did she never come back and visit you?”

“Yes. Several times. We were quite friendly, but in a distant sort of way. She never talked about her life down there, just assured me she was all right and not to worry, and I must say, she always looked all right. I mean, she was clean and sober and nicely dressed, if you can call them sort of clothes nice, and she looked well fed.”

“Hippie-style clothing?”

“Yes. Long, flowing dresses. Bell-bottomed jeans with flowers embroidered on them. That sort of thing. But as I said, they was always clean and they always looked good quality.”

“Do you know how she earned a living?”

“I have no idea.”

“What did you talk about?”

“She told me about London, the parks, the buildings, the art galleries – I’ve never been there, you see. She was interested in art and music and poetry. She said all she wanted was peace in the world and for people to just be happy.” She reached for the tissues again.

“So you got along okay?”

“Fine, I suppose. On the surface. She knew I disapproved of her life, even though I didn’t know much about it. She talked about Buddhism and Hindus and Sufis and goodness knows what, but she never once mentioned our true Lord Jesus Christ, and I brought her up to be a good Christian.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I could have tried harder to understand. She just seemed so far away from me and anything I’ve ever believed in.”

“What did you talk to her about?”

“Just local gossip, what her old school friends were up to, that sort of thing. She never stopped long.”

“Did you know any of her friends?”

“I knew all the kids she played with around the estate, and her friends from school, but I don’t know who she spent her time with after she left home.”

“She never mentioned any names?”

“Well, she might have done, but I don’t remember any.”

“Did she ever tell you if anything or anyone was bothering her?”

“No. She always seemed happy, as if she hadn’t really a care in the world.”

“You don’t know of any enemies she might have had?”

“No. I can’t imagine her having any.”

“When did you last see her?”

“In the summer. July, it would be, not long after Jim…”

“Was she at the funeral?”

“Oh, yes. She came home for that in May. She loved her father. She was a great support. I don’t want to give you the impression that we’d fallen out or anything, Mr. Chadwick. I still loved Linda and I know that she still loved me. It was just that we couldn’t really talk anymore, not about anything important. She’d got secretive. In the end I gave up trying. But this was a couple of months after Jim’s death, just a flying visit to see how I was getting along.”

“What did she talk about on that visit?”

“We watched that man walk on the moon. Neil Armstrong. Linda was all excited about it, said it marked the beginning of a new age, but I don’t know. We stayed up watching till after three in the morning.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m sorry. Nothing else really stood out, except the moon landing. Some pop star she liked had died and she’d been to see the Rolling Stones play a free concert for him in Hyde Park. London, that is. And I remember her talking about the war. Vietnam. About how immoral it was. She always talked about the war. I tried to tell her that sometimes wars just have to be fought, but she’d have none of it. To her all war was evil. You should have heard it when Linda and her dad went at it – he was in the navy in the last war, just toward the end, like.”

“But you say Linda loved her father?”

“Oh, yes. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say they saw eye to eye about everything. I mean, he tried to discipline her, got on at her for staying out till all hours, but she was a handful. They fought like cat and dog sometimes, but they still loved one another.”

It all sounded so familiar to Chadwick that the thought depressed him. Surely all children weren’t like this, didn’t cause their parents such grief? Was he taking the wrong approach with Yvonne? Was there another way? He felt like such a failure as a parent, but short of locking her in her room, what could he do? When Yvonne went on about the evils of war, he always felt himself tense up inside; he could never even enter into a rational argument about it for fear he would lose his temper, lash out and say something he would regret. What did she know about war? Evil? Yes. Necessary? Well, how else were you going to stop someone like Hitler? He didn’t know much about Vietnam, but he assumed the Americans were there for a good reason, and the sight of all these unruly long-haired youngsters burning the flag and chanting antiwar slogans made his blood boil.

“What about the boyfriend, Donald Hughes?”

“What about him?”

“Is he the father?”

“I assume so. I mean, that’s what Linda said, and I think I know her well enough to know she wasn’t… you know… some sort of trollop.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He’s all right, I suppose. Not much gumption, mind you. The Hugheses aren’t exactly one of the best families on the estate, but they’re not one of the worst, either. And you can’t blame poor Eileen Hughes. She’s had six kids to bring up, mostly on her own. She tries hard.”

“Do you know if Donald kept in touch after Linda left?”

“I doubt it. He made himself scarce after he found out our Linda was pregnant, then just after the baby was born he became all concerned for a while, said they should get married and keep it, that it wouldn’t be right to give his child up for adoption. That’s how he put it. His child.”

“What did Linda say?”

“She gave him his marching orders, then not long after that, she was gone herself.”

“Do you know if he ever bothered her at all?”

“I don’t think so. She never said, never even mentioned him or the baby again.”

“Did he ever come here after that, asking about her?”

“Just once, about three weeks after she’d left. Wanted to know her address.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know. Of course he didn’t believe me, and he made a bit of a fuss on the doorstep.”

“What did you do?”

“I sent him packing. Told him I’d set Jim on him if he came back again, and shut the door in his face. He left us alone after that. Surely you don’t think Donald could have…?”

“We don’t know what to think yet, Mrs. Lofthouse. We have to look at all possibilities.”

“He’s a bit of a hothead, anyone will tell you that, but I very much doubt that he’s a murderer.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I still can’t seem to take it in.”

“I understand,” said Chadwick. “Is there anyone you’d like me to get to stay with you? Relative? Neighbor?”

“Mrs. Bennett next door. She’s always been a good friend. She’s a widow, like me. She understands what it feels like.”

Chadwick stood up to leave. “I’ll let her know you want her to come over. Look, before I go, do you have a recent photograph of Linda I could borrow?”

“I might have,” she said. “Just a minute.” She went over to the sideboard and started rummaging through one of the drawers. “This was taken last year, when she came home for her birthday. Her father was a bit of an amateur photographer.”

She handed Chadwick the color photograph. It was the girl in the sleeping bag, only she was alive, a half-smile on her lips, a faraway look in her big blue eyes, wavy blond hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll let you have it back.”

“And you’ll keep in touch, won’t you? About the arrangements.”

“Of course. I’ll also send someone to drive you to the hospital and back to make the formal identification.”

“Thank you,” she said, and stood with him at the door, holding a damp tissue to her eyes. “How can something like this happen to me, Mr. Chadwick?” she said. “I’ve been a devout Christian woman all my life. I’ve never hurt a soul and I’ve always served the Lord to the best of my ability. How can He do this to me? A husband and a daughter, both in the same year?”

All Chadwick could do was shake his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wish I knew the answer.”

“Just outside Sheffield” turned out to be a quaint village on the edge of the Peak District National Park, and the house was a detached limestone cottage with a fair-sized and well-tended garden, central door, symmetrical up and down mullioned windows, garage and outbuildings. In the Dales, Annie guessed, it would be valued at about half a million pounds these days, but she had no idea what prices were like in the Peak District. Probably not much different. There were many similarities between the two areas, with their limestone hills and valleys, and both drew hordes of tourists, ramblers and climbers almost year-round.

Winsome parked by the gate and they made their way down the garden path. A few birds twittered in the nearby trees, completing the rural idyll. The woman who opened the door to them had clearly been crying. Annie felt grateful she hadn’t been the one to break the news. She hated that. The last time she had told someone about the death of a friend, the woman had actually fainted.

“Annie Cabbot and Winsome Jackman from North Yorkshire Major Crimes,” she said.

“Yes, come in,” said the woman. “We’ve been expecting you.” If the sight of a six-foot black woman surprised her at all, she didn’t show it. Like many others, she no doubt watched crime programs on TV and had got used to the idea of a multiracial police force, even in such a “white” enclave as the Peaks.

She led them through a dim hallway where coats hung on pegs and boots and shoes were neatly aligned on a low slatted rack, then into an airy living room with French windows that led to the back garden, a neatly manicured lawn with stone birdbath, white plastic table and chairs and herbaceous borders. Plane trees framed a magnificent view over the fields to the limestone peaks beyond. The sky was mostly light gray, with a hint of sun hiding behind clouds somewhere in the north.

“We’ve just got back from church,” the woman said. “We go every week, and it seemed especially important today.”

“Of course,” said Annie, whose religious background had been agnostic, and whose own spiritual dabbling in yoga and meditation had never led her to any sort of organized religion. “We’re very sorry about your son, Mrs. Barber.”

“Please,” she said. “Call me Louise. My husband, Ross, is making some tea. I hope that will be all right?”

“That’ll be perfect,” said Annie.

“You’d better sit down.”

The chintz-covered armchairs all had spotless lace antimacassars, and Annie sat carefully, not quite daring to let the back of her head touch the material. In a few moments a tall, rangy man with unruly white hair, wearing a gray V-neck pullover and baggy cords, brought in a tray and placed it on the low glass table between the chairs and the fireplace. He looked a bit like a sort of mad scientist character who could do complex equations in his head but had trouble fastening his shoelaces. Annie admired the framed print of Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte over the mantelpiece.

Once tea had been served, and everyone was settled, Winsome took out her notebook and Annie began. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but anything you can tell us about your son would be helpful right now.”

“Do you have any suspects?” Mr. Barber asked.

“I’m afraid not. It’s early days yet. We’re just trying to piece together what happened.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm our Nicholas. He was harmless. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”

“It’s often the innocent who suffer,” said Annie.

“But Nicholas…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Did he have any enemies?”

Ross and Louise Barber looked at one another. “No,” Louise said. “I mean, he never mentioned anyone. And like Ross says, he was a gentle person. He loved his music and his books and his films. And his writing, of course.”

“He wasn’t married, was he?” They had not been able to find a record of a wife, but Annie thought it best to make sure. If a jealous wife had caught wind of what Barber was up to with Kelly Soames, she might easily have lost it.

“No. He was engaged once, ten years ago,” said Ross Barber. “Nice girl. Local. But they drifted apart when he moved to London. More tea?”

Annie and Winsome said yes, please. Barber topped up their cups.

“We understand that your son was a music journalist?” Annie went on.

“Yes,” said Louise. “It was what he always wanted. Even when he was at school, he was editor of the magazine, and he wrote most of the articles himself.”

“We found out from the Internet that he’s done some articles for MOJO and written a couple of biographies. Can you tell us anything else about his work? Did he write for anyone in particular, for example?”

“No. He was a freelancer,” Ross Barber answered. “He did some writing for the newspapers, reviews and such, and feature pieces for that magazine sometimes, as you said. I’m afraid that sort of music isn’t exactly to my taste.” He smiled indulgently. “But he loved it, and apparently he made a decent living.”

Annie liked pop music, but she hadn’t heard of MOJO, though she knew she must have seen it in W. H. Smith’s when she was picking up Now, Star or Heat, the trashy celebrity gossip magazines she liked to read in the bath, her one secret vice. “You didn’t approve of your son’s interest in rock music?” she asked.

“It’s not that we’re against it, or anything, you understand,” said Ross Barber. “We’ve just always been a bit more inclined toward classical – Louise sings with the local operatic society – but we’re happy that Nicholas seemed to pick up a love of music at a very early age, along with the writing. He loves classical music, too, of course, but writing about rock was how he made his living.”

“He was lucky, then,” said Annie. “Being able to combine his two loves.”

“Yes,” Louise agreed, wiping away a tear with a lacy handkerchief.

“Do you have any copies of his articles? You must be proud of him. A scrapbook, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Louise. “It never really entered our heads, did it, darling?”

Her husband agreed. “It wouldn’t mean anything to us, you see, what he was writing about. The names. The records. We would never have heard of any of them.”

Annie wanted to tell them that wasn’t the point, but it would clearly do no good. “How long has he been doing this for a living?” she asked.

“About eight years now,” Ross answered.

“And before that?”

“He got a BA in English at Nottingham, then he did an MA in film studies, I think, at Leicester. After that he did a bit of teaching and wrote reviews, then he got a feature accepted, and after that…”

“He never studied journalism?”

“No. I suppose you might say he got in through the back door.”

“What’s your profession, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I was a university professor,” said Ross Barber. “Classics and Ancient History. Rather dull, I’m afraid. I’m retired now, mind you.”

Annie was trying frantically to puzzle out why anyone would want to kill a music journalist, but she couldn’t come up with anything. Except drugs. Kelly Soames had said that she and Nick smoked a joint, but that meant nothing. Annie had smoked a few joints in her time, even while she was a copper. Even Banks had smoked joints. She wondered about Winsome and Kev Templeton. Kev’s drug of choice was probably E washed down with liberal amounts of Red Bull, but she didn’t know about Winsome. She seemed a clean-living girl, with her passion for the outdoors, and for potholing, but surely there had to be something. Anyway, it didn’t help very much knowing that Nick Barber smoked marijuana occasionally. She imagined it was par for the course in the rock business, whichever end of it you were in.

“Can you tell us anything about Nick’s life?” she asked. “We have so little to go on.”

“I can’t see how any of it would help you,” said Louise, “but we’ll do our best.”

“Did you see him often?”

“You know what it’s like when they leave home,” Louise said. “They phone and visit when they can. Our Nick was no better or worse than anyone else in that regard, I shouldn’t think.”

“So he was in touch regularly?”

“He phoned us once a week and tried to drop by whenever he could.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Her eyes filled with tears again. “Just the week before last. Friday. He was on his way up to Yorkshire, and he stopped over for the night. We always keep his old room ready for him, just in case.”

“Was there anything different about him?”

“Different? What do you mean?”

“Did he seem fearful in any way?”

“No, not at all.”

“Was he depressed about anything?”

The Barbers looked at one another, then Louise replied. “No. Maybe a little preoccupied, but certainly not depressed. He seemed quite cheerful, as a matter of fact. Nick was never the most demonstrative of children, but he was generally even-tempered. He was no different this time from any other time he called by.”

“He wasn’t anxious about anything?”

“Not as far as we could tell. If anything, he was a bit more excited than usual.”

“Excited? About what?”

“He didn’t say. I think it might have been a story he was working on.”

“What was it about?”

“He never told us details like that. Not that we weren’t interested in his work, but I think he realized it would mean nothing to us. Besides, it was probably a ‘scoop.’ He’d learned to become secretive in his business.”

“Even from you?”

“The walls have ears. He’d developed an instinct. I don’t think it really mattered to whom he was talking.”

“So he didn’t mention any names?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Did he tell you why he was going to Yorkshire?”

“He said he’d found what sounded like a quiet place to write, and I think there was someone he wanted to see who lives up there.”

“Who?”

Mrs. Barber spread her hands. “I’m sorry. But I got the impression it was to do with what he was working on.”

Annie cursed under her breath. If only Nick had named names. If he’d thought his parents had the least interest in his passion, then he probably would have, despite his journalistic instinct to protect his scoop. “Is that what he was excited about?”

“I think so.”

“Can you add anything, Mr. Barber?”

Ross Barber shook his head. “No. As Louise said, the names of these groups and singers mean nothing to us. I think he’d learned there was no point in mentioning them. I’m afraid I glaze over in discussions like that. No doubt members of his own generation would be very impressed, but they went right over our heads.”

“I can understand that,” said Annie. “What do you know about Nick’s life in London?”

“He had a nice flat,” said Louise. “Didn’t he, Ross? Just off the Great West Road. We stayed there not so long ago on our way to Heathrow. He slept on the sofa and let us have his bedroom. Spotless, it was.”

“He didn’t live or share with anyone?”

“No. It was all his own.”

“Did you meet a girlfriend or a close friend? Anyone?”

“No. He took us out for dinner somewhere in the West End. The next day we flew to New York. Ross and I have old friends there, and they invited us for our fortieth wedding anniversary.”

“That’s nice,” said Annie. “So you don’t really know much at all about Nick’s life in London?”

“I think he worked all the hours God sent. He didn’t have time for girlfriends and relationships and that sort of thing. I’m sure he would have settled down eventually.”

In Annie’s admittedly limited experience, if someone had reached the age of thirty-eight without “settling down,” you were a fool if you held your breath and waited for him to do so, but she also knew that many more people were holding off committing to relationships for much longer these days, herself included. “I know this is a rather delicate question,” Annie asked, “and I don’t want it to upset you, but did Nick ever have anything to do with drugs?”

“Well,” said Ross, “we assumed he experimented, of course, like so many young people today, but we never saw him under the influence of anything more than a couple of pints of bitter, or perhaps a small whiskey. We’re fairly liberal about things like that. I mean, you can’t teach in a university for as long as I did and not have some knowledge of marijuana. But if he did use drugs at all, they didn’t interfere with his job or his health, and we certainly never noticed any signs, did we?”

“No,” Louise agreed.

It was a fair answer, if not entirely what Annie had expected. She sensed that Ross Barber was being as honest as he could be. The Barbers clearly loved their son and were distraught over his death, but there seemed to have been some sort of communication gap between them. They were proud of his achievements, but not interested in the actual achievements themselves. Nick might well have interviewed Coldplay or Oasis, but Annie could just imagine Ross Barber saying, “That’s very nice, son,” as he pored over his ancient tomes. She couldn’t think of anything else to ask and glanced over at Winsome, who shrugged. Perhaps Banks would have done better; perhaps she wasn’t asking the right questions, but she couldn’t think of any more. They would have a quick look in Nick’s room, just in case he had left anything of interest, then maybe catch a pub lunch somewhere on the way back. After that, Annie would check in at the incident van and give Banks a ring. He’d want to know what she had found out, no matter how little it was.

Saturday, 13th September, 1969

The young man in the greasy overalls was standing with a spanner in his hand surrounded by pieces of a dismantled motorbike when Chadwick arrived at the garage later that afternoon. According to the car radio, Leeds were one nil up.

“Vincent Black Lightning, 1952,” the young man said. “Lovely machine. How can I help you?”

Chadwick showed his warrant card. “Are you Donald Hughes?”

Hughes immediately looked cagey, put down the spanner and wiped his hands on his greasy overalls. “Maybe,” he said. “Depends why you want to know.”

Chadwick’s immediate inclination was to tell the kid to stop messing about and come up with some answers, but he realized that Hughes might not know yet about Linda’s murder, and that his reaction to the news could reveal a lot. Perhaps a softer approach would be best, then, at least to start with.

“Maybe you’d better sit down, laddie,” he said.

“Why?”

There were two fold-up chairs in the garage. Instead of answering, Chadwick sat on one. A little dazed, Hughes followed suit. The dim garage smelled of oil, petrol and warm metal. It was still raining outside and he could hear the steady dripping of water from the gutters.

“What is it?” Hughes asked. “Has something happened to Mum?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Chadwick. “Read the papers much?”

“Nah. Nothing but bad news.”

“Hear about the festival up at Brimleigh Glen last weekend?”

“Hard not to.”

“Were you there?”

“Nah. Not my cup of tea. Look, why are you asking all these questions?”

“A young girl was killed there,” he said. “Stabbed.” When Hughes said nothing, he continued, “We’ve good reason to believe that she was Linda Lofthouse.”

“Linda? But… she… bloody hell…” Hughes turned pale.

“She what?”

“She went off to live in London.”

“She was at Brimleigh for the festival.”

“I should have known. Look,” he said, “I’m really sorry to hear about what happened. It was a long time ago, though, me and Linda. Another lifetime, it seems.”

“Two years isn’t very long. People have held grudges longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Revenge is a dish that’s best eaten cold.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Let’s suppose we start at the beginning,” said Chadwick. “You and Linda.”

“We went out together for a couple of years when we were fifteen and sixteen, that’s all.”

“And she had your baby.”

Hughes looked down at his oily hands in his lap. “Yeah, well… I tried to make it right, asked her to marry me and all.”

“That’s not the way I hear it.”

“Look, all right. At first I was scared. Wouldn’t you be? I was only sixteen, I didn’t have no job, nothing. We left school. Linda stayed at home with her mum and dad that summer and had the baby, and I… I don’t know, I suppose I brooded about it. Anyway, I decided in the end we should make a go of it. I had a job here at the garage by then and I thought… you know… that we might have had a chance, after all.”

“But?”

“She didn’t want to know, did she? By then she’d got her head full of this hippie rubbish. Bob Dylan and his stupid songs and all the rest of it.”

“When did this start?”

“Before we split up. Just little things. Always correcting me when I said something wrong, like she was a bloody grammar expert. Talking about poets and singers I’d never heard of, reincarnation and karma and I don’t know what else. Always arguing. It was like she wasn’t interested in a normal life.”

“What about her new friends?”

“Long-haired pillocks and poxy birds. I hadn’t time for any of them.”

“Did she chuck you?”

“You could say that.”

“And when you came back, cap in hand, she wanted nothing more to do with you?”

“I suppose so. Then she buggered off to London soon as she’d had the kid. Put him up for adoption. My son.”

“Did you follow her down there?”

“I’d had enough by then. Let her go with her poncy new friends and take all the drugs she wanted.”

“Did she take drugs when she was with you?”

“No, not that I knew of. I wouldn’t have stood for it. But that’s what they do, isn’t it?”

“So they stole her from you, did they? The hippies?”

He looked away. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Made you angry enough to do her harm?”

Hughes stood so violently that his chair tipped over. “What are you getting at? Are you trying to say I killed her?”

“Calm down, laddie. I have to ask these questions. It’s a murder investigation.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m not your murderer.”

“Got a bit of a quick temper, though, haven’t you?”

Hughes said nothing. He picked up the chair and sat again, folding his arms across his chest.

“Did you ever meet any of Linda’s new friends?”

Hughes rubbed the back of his hand across his upper lip and nose. “She took me to this house once,” he said. “I think she wanted me to be like her, and she thought maybe she’d convince me by introducing me to her new friends.”

“When was this?”

“Just after she left school. That summer.”

“Nineteen sixty-seven? When she was pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“We weren’t getting along well at all. Like I said before, she was weird, into all sorts of weird stuff I didn’t understand, like tarot cards and astrology and all that crap. This one time she was going to see some friends and I didn’t want her to go – I wanted her to come to the pictures with me to see You Only Live Twice – but she said she didn’t want to see some stupid James Bond film, and if I wanted to be with her I could come along. If I didn’t… well… she made it clear I didn’t have much choice. So I thought, What the hell, let’s see what’s going on here.”

“Do you remember where she took you?”

“I dunno. It was off Roundhay Road, near that big pub at the junction with Spenser Place.”

“The Gaiety?”

“That’s the one.”

Chadwick knew it. There weren’t many coppers in Leeds, plainclothes or uniformed, who didn’t. “Do you remember the name of the street?”

“No, but it was just over Roundhay Road.”

“One of the Bayswaters?” Chadwick knew the area, a densely packed triangle of streets full of small terraced houses between Roundhay Road, Bayswater Road and Harehills Road. It didn’t have a particularly bad reputation, but quite a few of the houses had been rented to students, and where there were students there were probably drugs.

“That’s the place.”

“Do you know which one?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I think it was the terrace. Or maybe the crescent.”

“Remember where the house was?”

“About halfway.”

“Which side of the street?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Was there anything odd about the place from the outside?”

“No. It looked just like all the others.”

“What color was the door?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Okay. Thanks,” said Chadwick. Maybe he could find it. It was frustrating to be so close but still so far. Even so, it was probably a cold lead. The students who had been there two years ago might have graduated and left town by now. If they were students.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, really. There were these people, about five of them, hippies, like, in funny clothes. Freaks.”

“Were they students?”

“Maybe some of them were. I don’t know. They didn’t say. The place smelled like a tart’s window box.”

“That bad?”

“Some sort of perfume smell, anyway. I think it was something they were smoking. One or two of them were definitely on something. You could tell by their eyes and the rubbish they were spouting.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t remember, but it was all ‘cosmic’ this and ‘cosmic’ that, and there was this awful droning music in the background, like someone rubbing a hacksaw on a metal railing.”

“Do you remember any names?”

“I think one of them was called Dennis. It seemed to be his place. And a girl called Julie. She was blowing bubbles and giggling like a little kid. Linda had been there before, I could tell. She knew her way around and didn’t have to ask anyone, you know, like where the kettle or the toilet was or anything.”

“What happened?”

“I wanted to go. I mean, I knew they were taking the mickey because I didn’t talk the same language or like the same music. Even Linda. In the end I said we should leave but she wouldn’t.”

“So what did you do?”

“I left. I couldn’t stick any more of it. I went to see You Only Live Twice by myself.”

There couldn’t have been that many hippies in Leeds during the summer of 1967. It might have been the “Summer of Love” in San Francisco, but Leeds was still a northern provincial backwater in many ways, always a little behind the times, and it was only over the past two years or so that the numbers had grown everywhere. The Leeds drugs squad hadn’t even been formed until 1967. Anyway, if there was a Dennis still living on Bayswater Terrace, it shouldn’t be too hard to find him.

“How often did you see her again?”

“A couple of times; then after the baby was born, you know, when I tried to make things up between us. Then she went down south and her bloody mother wouldn’t even give me an address.”

“And finally?”

“I got over her. I’ve been going out with someone else for a while now. Might get engaged at Christmas.”

“Congratulations,” said Chadwick, standing up.

“I’m really sorry about Linda,” Hughes said. “But it was nothing to do with me. Honest. I was here working all last weekend. Ask the boss. He’ll tell you.”

Chadwick said he would, then left. When he turned on the car radio he found that Leeds had beaten Sheffield Wednesday 2-1, Allan Clarke and Eddie Grey scoring. Still, he hadn’t missed the game for nothing; he now knew who the victim was and had a lead on some of the people she’d knocked around with in Leeds, if only he could find them.