Wednesday's Child

I

In the evening beyond the venetian blinds in Banks’s office, puddles gleamed between the cobbles, and water dripped from the crossbars of lamp-posts, from eaves and awnings. Muted light glowed behind the red and amber windows of the Queen’s Arms, and he could hear the buzz of laughter and conversation from inside. The square itself was quiet except for the occasional click of high-heels on cobbles as someone walked home from work late or went out on a date. An occasional gust of cool evening air wafted through his partly open window, bringing with it that peculiar fresh and sharp after-the-rain smell. It made him think of an old John Coltrane tune that captured in music just such a sense of an evening after rain. He could make out the gold hands against the blue face of the church clock: almost eight. He lit a cigarette. The gaslights around the square — an affectation for tourists — came on, dim at first, then brighter, reflecting in twisted sheets of incandescent light among the puddles. It was the time of day Banks loved most, not being much of a morning-person, but his epiphany was interrupted by a knock at the office door, shortly followed by PC Tolliver and DC Susan Gay leading in an agitated Les Poole.

“Found him at the Crown and Anchor, sir,” explained Tolliver. “Sorry it took so long. It’s not one of his usual haunts.”

“Bit up-market for you, isn’t it, Les?” Banks said. “Come into some money lately?”

Poole just grunted and worked at his Elvis Presley sneer. Tolliver left and Susan Gay sat down in the chair beside the door, getting out her notebook and pen. Banks gestured for Poole to sit opposite him at the desk. Poole was wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a turquoise T-shirt, taut over his bulging stomach. Even from across the desk, Banks could smell the beer on his breath.

“Now then, Les,” he said, “you might be wondering why we’ve dragged you away from the pub this evening?”

Les Poole shifted in his chair and said nothing; his features settled in a sullen and hard-done-by expression.

“Dunno.”

“Have a guess.”

“You found out something about Gemma?”

“Wrong. I’m working on another case now, Les. The super’s taken that one over.”

Poole shrugged. “Dunno then. Look, shouldn’t I have a brief?”

“Up to you. We haven’t charged you with anything yet. You’re just helping us with our enquiries.”

“Still… what do you want?”

“Information.”

“About what?”

“Can you read, Les?”

“Course I can.”

“Read the papers?”

“Now and then. Sporting pages mostly. I mean, most of your actual news is bad, isn’t it? Why bother depressing yourself, I always say.”

Banks scratched the thin scar beside his right eye. “Quite. How about the telly? That nice new one you’ve got.”

Poole half rose. “Now look, if this is about that—”

“Relax, Les. Sit down. It’s not about the Fletcher’s warehouse job, the one you were going to tell me you know nothing about. Though we might get back to that a bit later. No, this is much more serious.”

Poole sat down and folded his arms. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Then let me make it clear. I can do it in two words, Les: Carl Johnson. Remember, the bloke I asked you about a couple of days ago, the one you said you’d never heard of?”

“Who?”

“You heard.”

“So what. I still don’t know no Ben Johnson.”

“It’s Carl, Les. As in Carl Lewis. Better pay more attention to those sporting pages, hadn’t you? And I think it was a bit too much of a slip to be convincing. Don’t you, Susan?”

Banks looked over Poole’s shoulder at Susan Gay, who sat by the door. She nodded. Poole glanced around and glared at her, then turned back, tilted his head to one side and pretended to examine the calendar on the office wall, a scene of the waterfalls at Aysgarth in full spate.

“According to the governor of Armley Jail,” Susan said, reading from her notes to give the statement authority, “a Mr Leslie Poole shared a cell with a Mr Carl Johnson for six months about four years ago.”

“Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it, Les?” Banks said.

Poole looked up defiantly. “What if it is? I can’t be expected to remember everyone I meet, can I?”

“Have we refreshed your memory?”

“Yeah, well… now you mention it. But it was a different bloke. Same name, all right, but a different bloke.”

“Different from whom?”

“The one you mean.”

“How do you know which one I mean?”

“Stands to reason, dunnit? The bloke who got killed.”

“Ah. That’s better, Les. And here was me thinking you weren’t up on current affairs. How did you hear about it?”

“Saw it on the telly, didn’t I? On the news. Someone gets croaked around these parts you can’t help but hear about it somewhere.”

“Good. Now seeing as this Carl Johnson you heard about on the news is the same Carl Johnson you shared a cell with in Armley Jail—”

“I told you, it was a different bloke!”

Banks sighed. “Les, don’t give me this crap. I’m tired and I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since elevenses, and here I am sticking around out of the goodness of my heart just to talk to you. I’m trying to be very civilized about this. That’s why we’re in my nice comfortable office just having a friendly chat instead of in some smelly interview room. Listen, Les, we’ve got prison records, we’ve got fingerprints, we’ve got warders who remember. Believe me, it was the same person.”

“Well, bugger me!” Les said, sitting up sharply. “What a turn-up for the book. Poor old Carl, eh? And here was me hoping it must have been someone else.”

Banks sighed. “Very touching, Les. When did you last see him?”

“Oh, years ago. How long was it you said? Four years.”

“You haven’t seen him since you came out?”

“No. Why should I?”

“No reason, I suppose. Except maybe that you both live in the same town?”

“Eastvale ain’t that small.”

“Still,” said Banks, “it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? He’s been in Eastvale a few months now. It strikes me that, given your records, the two of you might have got together to do a little creative thievery. Like the Fletcher’s warehouse job, for example. I’m sure Carl was versatile enough for that.”

“Now there you go again, accusing me of that. I ain’t done nothing.”

“Les, we could drive down to your house right now, pick up the television and the compact music centre, maybe even the video, too, and likely as not prove they came from that job.”

“Brenda bought those in good faith!”

“Bollocks, Les. What’s it to be?”

Poole licked his lips. “You wouldn’t,” he said. “You wouldn’t dare go and take them away, not after what’s happened to poor Brenda.” A sly smile came to his face. “Think how bad it would look in the papers.”

“Don’t push me, Les.” Banks spoke quietly, but the menace in his voice came through clearly. “What we’re dealing with here is a man who was gutted. Ever been fishing, Les? Ever cleaned a fish? You take one of those sharp knives and slit its gullet open to empty the entrails. Well, someone took a knife like that, someone who must have known Carl Johnson pretty well to get so close to him in such a remote spot, and stuck the knife in just above his balls and dragged it slowly up his guts, sliced his belly button in two, until it got stuck on the chest bone. And Carl’s insides opened up and spilled like a bag of offal, Les. If his jacket hadn’t been zipped up afterwards they’d have spilled all over the bloody dale.” He pointed at Poole’s beer-belly. “Do you know how many yards of intestine you’ve got in there? Are you seriously telling me that I’ll let a few stolen electrical goods get in the way of my finding out who did that?”

Poole held his stomach and paled. “It wasn’t me, Mr Banks. Honest, it wasn’t. I’ve got to go to the toilet. I need a piss.”

Banks turned away. “Go.”

Poole opened the door, and Banks asked the uniformed PC standing there to escort him to the gents.

Banks turned to Susan. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s close, sir,” she said.

“To what?”

“To telling us what he knows.”

“Mm,” said Banks. “Some of it, maybe. He’s a slippery bugger is Les.”

He lit a cigarette. A short while later, Poole returned and resumed his seat.

“You were saying, Les?”

“That I’d nothing to do with it.”

“No,” said Banks. “I don’t believe you had. For one thing, you haven’t got the bottle. Just for the record, though, where were you last Thursday evening?”

“Thursday?… Let me see. I was helping my mate in his shop on Rampart Street.”

“You seem to spend a lot of time at this place, Les. I never took you for a hard worker before, maybe I was wrong. What do you do there?”

“This and that.”

“Be more specific, Les.”

“I help out, don’t I? Make deliveries, serve customers, lug stuff around.”

“What’s your mate’s name again?”

“John.”

“John what.”

“John Fairley. It’s just a junk shop. You know, old 78s, second-hand furniture, the odd antique. Nothing really valuable. We empty out old people’s houses, when they snuff it, like.”

“Nothing new? No televisions, stereos, videos?”

“You’re at it again. I told you I had nothing to do with that. Let it drop.”

“What’s he look like, this John Fairley?”

“Pretty ordinary.”

“You can do better than that.”

“I’m not very good at this sort of thing. He’s strong, you know, stocky, muscular. He’s a nice bloke, John, decent as they come.”

“What colour’s his hair?”

“Black. Like yours.”

But Banks could see the guilt and anxiety in Poole’s eyes. John’s shop was where they fenced the stuff, all right, and John Fairley’s description matched that of the man Edwina Whixley had seen coming down from Carl Johnson’s flat, vague as it was.

“Do we know him, Les?”

“Shouldn’t think so. I told you, he’s straight.”

“If I went to see this mate of yours, this John, he’d tell me you were in the shop all evening Thursday, would he?”

“Well, not all evening. We worked a bit late, unloading a van full of stuff from some old codger from the Leaview Estate who croaked a few weeks back.”

“What time did you finish?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“And where did you go after that?”

“Pub.”

“Of course. Which one?”

“Well, first we went to The Oak. That’s the nearest to Rampart Street. Had a couple there, just to rinse the dust out of my mouth, like, then later we went down the local, The Barleycorn.”

“I assume you were seen at these places?”

“I suppose so. That’s what I did. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Les.”

“What?”

“Hope to die. Look what happened to Carl Johnson.” Poole swallowed. “That’s got nothing to do with me.”

“But we don’t know why he was killed, do we? Let’s just take a hypothetical scenario, all right? A sort of falling out among thieves. Say Carl was involved in the Fletcher’s warehouse job, and say there were two or three others in on it as well. Now, maybe Carl got too greedy, or maybe he tried to stick away a few pieces of merchandise for himself — like one of his accomplices might have done, too — you know, a nice new telly, and maybe a stereo. Follow my drift so far?”

Poole nodded.

“Good. So let’s say one of these thieves doesn’t have much regard for human life. He gets mad at Carl, arranges to meet him to discuss the problem, persuades him to go for a ride, then guts him. Now, what do you think this bloke, who’s already killed once, might do if he gets wind there’s a problem with another of his accomplices?”

Poole’s jaw dropped.

“What’s wrong, Les? Cat got your tongue?”

Poole shook his head. “Nothing. I ain’t done nothing.”

“So you keep saying. Say it often enough and you might believe it, but I won’t. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me, Les? Maybe you met this bloke, or maybe Carl talked about him. I’d hate to have to hang around some filthy old lead mine while the doc tried to stuff you into a body sack without spilling your guts all over the dirt.”

Poole put his hands over his ears. “Stop it!” he yelled. “It’s not bloody fair. You can’t do this to me!”

Banks slammed the desk. “Yes, I bloody well can,” he said. “And I’ll go on doing it until I find out the truth. If I have to, I’ll lock you up. More likely I’ll just let you go and tell the press you were kind enough to give us a few tips on the warehouse job. What’s it to be, Les? Your choice.”

Poole looked around the office like a caged animal. Seeing no way out, he sagged in his chair and muttered, “All right. You’re a bastard, you know.”

Banks glanced over at Susan Gay. She turned a page in her notebook.

“Look, about this ’ypowhatsit story of yours,” Poole said.

“Hypothetical.”

“That’s right. I mean, you can’t pin owt on anyone for just telling an ’ypothetical story, can you?”

Banks grabbed his coffee mug, pushed his chair back, put his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “Just tell us about the bloke, Les. Talk to me. I’m listening.”

“Yeah, well, I did bump into Carl a couple of times, accidental like. We had a jar or two now and then, talked about old times. There was this mate he mentioned. I didn’t want to say before because I didn’t want to get involved, not now that I’m going straight and all — What’s up with you?”

“Sorry, Les,” Banks said. “Just a bit of coffee went down the wrong way. Carry on. Tell me about this mate of Carl’s.”

Poole scowled. “Anyway, I remembered from the time inside, like, this bloke he used to talk about sometimes, like it was his hero or something. I never met him myself, but just hearing about him gave me the creeps. Funny that, like Carl seemed to get some kind of kick out of telling me about this bloke and what he did and all that, but to me it was a bit over the top. I mean, I’m no fucking angel, I’ll admit that, but I’ve got my limits. I never hurt anyone. Remember, this is all ’ypothetical.”

“The man, Les.”

“Hold on, I’m getting to him. Anyways, as I was saying Carl said he was here in Eastvale. Well, that’s when I cut out. I didn’t want nothing to do with them. I didn’t want to get mixed up in anything.”

“What didn’t you want to get mixed up in, Les?”

“You know, anything, like, criminal.”

“I see. Were they in on the Fletcher’s warehouse job? Johnson and this other bloke.”

“I think so. But like I said, I stayed well away after I heard this bloke was in town.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Not much to tell. Like I said, I never met him. According to Carl, he’s never been inside, yet he’s been up to more evil than many as have.”

“What kind of evil?”

“You name it. If what Carl says is right, this bloke worked with some of the London mobs, you know, peddling porn and hurting people who wouldn’t pay up, but now he’s gone freelance. Bit of a rover. Never stays in one place very long. Got lots of contacts.”

“And he’s never been inside?”

“Not as anyone knows of.” Poole leaned forward. “Look, Mr Banks,” he said, licking his lips. “This bloke’s really nasty, know what I mean? Carl told me he was in a fish-and-chip shop once and got arguing with the woman in front. She was carrying a dog with her, like, one of those little Pekinese things, and this bloke just plucked it out of her arms and flung it in the frier then walked out cool as a cucumber. He’s a nutter. I didn’t want nothing to do with him.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” said Banks. “What’s his name?”

“Dunno. Carl never said.”

“Les!”

“Look, I don’t want anyone knowing I—”

“Just between you and me, Les. Off the record.”

“You promise?”

“I’m in the business of preventing crime, remember? It’d hardly be in my interests to have another murder on my patch, would it? And you’ve no idea how much I’d miss you.”

“Huh. Even so…”

“Les.”

Poole paused. “All right, all right. I’ll trust you — still ’ypothetical, like. All I know is his name is Chivers. It’s pronounced with a ‘sh’, like in shivers. I don’t know if it’s his real name or a nickname.”

“What does he look like?”

“I don’t know. I told you, I never met him.”

Banks wasn’t convinced. For a start, he was certain that Poole had been connected with the Fletcher’s warehouse job, and now it seemed a good bet that Johnson and this Chivers person had been involved, too, along with John Fairley, the junk-shop owner. He could understand Poole’s not wishing to implicate himself, of course, especially as it was now a matter of murder.

The thing to remember about Les Poole was that he had spent time inside; he knew the value of information and of silence. He knew how to get as much slack as he could while giving as little as possible in return. Maybe he was a small-time crook, a coward and a bully, not too bright, but he knew the ropes; he knew how to duck and dodge to save his own neck, how to measure out exactly enough co-operation to get himself out of trouble. Banks sensed that he was holding back, that he had met this Chivers, but there was no percentage in pushing him yet. They needed more leverage, and Poole was right about one thing: impounding Brenda Scupham’s television would look very bad indeed.

“Is he still in Eastvale?”

“Dunno. Don’t think so.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“No. ’Cept I’d stay out of his way if I were you. Carl said he had this bird and—”

“What bird’s this, Les?”

“This bird Chivers had with him. Some blonde bint. Apparently, he always has a bit of spare with him. The lasses like him. Must be his unpredictable, violent nature.”

They liked Les, too, Banks remembered, and wondered if there had been a spot of bother about this blonde. Maybe Les had made a pass and Chivers put a scare in him. Or maybe Carl Johnson had. It wasn’t so difficult, he thought, to fill in the rest from the scraps Poole dished out.

“What did Carl say about Chivers’s girlfriend?” he asked.

“Just that Chivers knifed a bloke once for looking at her the wrong way. Didn’t kill him, like, just cut him up a bit. Anyway, like I said, he never had any shortage of birds. Not scrubbers either, according to Carl. Quality goods. Maybe it was his smile,” Les added.

“What smile?”

“Nothing. Just that Carl said he had this really nice smile, like. Said his mates called him ‘Smiler’ Chivers.”

When Banks heard Poole’s last comment, the warning bells began to ring. “Susan,” he said, looking over Poole’s shoulder. “Do you know if the super’s still here?”

II

Brenda Scupham couldn’t concentrate on the television programme. For a moment she thought of going out, maybe to the pub, but decided she couldn’t stand the questions and the looks people would give her. She hadn’t enjoyed going out much at all since Gemma had gone. For one thing, people had given her dirty looks when they saw her, as if they blamed her or she wasn’t obeying the proper rules of mourning or something. Instead, she took another tranquillizer and poured herself a small measure of gin. Again she wondered what the hell was going on.

All she knew was that the police had called at her house earlier that evening looking for Les. He’d been out of course, and she hadn’t known where, though she was sure the policeman hadn’t believed her. When she asked what they wanted, they wouldn’t tell her anything. Surely, she thought, if it had anything to do with Gemma, they should tell her?

She looked over at the television and video. Maybe that’s what it was all about? She knew they were stolen. She wasn’t that stupid. Les hadn’t said so, of course, but then he wouldn’t; he never gave away anything. He had dropped them off in John’s van one afternoon and said they were bankrupt stock. All the time the police had been coming and going because of Gemma, Brenda had been worried they would spot the stolen goods and arrest her. But they hadn’t. Perhaps now they had some more evidence and had decided to arrest Les after all.

How her life could have changed so much in just one week was beyond her. But it had, and even the tranquillizers did no real good. She had enjoyed going on television with Lenora Carlyle — that had been the high spot of her week — but nothing had come of it. Just as nothing had come of the police search, the “Crimewatch” reconstruction, or her appeals through the newspapers. And now, as she sat and thought about the police visit, she wondered if Les might have been involved in some way with Gemma’s disappearance. She couldn’t imagine how or why — except he hadn’t got on very well with Gemma — but he had been acting strangely of late.

And the more she thought about it, the more she lost faith in Lenora’s conviction that Gemma was still alive. She couldn’t be. Not after all this time, not after the bloodstained clothing they had brought for her to identify. And apart from that one statement, Lenora had come up with nothing else, had she? Surely she ought to be able to picture where Gemma was if she was any good as a psychic? But no, nothing. And what if Gemma was alive somewhere? It didn’t bear thinking about. She felt closer to her daughter now she was gone than she ever had while Gemma had been around.

Time after time her thoughts circled back to Mr Brown and Miss Peterson. Should she have known they weren’t who they said they were? And if she hadn’t felt so guilty about not loving Gemma the way a good mother should and about shaking her the week before, would she have let her go so easily? They had been so convincing, kind and understanding rather than accusing in their approach. They had looked so young, so official, so competent, but how was she to know what child-care workers were supposed to look like?

Again she thought of the police officers who had come to her house earlier. Maybe they had found Gemma and some clue had led them to Les. But still she couldn’t imagine what he could possibly have to do with it. He had been out when the child-care workers called. Still, there was no denying the police were after him. If he had anything to do with Gemma’s abduction, Brenda thought, she would kill him. Damn the consequences. It was all his fault anyway. Yes, she thought, reaching for the gin bottle again. She would kill the bastard. For now, though, she was sick of thinking and worrying.

The only thing that worked, that took away the pain, even though it lasted such a short time, was the video. Slowly, she got up and went over to the player. The cassette was still in. All she had to do was rewind and watch herself on television again. She had been nervous, but she was surprised when she watched the playback that it didn’t show so much. And she had looked so pretty.

Brenda poured herself another generous measure, turned on one element of the fire and reclined on the sofa with her dressing-gown wrapped around her. She had watched the video once and was rewinding for a second viewing when she heard Les’s key in the door.

III

“You don’t believe for a moment he told you everything, do you?” Gristhorpe asked Banks later in the Queen’s Arms. It was a quiet Wednesday evening, a week since the first news of Gemma Scupham’s disappearance — and despite the helicopters and search tactics learned from the North American Association of Search and Rescue, she still hadn’t been found. Banks and Gristhorpe sat at a table near the window eating the roast beef sandwiches that they had persuaded Cyril, the landlord, to make for them.

Banks chewed and swallowed his mouthful, then said, “No. For a start, I’m sure he’s seen this Chivers bloke, but he couldn’t really admit to it without implicating himself in the warehouse job. We let him walk. For now. Les won’t stray far. He’s got nowhere to go.”

“And then?”

Banks grinned. “Just an idea, but I’d like to find out if Les really does know anything about Gemma’s abduction. I had a phone call just after I’d finished with Poole. Jim Hatchley’s coming into town. Seems his mother-in-law’s commissioned him to install a shower—”

Gristhorpe slapped the table. One of the customers at the bar turned and looked. “No, Alan. I’m not having any of Hatchley’s interrogation methods in this one. If Gemma’s abductors get off because we’ve bent the rules I’d never bloody forgive myself. Or Sergeant Hatchley, for that matter.”

“No,” said Banks, “that’s not what I had in mind.” He outlined his plan and both of them ended up laughing.

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe, nodding slowly. “Aye, he’d be the best man for that job, all right. And it might work, at that. Either way, we’ve nothing to lose.”

Banks washed his sandwich down with a swig of Theakston’s bitter and lit a cigarette. “So where do we go now?” he asked.

Gristhorpe leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Let’s start with a summary. I find it helps to get everything as clear as possible. In the first place, we know that a couple who called themselves Chris and Connie Manley rented a cottage and changed their appearance. Then they ‘borrowed’ a dark blue Toyota from Bruce Parkinson, passed themselves off as social workers called Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, and conned Brenda Scupham into handing over her daughter on Tuesday afternoon. After that, they drove a hundred and twenty-seven miles before returning the car to its owner.

“As far as we know, they left the cottage on Thursday in a white Fiesta. We don’t have the number, and Phil’s already checked and re-checked with the rental outlets. Nothing. And it hasn’t been reported stolen. We could check the ownership of every white Fiesta in the country, and we bloody well will if we have to, but that’ll take us till doomsday. They might not be registered as owners, anyway. Nobody saw them with the child in Eastvale, and there was no evidence of a child’s presence in the cottage, but she could have been there — the whitewash supports that — and we found her prints in Parkinson’s car. Why they took her, we don’t know. Or where. All we know is they most likely didn’t bring her back, which to me indicates that she could well be lying dead and buried somewhere in a hundred-and-twenty-mile radius. And that includes the area of the North York Moors where we found the bloodstained clothes. Vic says there wasn’t enough blood on them to cause death, but that doesn’t mean the rest didn’t spill elsewhere, or that she might not have died in some other way. Poole told you that this Chivers person was involved in the porn trade in London, so that’s another ugly possibility to consider. I’ve been onto the paedophile squad again, but they’ve got nothing on anyone of that name or description.

“Anyway. Next we find Carl Johnson’s body in the old lead mine on Friday morning. Dr Glendenning says he was probably killed sometime after dark on Thursday. You follow all the leads you can think of in the Johnson murder, and we arrive at this same man called Chivers with a smile that people notice, a blonde girlfriend and a nasty disposition. You think Poole knows a bit more. Maybe he does. There are too many coincidences for my liking. Chivers and the girl are the ones who took Gemma. Maybe one or both of them also killed Carl Johnson. Chivers, most likely, as it took a fair bit of strength to rip his guts open. But why? What’s the connection?”

“Johnson could have double-crossed them on the warehouse job, or maybe he knew about Gemma and threatened to tell. Whatever Johnson was, he wasn’t a paedophile.”

“Assuming he found out they’d taken her?”

“Yes.”

“That’s probably our best bet. Makes more sense than killing over a bloody TV set, though stranger things have happened.”

“Or it could have been over the girlfriend,” Banks added. “Especially after what Poole told me about the knifing.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “That’s another strong possibility. But let’s imagine that Carl Johnson found out Chivers and his girlfriend had taken Gemma and… well, done whatever they did to her. Now Johnson’s no angel, and he seems to have an unhealthy fascination with bad ’uns, from what you tell me, but somehow, they’ve gone too far for him. He doesn’t like child-molesters. He becomes a threat. They lure him out to the mine. Maybe the girl does it with promises of sex, or Chivers with money, I don’t know. But somehow they get him there and…” Gristhorpe paused. “The mine might be a connection. I know the area’s been thoroughly searched already, but I think we should go over it again tomorrow. There’s plenty of spots around there a body could be hidden away. Maybe the clothes on the moors were just a decoy. What do you think, Alan?”

Banks frowned. “It’s all possible, but there are still too many uncertainties for my liking. I’d like to know more about the girl’s part in all this, for a start. Who is she? What’s in it for her? And we’ve no evidence that Chivers killed Johnson.”

“You’re right, we don’t have enough information to come to conclusions yet. But we’re getting there. I thought you fancied Adam Harkness for the Johnson murder?”

“I did, though I’d no real reason to. Looks like I might have been wrong, doesn’t it?”

Gristhorpe smiled. “Happens to us all, Alan. You always did have a chip on your shoulder when it came to the rich and influential, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Nay, Alan, I’m not criticizing. You’re a working-class lad. You got where you are through brains, ability and sheer hard slog. I’m not much different myself, just a poor farm-boy at heart. I’ve no great love for them as were born with silver spoons in their mouths. And I don’t mind sticking up for you when Harkness complains to the ACC about police harassment. All I’m saying is be careful it doesn’t blur your objectivity.”

Banks grinned. “Fair enough,” he said. “But I haven’t finished with Mr Harkness yet. I called the Johannesburg police and set a few enquiries in motion. You never know, there might be something to that scandal yet. And I called Piet in Amsterdam to see if he can track down Harkness’s ex-wife. There’s still a chance Harkness might have been involved somewhere along the line. What about your black magician, Melville Westman?”

“Nothing,” said Gristhorpe. “The lads did a thorough job. He looks clean. It’s my bet that Gemma was in the Manleys’ cottage at some point, and that’s where the whitewash on her clothes came from. That’s not to say I won’t be having another word with Mr Westman, though.” Gristhorpe smiled. His own feelings about people like Melville Westman and Lenora Carlyle were not so different from Banks’s feelings about the rich and powerful, he realized: different chip, different shoulder, but a prejudice, nonetheless.

“I’m going to call my old mate Barney Merritt at the Yard first thing in the morning,” Banks said. “He ought to be able to get something out of Criminal Intelligence about Chivers a damn sight quicker than the formal channels. The more we know about him, the more likely we are to be able to guess at the way he thinks. The bastard might never have been nicked but I’ll bet a pound to a penny he’s on the books somewhere.”

Gristhorpe nodded. “Oh, aye. No doubt about it. And it looks as if we’re all working on the same case now. You’d better get up to date on the Gemma files, and we’d better let Phil know so he can access his databases or whatever he does. I want this bloke, Alan. I want him bad. I mean I want him in front of me. I want to see him sweat. Do you know what I mean?”

Banks nodded and finished his drink. From the bar, they heard Cyril call time. “It’s late,” he said quietly. “Time we were off home.”

“Aye. Everything all right?”

“Fine,” said Banks. “Just think yourself lucky you don’t have daughters.”

Banks walked in the rain, coat buttoned tight, and listened to his Walkman. It was after eleven-thirty when he got home, and the house was in darkness. Sandra was already in bed, he assumed; Tracy, too. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep just yet, after the conversation with Gristhorpe had got his mind working, and as he had drunk only two pints in the pub, he felt he could allow himself a small Scotch. What was it the medics said, three drinks a day is moderate? Some kind soul had brought him a bottle of Glen Garioch from a holiday in Scotland, so he poured himself a finger and sat down. Though he wasn’t supposed to smoke in the house, he lit a cigarette anyway and put on a CD of Barenboim playing Chopin’s Nocturnes. Even at low volume, the clarity of the sound was astonishing. He had hardly begun to let his mind roam freely over the image of Chivers he had created so far when he heard the front door open and close softly, then the creak of a stair.

He opened the living-room door and saw Tracy tiptoeing upstairs.

“Come down here a moment,” he whispered, careful not to wake Sandra.

Tracy hesitated, halfway up, then shrugged and followed him into the living-room.

Banks held out his wristwatch towards her. “Know what time it is?”

“Of course I do.”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Out with Keith.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, Dad! We went to the pictures, then after that we were hungry so we went for a burger.”

“A burger? At this time of night?”

“You know, that new McDonald’s that’s opened in the shopping centre. It’s open till midnight.”

“How did you get home?”

“Keith walked me.”

“It’s too late to be out on a weeknight. You’ve got school in the morning.”

“It’s only midnight. I’ll get plenty of sleep.”

There she stood, about seven stones of teenage rebellion, weight balanced on one hip, once long and beautiful blonde hair chopped short, wearing black leggings and a long, fawn cable-knit jumper, pale translucent skin glowing from the chill.

“You’re too young to be out so late,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be so old-fashioned. Everyone stays out until midnight these days.”

“I don’t care what everyone else does. It’s you I’m talking about.”

“It would be different if it was Brian, wouldn’t it? He could always stay out as late as he wanted, couldn’t he?”

“He had to live with the same rules as you.”

“Rules! I bet you’ve no idea what he’s up to now, have you? Or what he got up to when he was still at home. It’s all right for him. Honestly, it’s not fair. Just because I’m a girl.”

“Tracy, love, it’s not a safe world.”

Her cheeks blazed red and her eyes flashed dangerously, just like Sandra’s did when she was angry. “I’m fed up of it,” she said. “Living here, being interrogated every time I come in. Sometimes it’s just absolutely fucking awful having a policeman for a father!”

And with that, she stormed out of the room and up the stairs without giving Banks a chance to respond. He stood there a moment, stunned by her language — not that she knew such words, even five-year-olds knew them, but that she would use them that way in front of him — then he felt himself relax a little and he began to shake his head slowly. By the time he had sat down again and picked up his drink, he had started to smile. “Kids…” he mused aloud. “What can you do?” But even as he said it, he knew that Sandra had been right: the problem was that Tracy wasn’t a kid any more.

IV

Brenda had locked the door earlier, and slid the bolt and put the chain on, too. When the key wouldn’t work, she could hear Les fumble around for a while, rattling it and mumbling. Brenda could see his silhouette through the frosted-glass panes in the door as she sat on the stairs and listened. He tried the key again, then she heard him swear in frustration and start knocking. She didn’t answer.

“Brenda,” he said, “I know you’re in there. Come on, love, and open up. There’s something wrong with my key.”

She could tell by the way he slurred his words that he’d been drinking. The police either hadn’t found him, then, or had let him go before closing time.

He rattled the door. “Brenda! It’s fucking cold out here. Let me in.”

Still she ignored him, sitting on the staircase, arms wrapped around herself.

The letter-box opened. “I know you’re in there,” he said. “Have a heart, Brenda.”

She stood up and walked down the stairs to the door. “Go away,” she said. “I don’t want you here any more. Go away.”

“Brenda!” He was still on his knees by the letter-box. “Don’t be daft, love. Let me in. We’ll talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Go away.”

“Where? This is my home. It’s all I’ve got.”

“Go back to the police. I’m sure they’ll give you a bed for the night.”

He was silent for a few moments. Then she heard shuffling outside. The letter-box snapped shut, then opened again. “It wasn’t nothing, love,” he said. “A mistake. It was some other bloke they were after.”

“Liar.”

“It was. Honest it was.”

“What have you done with my Gemma?”

Another pause, even longer this time, then, “How could you think such a thing? It wasn’t nothing to do with that. Look, let me in. It’s raining. I’ll catch cold. I’m freezing my goolies off out here.”

“Good.”

“Brenda! The neighbours are watching.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“What about my things?”

Brenda dashed up to the bedroom. Les’s “things,” such as they were, shouldn’t take up much space. She was a bit unsteady on her feet, but she managed to stand on a chair and get an old suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe. First, she emptied out his underwear drawer. Shirts and trousers followed, then she tossed in his old denim jacket. He was wearing the leather one, she remembered. She dropped a couple of pairs of shoes on the top, then went into the bathroom and picked up his razor, shaving cream, toothbrush. For some reason, she didn’t know why, she also picked up a package of tampons and put them in the suitcase, too, smiling as she did so. And on further thought, she took his condoms from the bedside drawer and put them in as well.

Enjoying herself more than she had since her TV appearance, Brenda searched around for anything else that belonged to him. A comb. Brylcreem. Half a packet of cigarettes. No, she would keep them for herself. Nothing else.

As she struggled to fasten the suitcase, she could hear him outside in the street yelling up at her: “Brenda! Come on, Brenda, let me in. Please. I’m freezing to death out here.”

She walked over to the window. Les stood by the gate at the bottom of the path, partly lit by a nearby street-lamp. Across the street, lights came on as people opened their doors or peered through curtains to see what was going on. This would give the neighbours something to talk about, Brenda thought, as she opened the window.

Les looked up at her. For a moment, she remembered a scene in a play they’d taken her to see with the school years ago, where some wally in tights down on the ground had been chatting up a bird on a balcony. She giggled and swayed, then got a hold on herself. After all, she had an audience. “Bugger off, Les,” she yelled. “I’ve had enough of you and your filthy ways. If it wasn’t for you I’d still have my Gemma.”

“Open the fucking door, cow,” said Les, “or I’ll kick it down. You never liked the little bitch anyway.”

“I loved my daughter,” said Brenda. “It was you used to upset her. Where is she, Les? What have you done with her?”

Another door opened down the street. “Be quiet,” a woman shouted. “My husband’s got to get up to go to work at five o’clock in the morning.”

“Shut up, you stuck-up old bag,” shouted someone else. “Your husband’s never done a day’s work in his life. This is the best show we’ve had in ages.” Bursts of laughter echoed down the street.

A window slid open. “Give him hell, love!” a woman’s voice encouraged Brenda.

“What’s going on?” someone else asked. “Has anyone called the police yet?”

“See what you’ve started,” Les said, looking around at the gathering of neighbours and trying to keep his voice down. “Come on, love, let me in. We’ll have a cuddle and talk about it. I’ve done nowt wrong.”

“And what about that telly?” Brenda taunted him. “Where did that come from, eh? Have you noticed the way the police look at it every time they come here?”

“Must be fans of ‘The Bill,’” someone joked, and the neighbours laughed. “Anyone got a bottle,” the joker continued. “I could do with a wee nip.”

“Buy your own, you tight-fisted old bugger,” came the reply.

“Open the door,” Les pleaded. “Brenda, come on, love, have mercy.”

“I’ll not show no mercy for you, you snake. Where’s my Gemma?”

“I’ll do you for bloody slander, I will,” yelled Les. “Making accusations like that in front of witnesses.” He turned to the nearest neighbour, an old woman in a dressing-gown. “You heard her, didn’t you?”

“Maybe she’s right,” said the woman.

“Aye,” said the man next door.

“Hey,” said Les, “Now, come on.” He looked up at the window again. “Brenda, let me in. I don’t like the look of this lot.”

“Too bad.” Brenda swung the suitcase behind her as far as she could, then let it fly out the window. It hit the gatepost and burst open, showering its contents over the garden and street. Les put his hands up to try and stop it from hitting him, but all he managed to catch was the packet of tampons. It spilled its contents on him as he grasped it too tightly. One of the neighbours noticed and started laughing. Les stood there in the rain, half in shadow, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of his life and a packet of tampons spilled like cigarettes at his feet. He looked up at Brenda and shouted one last appeal. Brenda closed the window. Before she pulled the curtains on him, she noticed some of the neighbours edging forward in a semi-circle towards Les, who was backing down the street, looking behind him for a clear escape route.