Wednesday's Child

I

“Les Poole’s done a bunk, sir.”

“Has he, now?” Banks looked up from his morning coffee at Susan Gay standing in his office door. She was wearing a cream skirt and jacket over a powder-blue blouse fastened at the neck with an antique jet brooch. Matching jet teardrops hung from her small ears. Her complexion looked fresh-scrubbed under the tight blonde curls that still glistened from her morning shower. Her eyes were lit with excitement.

“Come in and tell me about it,” Banks said.

Susan sat down opposite him. He noticed her glance at the morning papers spread out on his desk. There, on the front pages of all of them, the police artist’s impression of Smiler Chivers and his blonde girlfriend stared out.

“There was a bit of a barney last night on the East Side Estate,” Susan began. “According to PC Evans, who walks the beat down there, Les Poole was out in the street yelling at Brenda to let him in.”

“She locked him out?”

“Seems like it.”

“Why?”

“Well, that’s where it gets interesting. PC Evans talked to some of the neighbours. Most of them were a bit tight-lipped, but he found one chap who’d been watching it all from his bedroom window down the street. He said it looked like the others had turned into a mob and were about to attack Poole. That’s why he ran off.”

“Any idea why, apart from his sparkling personality?”

“While they were yelling at each other, Brenda apparently made some comment about Poole being responsible for Gemma’s disappearance.”

“What?”

“That’s all he heard, sir, the neighbour. Brenda kept asking Poole what he’d done with Gemma.”

Banks reached for a cigarette, his first of the day. “What do you think?” he asked.

“About Poole?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. I mean it could just have been something Brenda thought up on the spur of the moment to hit out at him, couldn’t it?”

“I know Poole’s been holding something back,” Banks said. “That’s just his nature. But I never really thought…” He stubbed out his unfinished cigarette and stood up. “Come on. First, let’s send some of the lads out looking for him. And then we’d better have another word with Brenda.” He picked up one of the newspapers. “We’ll see if she recognizes the artist’s impression, too.”

They drove in silence to East Side Estate. It was a blustery morning, with occasional shafts of sunlight piercing the clouds and illuminating a bridge, a clump of trees or a block of maisonettes for a few seconds then disappearing. There ought to be a shimmering dramatic soundtrack, Banks thought, something to harmonize with the odd sense of revelation the fleeting rays of light conveyed.

Banks knocked on the frosted pane of Brenda’s door, but no one answered. He knocked harder. Across the street, a curtain twitched. Discarded cellophane wrapping and newspaper blew across the road, scraping against the tarmac.

“They’ll be having the time of their lives,” Susan said, nodding towards the houses opposite. “Twice in two days. A real bonanza.”

Banks renewed his efforts. Eventually he was rewarded by the sight of a blurry figure walking down the stairs.

“Who is it?” Brenda asked.

“Police.”

She fiddled with the bolts and chain and let them in.

“Sorry,” she said, rubbing the back of her hand over her eyes. “I was fast asleep. Must have been those pills the doctor gave me.”

She looked dreadful, Banks thought: knotted and straggly hair in need of a good wash, puffy complexion, mottled skin, red eyes. She wore a white terry-cloth robe, and when she sat down in the living-room under the gaze of Elvis, it was clear she wore nothing underneath. As she leaned forward to pick up a cigarette from the table, the bathrobe hung loose at the front, revealing her plump, round breasts. Unembarrassed, she pulled the lapels together and slouched back in the chair. Banks and Susan sat on the sofa opposite her.

“What is it?” Brenda asked after she had exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Have you found Gemma?”

“No,” said Banks. “It’s about Les.”

She snorted. “Oh, him. Well, he’s gone, and good riddance, too.”

“So I heard. Any idea where he’s gone?”

She shook her head.

“Why did you throw him out, Brenda?”

“You should know. It was you lot had him at the station last night, wasn’t it?”

“Did you know the neighbours nearly lynched him?”

“So what?”

“Brenda, it’s dangerous to make accusations like the one you did, especially in front of a crowd. You know from experience how people feel whenever children are involved. They can turn very nasty. There’s records of people being torn apart by angry mobs.”

“Yes, I know. I know all about what people do to child-molesters. They deserve it.”

“Did Les molest Gemma? Is that it?”

Brenda blew out more smoke and sighed. “No,” she said. “No, he never did anything like that.”

“Maybe when you weren’t around?”

“No. I’d have known. Gemma would have…” She paused and stared at the end of her cigarette.

“Perhaps Gemma wouldn’t have mentioned it to you,” Banks suggested. “You told us yourself she’s a quiet, secretive child. And children are almost always afraid to speak out when things like that happen.”

“No,” Brenda said again. “I would have known. Believe me.”

Whether he believed her or not, Banks felt that line of questioning had come to a dead end. “What reason do you have to think Les was involved in her disappearance, then?” he asked.

Brenda frowned. “You had him in for questioning, didn’t you?”

“What made you think that had anything to do with Gemma?”

“What else would it be about?”

“So you just assumed. Is that it?”

“Of course. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

Brenda reddened, and Banks noticed her glance towards the television set.

“Did you think it was about the Fletcher’s warehouse job?”

Brenda shook her head. “I… I don’t know.”

“Did Les ever mention an acquaintance named Carl Johnson to you?”

“No. He never talked about his pub mates. If I ever asked him where he’d been or who he’d been with, he just told me to mind my own business.”

“Look, this is important,” Banks said slowly. “Think about it. When you accused Les out in the street, did you have any other basis for doing so other than the fact that we’d taken him in for questioning?”

“What?”

Banks explained. Brenda leaned forward to put out her cigarette. She held her robe closed this time. “That and the way he’s been acting,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to put into words. Ever since Gemma… well, things haven’t been the same between us. Do you know what I mean?”

Banks nodded.

“I don’t know why, but they haven’t. And he just looks so sheepish, the way he creeps around all the time, giving me guilty smiles. Mostly, though, he’s been keeping out of my way.”

“In what way could he have been involved, Brenda?” Susan asked.

Brenda looked sideways towards her, as if seeing her for the first time. “How should I know?” she said. “I’m not the detective, am I?” She spoke more harshly than she had to Banks. Woman to woman, he thought, Brenda Scupham was uncomfortable.

Banks gently took the focus away from Susan. “Brenda, have you any proof at all that Les had something to do with Gemma’s disappearance?”

“No. Just a feeling.”

“Okay. I’m not dismissing that. What you told us, about this Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, that was all true, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s how it happened.”

Banks showed her the newspaper pictures of Chivers and the blonde. “Do you recognize these people?”

She squinted at the pictures. “It could be him. The hair’s sort of the same, but a different colour. I don’t know about her, though. People look so different with their hair up. Him, though… I think… yes… I think it might be.”

Banks put the paper aside. “You told us Les wasn’t in when they came.”

“That’s right. He was at the pub.”

“How did he react when you told him?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did he seem shocked, upset, what?”

Tears came to Brenda’s eyes. “He said I was a stupid cow for letting them take her… but…”

“But what?”

She rubbed the backs of her hands across her eyes. “I need a cup of tea. I can’t really get started without my cup of tea in a morning. Do you want some?”

“All right,” said Banks. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give her a couple of minutes to mull over his question.

He and Susan waited silently while Brenda went into the kitchen and made tea. Outside, a car went by, a dog barked, and two laughing children kicked a tin can down the street. The wind shrilled at the ill-fitting windows, stirring the curtains in its draught. Banks studied the portrait of Elvis. It really was grotesque: a piece of kitsch dedicated to a bloated and gaudy idol.

As a teenager, he had been a keen Elvis fan. He had seen all those dreadful movies of the early sixties, where Elvis usually played a slightly podgy beach-bum, and he had bought all the new singles as soon as they came out. Somehow, though, after The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones and the rest, Elvis had never seemed important again.

Still, he remembered how he had listened to “They Remind Me Too Much of You” over and over again the night June Higgins chucked him for John Hill. He had been assembling a model Messerschmitt at the time, so maybe it was the glue fumes that had made his eyes water. Glue-sniffing hadn’t been invented back then. He had been thirteen; now Elvis was dead but lived on in garish oils on walls like this.

The whistle blew. When it stopped, Banks heard Brenda go upstairs. A few moments later she came in with the teapot and three mugs. She had taken the opportunity to get dressed, run a brush through her hair and put on a bit of make-up.

“Where were we?” she asked, pouring the tea. “There’s milk and sugar if you want it.” Susan helped herself to a splash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar. Both Banks and Brenda took theirs as it came.

“Les’s reaction when you told him about Gemma.”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about it while the tea was mashing,” Brenda said. “He didn’t believe me at first. I’d say more than anything he was surprised. It’s just that… well, he turned away from me, and I couldn’t see his face, but it was like he knew something or he suspected something, like he was frowning and he didn’t want me to see his expression. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“I could just feel it. I know I’ve not got any proof or anything, but sometimes you can sense things about people, can’t you? Lenora says she thinks I’m a bit psychic, too, so maybe that’s it. But I never thought for a moment he had anything to do with it. I mean, how could I? What could Les have had to do with those two well-dressed people who came to the door? And we lived together. I know he didn’t care for Gemma much, she got on his nerves, but he wouldn’t hurt her. I mean he was surprised, shocked, I’m sure of that, but when it sank in, he seemed to be thinking, puzzling over something. I put it out of my mind, but it nagged. After that we never really got on well. I’m glad he’s gone.” She paused, as if surprised at herself for saying so much, then reached for a second cigarette.

“What made you accuse him last night?” Banks asked.

“It’s just something that had been at the back of my mind, that’s all. Like I said, I never really believed he had anything to do with it. I just had this nagging feeling something wasn’t right. I suppose I lashed out, just for the sake of it. I couldn’t help myself.”

“What about now?”

“What?”

“You said you didn’t think Les had anything to do with Gemma’s disappearance at first. What do you think now?”

Brenda paused to blow on her hot tea, cradling the mug in her palms, then she turned her eyes up to Banks and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just don’t know.”

II

Banks and Jenny dashed across the cobbles in the rain to the Queen’s Arms. Once through the door, they shook their coats and hung them up.

“Double brandy, then?” Banks asked.

“No. No, really, Alan. I didn’t mean it,” Jenny said. “Just a small Scotch and water, please.”

Now she was embarrassed. She put her briefcase on the chair beside her and sat down at a table near the window. She had been in Banks’s office going over all the material on the Carl Johnson murder — statements, forensic reports, the lot — and when she got to the photographs of his body, she had turned pale and said she needed a drink. She didn’t know why they should affect her that way — she had seen similar images in textbooks — but suddenly she had felt dizzy and nauseated. Something about the way the belly gaped open like a huge fish-mouth… no, she wouldn’t think about it any more.

Banks returned with their drinks and reached for his cigarettes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think I’m a real idiot.”

“Not at all. I just wasn’t thinking. I should have prepared you.”

“Anyway, I’m fine now.” She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

She could see Market Street through a clear, rain-streaked pane. Young mothers walked by pushing prams, plastic rain-hats tied over their heads, and delivery vans blocked the traffic while men in white smocks carried boxes in and out of the shops, oblivious to the downpour. All the hurly and burly of commerce so essential to a thriving English market town. So normal. She shivered.

“I take it you’re assuming the crimes are related now?” she asked.

Banks nodded. “We are for the moment. I’ve read over the paperwork on the Gemma Scupham case, and I’ve filled the super in on Johnson. How are you getting on with him, by the way?”

Jenny smiled. “Fine. He doesn’t seem like such an ogre when you get to know him a bit.”

“True, he’s not. Anyway, we know that the Manleys abducted Gemma, and that in all likelihood the man’s real name is Chivers. We still don’t know who the woman is.”

“But you don’t know for sure that this Chivers killed Carl Johnson?”

“No. I realize it’s a bit thin, but when you get connections like this between two major crimes you can’t overlook them. Maybe in a big city you could, but not in Eastvale.”

“And even if he did it, you don’t know if the woman was present?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“For a start, I want to know if you think it could be the same person, or same people, psychologically speaking.”

Jenny took a deep breath. “The two crimes are so different. I can’t really find a pattern.”

“Are there no elements in common?”

Jenny thought for a moment, and the images of Johnson’s body came back. She sipped at her drink. “From all I’ve seen and heard,” she said, “I’d say that the two crimes at least demonstrate a complete lack of empathy on the criminal’s part, which leans towards the theory of the psychopath. If that’s the case, he probably wasn’t sexually interested in Gemma, only in his power over her, which he may have been demonstrating to the woman, as I said to the superintendent last time we met.” She ran her hand through her hair. “I just don’t have anything more to go on.”

“Think about the Johnson murder.”

Jenny leaned forward and rested her hands on the table. “All right. The couple who took Gemma showed no feeling for the mother at all. Whoever killed Johnson didn’t feel his pain, or if he did, he enjoyed it. You know even better than I do that murder can take many forms — there’s the heat of the moment, and there’s at least some distancing, as when a gun’s used. Even the classic poisoner often prefers to be far away when the poison takes effect. But here we have someone who, according to all the evidence you’ve shown me, must have stood very close indeed to his victim, looked him in the eye as he killed slowly. Could you do that? Could I? I don’t think so. Most of us have at least some sensitivity to another’s pain — we imagine what it would feel like if we suffered it ourselves. But one class of person doesn’t — the psychopath. He can’t relate to anyone else’s pain, can’t imagine it happening to him. He’s so self-centred that he lacks empathy completely.”

“You keep saying ‘he.’”

Jenny slapped his wrist playfully. “You know as well as I do that, statistically speaking, most psychopaths are men. And it might be pretty interesting to try to find out why. But that’s beside the point. That’s what the two crimes, what I know of them, have in common. There are other elements that fit the psychopath profile, too: the apparent coolness and bravado with which Gemma was abducted; the charm Chivers must have exhibited to her mother; the clever deceit he must have played to get Johnson out to the mill, if that’s what he did. And you can add that he’s also likely to be manipulative, impulsive, egocentric and irresponsible. You’re nursing your pint, Alan. Anything wrong?”

“What? Oh, no. I’m just preserving my liver. I have to meet Jim Hatchley for dinner in a couple of hours.”

“So he’s in town again, is he?”

“Just for a little job.”

Jenny held her hand up. “Say no more. I don’t want to know anything about it. I can’t understand why you like that man.”

Banks shrugged. “Jim’s all right. Anyway, back to Chivers. What if he committed the Carl Johnson murder out of self-preservation?”

“The method was still his choice.”

“Yes.” Banks lit another cigarette. “Look, I’ll tell you what I’m getting at. Just before you arrived, I talked to my old friend Barney Merritt at the Yard, and he told me that Criminal Intelligence has got quite a file on Chivers. They’ve never been able to put him away for anything, but they’ve had reports of his suspected activities from time to time, and they’ve usually had some connection with organized crime. The closest they came to nabbing him was four years ago. An outsider trying to muscle in on a protection racket in Birmingham was found on a building site with a bullet in his brain. The police knew Chivers was connected with the local mob up there, and a couple of witnesses placed him with the victim in a pub near the site. Soon as things got serious, though, the witnesses started to lose their memories.”

“What are you telling me, Alan, that he’s a hit man or something?”

Banks waved his hand. “No, hold on, let me finish. Most of the information in the CI files concerns his suspected connection with criminal gangs in London and in Birmingham, doing hits, nobbling witnesses, enforcing debt-collection and the like. But word has it that when business is slack, Chivers is not averse to a bit of murder and mayhem on the side, just for the fun of it. And according to Barney, his employers started to get bad feelings about him about a year ago. They’re keeping their distance. Again, there’s nothing proven, just hearsay.”

“Interesting,” said Jenny. “Is there any more?”

“Just a few details. He’s prime suspect — without a scrap of proof — in three murders down south, one involving a fair amount of torture before death, and there are rumours of one or two fourteen-year-old girls he’s treated roughly in bed.”

Jenny shook her head. “If you’re getting at some kind of connection between that and Gemma, I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”

“But why? He likes his sex rough and strange. He likes them young. What happens when fourteen isn’t enough of a kick any more?”

“The fact that he likes having sex with fourteen-year-old girls in no way indicates, psychologically, that he could be interested in seven-year-olds. Quite the opposite, really.”

Banks frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“It was something else I discovered in my research. According to statistics, the younger the child, the older the paedophile is likely to be. Your Chivers sounds about the right age for an unhealthy interest in fourteen-year-olds, but, you know, if you’d given me no information at all about Gemma’s abduction, I’d say you should be looking for someone over forty, most likely someone who knew Gemma — a family friend, neighbour or even a relative — who lives in the area, or not far away, and probably lives alone. I certainly wouldn’t be looking for a young couple from Birmingham, or wherever.”

Banks shook his head. “Okay, let’s get back on track. Tell me what you think of this scenario. We know that plenty of psychopaths have found gainful employment in organized crime. They’re good at frightening people, they’re clever, and they make good killers. The problem is that they’re hard to control. Now, what do you do with a psychopath when you find him more of a business liability than an asset? You try to cut him loose and hope to hell he doesn’t bear a grudge. Or you have him killed, and so the cycle continues. His old bosses don’t trust Chivers any more, Jenny. He’s persona non grata. They’re scared of him. He has to provide his own entertainment now.”

“Hmm.” Jenny swirled her glass and took another sip. “It makes some sense, but I doubt that it’s quite like that. In the first place, if he’s hard to control, it’s more likely to mean that he’s losing control of himself. From what you told me, Chivers must have been a highly organized personality type at one time, exhibiting a great deal of control. But psychopaths are also highly unstable. They’re prone to deterioration. His personality could be disintegrating towards the disorganized type, and right now he might be in the middle, the mixed type. Most serial killers, for example, keep on killing until they’re caught or until they lose touch completely with reality. That’s why you don’t find many of them over forty. They’ve either been caught by then, or they’re hopelessly insane.”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette. “Are you suggesting that Chivers could be turning into a serial killer?”

Jenny shrugged. “Not necessarily a serial killer, but it’s possible, isn’t it? He doesn’t fit the general profile of a paedophile, and he’s certainly changing into something. Yes, it makes sense, Alan. I’m not saying it’s true, but it’s certainly consistent with the information you’ve got.”

“So what next?”

Jenny shuddered. “Your guess is as good as mine. Whatever it is, you can be sure it won’t be very pleasant. If he is experiencing loss of control, then he’s probably at a very volatile and unpredictable stage.” She finished her drink. “I’ll give you one piece of advice, though.”

“What’s that?”

“If it is true, be very careful. This man’s a loose cannon on the deck. He’s very dangerous. Maybe even more so than you realize.”

III

“Congratulations,” said Banks. “I really mean it, Jim. I’m happy for you. Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”

“Aye, well… weren’t sure.” Sergeant Hatchley blushed. A typical Yorkshireman, he wasn’t comfortable with expressions of sentiment.

The two of them sat in the large oak-panelled dining-room of the Red Lion Hotel, an enormous Victorian structure by the roundabout on the southern edge of Eastvale. Hatchley was looking a bit healthier than he had on his arrival that afternoon. Then the ravages of a hangover had still been apparent around his eyes and in his skin, but now he had regained his normal ruddy complexion and that tell-me-another-one look in his pale blue eyes. Just for a few moments, though, his colour deepened even more and his eyes filled with pride. Banks was congratulating him on his wife’s pregnancy. Their first.

“When’s it due?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know. Don’t they usually take nine months?”

“I just wondered if the doctor had given you a date.”

“Mebbe Carol knows. She didn’t say owt to me, though. This is a good bit of beef.” He cut into his prime-rib roast and washed it down with a draught of Theakston’s bitter. “Ah, it’s good to be home again.”

Banks was eating lamb and drinking red wine. Not that he had become averse to Theakston’s, but the Red Lion had a decent house claret and it seemed a shame to ignore it. “You still think of Eastvale as home?” he asked.

“Grew up here,” replied Hatchley around a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding. “Place gets in your blood.”

“How are you liking the coast?”

“It’s all right. Been a good summer.” Sergeant Hatchley had been transferred to Saltby Bay, between Scarborough and Whitby, mostly in order to make way for Phil Richmond’s boost up the promotion ladder. Hatchley was a good sergeant and always would be; Richmond, Banks suspected, would probably make at least Chief Inspector, his own rank, and might go even further if he kept on top of the latest computer technology and showed a bit more initiative and leadership quality. Susan Gay, their most recent DC, was certainly demonstrating plenty of initiative, though it didn’t always lead where it should.

“Do I detect a note of nostalgia?” Banks asked.

Hatchley grinned. “Let me put it this way. It’s a bit like a holiday. Trouble is — and I never thought I’d be complaining about this — it’s a holiday that never bloody ends. There’s not much goes on for CID to deal with out there, save for a bit of organized pickpocketing in season, a few Band-Es, or a spot of trouble with the bookies now and then. It’s mostly paperwork, a desk job.” Hatchley uttered those last two words with flat-vowelled Yorkshire contempt.

“Thought you’d be enjoying the rest.”

“I might be a bit of a lazy sod, but I’m not bloody retiring age yet. You know me, I like a bit of action now and then. Out there, half the time I think I’ve died and gone to Harrogate, only by the sea.”

“What are you getting at, Jim?”

Hatchley hesitated for a moment, then put his knife and fork down. “I’ll be blunt. We’re all right for now, Carol and me, but after the baby’s born, do you think there’s any chance of us getting back to Eastvale?”

Banks sipped some wine and thought for a moment.

“Look,” Hatchley said, “I know the super doesn’t like me. Never has. I knew that even before you came on the scene.”

Three and a half years ago, Banks thought. Was that all? So much had happened. He raised his eyebrows.

“But we get on all right, don’t we?” Hatchley went on. “I mean, it took us a while, we didn’t have the best of starts. But I know my faults. I’ve got strengths, too, is all I’m saying.”

“I know that,” Banks said. “And you’re right.” He remembered that it had taken him two years to call Sergeant Hatchley by his first name. By then he had developed a grudging respect for the man’s tenacity. Hatchley might take the easy way out, act in unorthodox ways, cut corners, take risks, but he generally got what he set out to get. In other words, he was a bit of a maverick, like Banks himself, and he was neither as thick nor as thuggish as Banks had first thought.

Apart from Gristhorpe, Banks felt most comfortable with Hatchley. Phil Richmond was all right, pleasant enough, but he always seemed a bit remote and self-absorbed. For God’s sake, Banks thought, what could you expect from a man who read science fiction, listened to New Age music and spent half his time playing computer games? Susan Gay was too prickly, too over-sensitive to feel really at ease with, though he admired her spunk and her common sense.

“It’s not up to me,” Banks said finally. “You know that. But the way Phil’s going it wouldn’t surprise me if he went in for a transfer to the Yard before long.”

“Aye, well, he always was an ambitious lad, was Phil.”

It was said without rancour, but Banks knew it must have hurt Hatchley to be shunted to a backwater so as not to impede a younger man’s progress up the ranks. Transfer to CID was no more a “promotion” per se than transfer to Traffic and Communications — a sergeant was a sergeant, whether he or she had the prefix “detective” or not — though some, like Susan Gay, actually saw it that way, as a mark of recognition of special abilities. Some detectives were transferred back to uniform; some returned from choice. But Banks knew that Hatchley had no desire to walk the beat or drive the patrol cars again. What he wanted was to come back to Eastvale as a Detective Sergeant, and there simply wasn’t room for him with Richmond at the same rank.

Banks shrugged. “What can I say, Jim? Be patient.”

“Can I count on your support, if the situation arises?”

Banks nodded. “You can.” He smiled to himself as the unbidden image of Jim Hatchley and Susan Gay working together came to mind. Oh, there would be fun and games ahead if Sergeant Hatchley came back to Eastvale.

Hatchley finished his pint and looked Banks in the eye. “Aye, well that’s all right then. How about a sweet?”

“Not for me.”

Hatchley caught the waiter’s attention and ordered Black Forest gateau, a cup of coffee and another pint of Theakston’s. Banks stayed with his glass of red wine, which was still half-full.

“Down to business, then,” Hatchley said, as he tucked into the dessert.

Banks gave him a summary of the case and its twists and turns so far, then explained what he wanted him to do.

“A pleasure,” said Hatchley, smiling.

“And in the meantime, you can concentrate on installing that shower or whatever it is. I can’t say how long we’ll be. It depends.”

Hatchley pulled a face. “I hope it’s sooner rather than later.”

“Problem?”

“Oh, not really. As you know, I’ve got a few days leave. There’s not a lot on in Saltby at the moment, anyway, and Carol will be all right. She’s built up quite a gaggle of mates out there, and there’ll be no keeping them away since we heard about the baby. You know how women get all gooey-eyed about things like that. You can almost hear the bloody knitting needles clacking from here. No, it’s just that it might mean staying on longer than I have to at the in-laws, that’s all.”

“You don’t get on?”

“It’s not that. We had them for two weeks in July. It’s just… well, you know how it is with in-laws.”

Banks remembered Mr and Mrs Ellis from Hatchley’s wedding the previous Christmas. Mrs Ellis in particular had seemed angry that Hatchley stayed at the reception too long and drank too much. But then, he thought, she had every right to be annoyed. “They don’t approve of your drinking?” he guessed.

“You make it sound as if I’m an alcoholic or something,” Hatchley said indignantly. “Just because a bloke enjoys a pint or two of ale now and then… No, they’re religious, Four Square Gospel,” he sighed, as if that explained it all. “You know, Chapel on Sundays, the whole kit and caboodle. Never mind.” He sat up straight and puffed out his chest. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Just hurry up and find the bugger. What about this Chivers bloke? Any leads?”

“According to Phil, we’ve already had sightings from St Austell, King’s Lynn, Clitheroe and the Kyle of Lochalsh.”

Hatchley laughed. “It was ever thus. Tell me about him. He sounds interesting.”

Banks told him what Barney Merritt had said and what he and Jenny had discussed late afternoon.

“Reckon he’s done her, the kid?”

Banks nodded. “It’s been over a week, Jim. I just don’t like to think about what probably happened before he killed her.”

Hatchley’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Know who the tart is? The blonde?”

“No idea. He picks them up and casts them off. They’re fascinated by him, like flies to shit. According to what Barney could dig up, his full name’s Jeremy Chivers, called Jem for short. He grew up in a nice middle-class home in Sevenoaks. No record of any trouble as a kid. No one can figure out how he got hooked up with the gangs. He had a good education, moved to work for an insurance company in London, then it all started.”

“It’s not hard for rats to find the local sewer,” said Hatchley.

“No. Anyway, he’s twenty-eight now, apparently looks even younger. And he’s no fool. You’ve got to be pretty smart to keep on doing what he does and get away with it. It all satisfies whatever weird appetites he’s developing.”

“If you ask me,” said Hatchley, “we’d all be best off if he found himself at the end of a noose.”

Banks remembered his early feelings about Hatchley. That comment, so typical of him and so typical of the burned-out, cynical London coppers Banks had been trying to get away from at the time, brought them all back.

Once, Banks would have cheerfully echoed the sentiment. Sometimes, even now, he felt it. It was impossible to contemplate someone like Chivers and what he had done to Carl Johnson — if he had done it — and, perhaps, to Gemma Scupham, without wanting to see him dangling at the end of a rope, or worse, to make it personal, to squeeze the life out of him with one’s own hands. Like everyone who had read about the case in the newspapers, like everyone who had children of his own, Banks could easily give voice to the outraged cliché that hanging was too good for the likes of Chivers. What was even worse was that Banks didn’t know, could not predict for certain, what he would do if he ever did get Chivers within hurting distance.

The conflict was always there: on the one hand, pure atavistic rage for revenge, the gut feeling that someone who did what Chivers did no longer deserved to be a member of the human race, had somehow, through his monstrous acts, forfeited his humanity; and on the other hand, the feeling that such a reaction makes us no better than him, however we sugar-coat our socially sanctioned murders, and with it the idea that perhaps more insight is to be gained from the study of such a mind than from its destruction, and that knowledge like that may help prevent Chiverses of the future. There was no easy solution for him. The two sides of the argument struggled for ascendancy; some days sheer outrage won out, others a kind of noble humanism took supremacy.

Instead of responding to Hatchley’s comment, Banks gestured for the bill and lit a cigarette. It was time to go home, perhaps listen to Mitsuko Uchida playing some Mozart piano sonatas and snuggle up to Sandra, if she was in.

“Ah well,” sighed Hatchley. “Back to the in-laws, I suppose.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a packet of extra-strong Trebor mints and popped one in his mouth. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends…”

IV

The piece of luck that Banks had been hoping for came at about six-thirty in the morning. Like most police luck, it was more a result of hard slog and keen observation than any magnanimous gesture on the part of some almighty deity.

The telephone woke Banks from a disjointed dream full of anger and frustration. He groped for the receiver in the dark. Beside him, Sandra stirred and muttered in her sleep.

“Sir?” It was Susan Gay.

“Mmm,” Banks mumbled.

“Sorry to wake you, sir, but they’ve found him. Poole.”

“Where is he?”

“At the station.”

“What time is it?”

“Half past six.”

“All right. Phone Jim Hatchley at Carol’s parents’ place and get him down there, but keep him out of sight. And—”

“I’ve already phoned the super, sir. He’s on his way in.”

“Good. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Sandra turned over and sighed. Banks crept out of bed as quietly as he could, grabbed the clothes he had left folded on a chair and went into the bathroom. He still couldn’t shake the feeling the dream had left him with. Probably something to do with the row he had with Tracy after he got back from dinner with Jim Hatchley. Not even a row, really. Trying to be more understanding towards her, he had simply made some comment about how nice it was to have her home with the family, and she had burst into tears and dashed up to her room. Sandra had shot him a nasty look and hurried up after her. It turned out her boyfriend had chucked her for someone else. Well, how was he supposed to know? It all changed so quickly. She never told him about anything these days.

As soon as he had showered and dressed, he went out to the car. The wind had dropped, but the pre-dawn sky was overcast, a dreary iron grey, except to the east where it was flushed deep red close to the horizon. For the first time that year, Banks could see his breath. Already, lights were on in some of the houses, and the woman in the newsagent’s at the corner of Banks’s street and Market Street was sorting the papers for the delivery kids.

Inside the station, an outsider would have had no idea it was so early in the morning. Activity went on under the fluorescent lights as usual, as it did twenty-four hours a day. Only a copper would sense that end-of-the-night-shift feel as constables changed back into civvies to go home and the day shift came in bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, shaved faces shining, or make-up freshly applied.

Upstairs, where the CID had their offices, was quieter. They hardly had a need for shift work, and their hours varied depending on what was going on. This past week, with a murder and a missing child, long hours had been taking their toll on everyone. Richmond was there, looking red-eyed from too much staring at the computer screen, and Susan Gay had dark blue smears under her eyes.

“What happened?” Banks asked her.

“I’d just come in,” she said. “Couldn’t sleep so I came in at six and thought I’d have another look at the forensic reports, then they brought him in. Found him sleeping in a ditch a mile or so down the Helmthorpe Road.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Banks. “It must have been cold. Where is he?”

“Interview room. PC Evans is with him.”

“Sergeant Hatchley?”

“Got here just before you. He’s in position.”

Banks nodded. “Let’s wait for the super.”

Gristhorpe arrived fifteen minutes later, looking brighter than the rest of them. His hair was a mess, as usual, but his innocent blue eyes shone every bit as alert and probing as ever.

“Let’s have at him, then,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Alan, would you like to lead, seeing as you know him so well? Let me play monster in reserve.”

“All right.”

They headed for the small interview room. Before they went in, Banks asked Richmond if he would get them a large pot of tea.

The drab room seemed overcrowded with four of them, and the heat was turned too high. PC Evans went and sat in the corner by the window, ready to take notes, Banks sat opposite Poole, and Gristhorpe at right angles.

Poole licked his lips and looked around the room.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, Les,” Banks said. “What happened?”

“Sleeping rough. Nowhere to go, had I?”

He was unshaven, his leather jacket was scuffed and stained with mud, his greasy hair bedraggled and matted. He also had a black eye and a split lip. The tea arrived. Banks played mother and passed a large steaming mug over to Les. “Here, have a cuppa,” he said. “You don’t look like you’ve had your breakfast yet.”

“Thanks.” Poole grasped the mug with both hands.

“How’d you get the war wounds?”

“Bloody mob, wasn’t it? I need protection, I do.”

“From your neighbours?”

“Bloody right.” He pointed to his face. “They did this to me before I managed to run off. I’m a victim. I should press charges.” Poole slurped some tea.

“Be our guest,” said Banks. “But later. There’s a few other things to deal with first.”

Poole frowned. “Oh? Like what?”

“Like why did you run?”

“That’s a daft question. You’d bloody run if you had a mob like that after you.”

“Where were you heading?”

“Dunno. Anywhere. I’d got no money so I could hardly stay in a bleeding hotel, could I?”

“What about your mate at the shop?”

“Wasn’t in.”

“What did the mob want with you, Les?”

“It was all that silly bitch Brenda’s fault. Put on a right show, she did, chucking my stuff at me like that. And that’s another thing. I’ll bloody sue her for damage to property.”

“You do that, Les. She’d probably have to sell the telly and that nice little stereo system to pay her costs. Why did they turn on you?”

Les glanced nervously at Gristhorpe, then said to Banks, “Is he going to stay here all the time?”

Banks nodded. “If I can’t get the truth out of you, he takes over. Believe me, you’ll be a lot happier if that never happens. We were talking about your neighbours. Look at me.”

Poole turned back. “Yeah, well, Brenda yelled some stupid things out the window. It was her fault. She could have got me killed.”

“What did she yell?”

Banks could see Poole weighing him up, gauging what he knew already. Finally, he said, “Seeing as she’s probably already told you, it doesn’t matter, does it?” He kept glancing at Gristhorpe out of the corner of his eye.

“It matters a lot,” Banks said. “It’s a very serious allegation, that is, saying you were mixed up with Gemma’s disappearance. They don’t take kindly to child-molesters in prison, Les. This time it won’t be as easy as your other stretches inside. Why don’t you tell us what you know?”

Poole finished his tea and reached for the pot. Banks let him pour another large mug. “Because I don’t know anything,” he said. “I told you, Brenda was out of line.”

“No smoke without fire, Les.”

“Come on, Mr Banks, you know me. Do I look like a child- molester?”

“How would I know? What do you think they look like? Ogres with hairs growing out of their noses and warts on their bald heads? Do you think they go around carrying signs?”

“She was trying to stir it, to wind me up. Honest. Ask her. Ask her if she really thinks I had anything to do with it.”

“I have, Les.”

“Yeah? And what did she say?”

“How did you feel when she told you Gemma had been abducted?”

“Feel?”

“Yes, Les. It’s something people do. Part of what makes them human.”

“I know what it means. Don’t think I don’t have feelings.” He paused, and gulped down more tea. “How did I feel? I dunno.”

“Were you upset?”

“Well, I was worried.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Course I was.”

“Did anything spring to mind, anything to make you wonder maybe about what had happened?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do, Les.”

Banks looked over at Gristhorpe, who nodded grimly.

Poole licked his lips again. “Look, what’s going on here? You trying to fit me up?”

Banks let the silence stretch. Poole squirmed in his hard chair. “I need a piss,” he said finally.

Banks stood up. “Come on, then.”

They walked down the corridor to the gents and Banks stood by the inside of the door while Poole went to the urinal.

“Tell us where Gemma is, Les,” Banks said, as Poole relieved himself. “It’ll save us all a lot of trouble.”

All of a sudden, the stall door burst open. Poole turned. A red-faced giant in a rumpled grey suit with short fair hair and hands like hams stood in front of him. Poole pissed all over his shoes and cursed, cringing back against the urinal, holding his arms out to ward off an attack.

“Is that him?” the giant said. “Is that the fucking pervert who—”

Banks dashed over and held him back. “Jim, don’t. We’re still questioning—”

“Is that the fucking pervert or isn’t it?”

Hatchley strained to get past Banks, who was backing towards the door with Poole scrabbling behind him. “Get out, Les,” Banks said. “While you can. I’ll keep him back. Go on. Hurry!”

They backed into the corridor and two uniformed constables came to hold Hatchley, still shouting obscenities. Banks put a protective arm around Poole and led him back to the interview room. On the way, they passed Susan Gay, who looked at Poole and blushed. Banks followed her gaze. “Better zip it up, Les,” he said, “or we’ll have you for indecent exposure as well.”

Poole did as he was told and Banks ushered him back into the room, Hatchley cursing and shouting behind them, held back by the two men.

“What the hell’s going on?” Gristhorpe asked.

“It’s Jim,” Banks explained, sitting Poole down again. “You know what he’s been like since that bloke interfered with his little girl.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe, “but can’t we keep a leash on him?”

“Not easy, sir. He’s a good man. Just a bit unhinged at the moment.”

Poole followed the exchange, paling.

“Look,” he said, “I ain’t no pervert. Tell him. Keep him away from me.”

“We’ll try,” Banks said, “but we might have a hard time getting him to believe us.”

Poole ran a hand through his greasy hair. “All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll tell you all I know. Okay? Just keep him off me.”

Banks stared at him.

“Then you can tell them all I’m not a pervert and I had nothing to do with it, all right?”

“If that’s the way it turns out. If I believe you. And it’s a big if, Les, after the bollocks you’ve been feeding us this past week.”

“I know, I know.” Poole licked his lips. “Look, first off, you’ve got to believe me, I had nothing to do with what happened to Gemma. Nothing.”

“Convince me.”

Outside, they could hear Hatchley bellowing about what he would do to perverts if he had his way: “I’d cut your balls off with a blunt penknife, I bloody would! And I’d feed them down your fucking throat!” He got close enough to thump at the door and rattle the handle before they could hear him being dragged off still yelling down the corridor. Banks could hardly keep from laughing. Jim and the uniforms sounded like they were having the time of their lives.

“Christ,” said Les, with a shudder. “Just keep him off me, that’s all.”

“So you had nothing to do with Gemma’s disappearance?” Banks said.

“No. See, I used to talk about the kid down the pub, over a jar, like. I admit I wasn’t very flattering, but she was a strange one was Gemma. She could irritate you just by looking at you that way she had, accusing like. Make you feel like dirt.”

“So you complained about your girlfriend’s kid. Nothing odd in that, is there, Les?”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? What I’ve been saying. It was just pub talk, that’s all. Now, I never touched her, Mr Banks. Never. Not a word of a lie. But Brenda got pissed off that time after Gemma spilled her paints on my racing form and gave her a bloody good shaking. First time I seen her do it, and it scared me, honest it did. Left big bruises on the kid’s arm. I felt sorry for her, but I’m not her fucking father, what am I supposed to do?”

“Get to the point, Les. Those lads out there can’t hold Sergeant Hatchley down forever.”

“Aye, well, I didn’t exactly tell you the truth before. You see, I did meet this Chivers and his bird a couple of times, with Carl at the pub. Never took to him. She wasn’t a bad-looking bint, mind you. A bit weird, but not bad. He thought I was coming on to her once and warned me, all quiet and civilized, like, that if I went so much as within a yard of her he’d cut off my balls and shove them up my arse.” Poole paused and swallowed. No doubt he was realizing, Banks thought, that threats to his privates were coming thick and fast from all sides. “He gave me the creeps, Mr Banks. There was something not right about him. About the pair of them, if you ask me.”

“Did this Chivers seem interested when you talked about Gemma?”

“Well, yeah, about as interested as he seemed in anything. He was a cool one. Cold. Like a fucking reptile. There was just no reading him. He’d ask about her, yeah, just over a few drinks, like, but I thought nothing of it. And once he told me about a case he’d read in the papers where some couple had pretended to be child-care workers and asked to examine a child. Thought that was funny, he did. Thought it showed bottle. I put it out of my mind. To be honest, soon as we’d done the Fl — soon as we’d finished our bit of business, I wouldn’t go near him or her. I can’t explain it. They seemed nice and normal enough on the surface, all charm and that nice smile of his, but inside he was hard and cold, and you never knew what he was going to do next. I suppose that’s the kind of thing she liked. There’s no figuring out some women’s taste.”

“So Chivers showed some interest in Gemma and he told you about the newspaper story, right?”

“Right. And that’s as far as it went.”

“Did Chivers give you any reason to believe he was interested in little children?”

“Well, no, not directly. I mean, Carl told me a few stories about him, how he’d been involved in the porn trade down The Smoke and how he wasn’t averse to a bit of bondage and that. Just titillating stories, that’s all. And when you saw him and his bird together, they were weird, like they had something going that no one could get in on. She hung on his every word and when he told her to do something, she did. I mean… it was… Once, we was in the car, like, plann — just talking, with them two in the front and me and Carl in the back, and he told her to suck him off. She got right down there and did it, and all the time he kept talking, just stopping once, like, to give a little sigh when he shot his load. Then she sat back up again as if nothing had happened.”

“But they never made any direct reference to children?”

“No. But you see what I mean, don’t you, Mr Banks? I mean, as far as I’m concerned, them two was capable of anything.”

“I see what you mean. What did you do?”

“Well, I kept quiet, didn’t I? I mean, there was no way of knowing it was them took Gemma. The descriptions weren’t the same. And then when Carl turned up dead, I had a good idea who might have liked killing someone that way and… I was scared. I mean, wouldn’t you be? Maybe Carl had made the same connection, too, and Chivers had offed him while the bint looked on and laughed. That’s the kind of feeling they gave you.”

“Do you have any evidence that Chivers killed Carl?”

“Evidence? That’s down to you lot, isn’t it? No, I told you. I kept away from him. It just seemed like something he would do.”

“Where are they now, Les?”

“I’ve no idea, honest I don’t. And you can turn your gorilla on me and I can’t tell you any different. I haven’t seen nor heard of them since last week. And I don’t want to.”

“Do you think they’re still in Eastvale, Les?”

“Be daft if they were, wouldn’t they? But I don’t mind saying I was scared shitless those two nights sleeping out. I kept thinking there was someone creeping up on me to cut my throat. You know what it’s like out in the country, all those animal noises and the wind blowing barn doors.” He shuddered.

“Is that everything, Les?”

“Cross my heart.”

Banks noticed he didn’t say “hope to die” this time. “It’d better be,” said Banks, standing and stretching. He walked over to the door and peered outside, then turned to Gristhorpe. “Looks like they’ve got Jim away somewhere. What shall we do now?”

Gristhorpe assessed Poole with a steady gaze. “I think he’s told us all he knows,” he said finally. “We’d better take him to the charge room then lock him up.”

“Good idea,” Banks said. “Give him a nice warm cell for the day. For his own safety.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “What’ll we charge him with?”

“We could start with indecent exposure.”

They spent another hour or so going over Poole’s statement with him, and Poole made no objections as the constable finally led him down to the charge room. He just looked anxiously right and left to make sure Hatchley wasn’t around. Banks wandered to his office for a cigarette and another cup of coffee. Gristhorpe joined him there, and a few minutes later Jim Hatchley walked in with a big grin on his face.

“Haven’t had as much fun since the last rugby club trip,” he said. “How did you know he’d be going for a piss anyway? I was getting a bit fed up stuck in there. I’d read the Sport twice already.”

“People want to urinate a lot when they’re anxious,” Banks said. “He did before. Besides, tea’s a diuretic, didn’t you know that?”

Hatchley shook his head.

“Anyway, he’d have wanted to go eventually. We’d just have kept him as long as necessary.”

“Aye,” said Hatchley, “and me in the fucking shithouse.”

Banks smiled. “Effective, though, wasn’t it? More dramatic that way.”

“Very dramatic. Thinking of doing a bit of local theatre, are you?”

Banks laughed. “Sometimes that’s what I think I am doing already.” He walked over to the window and stretched. “Christ, it’s been a long morning,” he muttered.

The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock stood at ten-twenty. Susan Gay walked in and out with the latest developments. Not much. There had been more reports of Chivers, from Welshpool, Ramsgate and Llaneilian, and all had to be checked out by the locals. So far, they didn’t have one clear lead. Just after eleven, the phone rang, and Banks picked it up.

“Detective Inspector Loder here. Dorset CID.”

Banks sighed. “Not another report of Chivers?”

“More than that,” said Loder. “In fact, I think you’d better get down to Weymouth if you can.”

Banks sat upright. “You’ve got him?”

“Not exactly, but we’ve got a dead blonde in a hotel room, and she matches the description you put out.”