Wednesday's Child

I

Hotel or bed and breakfast, it didn’t seem to make much difference with regard to the traditional English breakfast, thought Gristhorpe the following morning. Of course, there was more choice at the Mellstock Hotel than there would be in a typical B and B, but no one in his right mind would want to start the day with a “continental” breakfast — a stale croissant and a gob of strawberry jam in a plastic container. As it was, Banks sat struggling over a particularly bony kipper while Gristhorpe stuck to bacon and eggs and wished he hadn’t. Between them, they shared a rack of cold toast and a pot of weak instant coffee.

Gristhorpe felt grumpy. He hadn’t slept well; the mattress had been too soft, and his back was bothering him. The breakfast didn’t help either, he realized, feeling the onset of heartburn.

“I dropped in at the hotel bar for a nightcap yesterday,” he said, pushing the plate aside and pouring more coffee. “Thought I might be able to get something out of the regulars.”

“And?” asked Banks, pulling a bone from the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing much. There’s a couple from Wolverhampton staying the week, and they said the Barlows, as they called themselves, were in once or twice. Always pleasant. You know, nodded and said hello, but never got into any conversations. The missis thought they were a honeymoon couple.”

“You know,” said Banks, “he’s really starting to get on my nerves, Chivers. He turns up somewhere, goes around smiling like Mr Clean, and people die.”

“What do you expect?”

“It’s just his bloody nerve. It’s as if he’s challenging us, playing catch-me-if-you-can.”

“Aye, I know what you mean,” said Gristhorpe, with a scowl. “And we won’t catch him sitting here picking at this fine English cuisine. Come on.” He pushed his plate away and stood up abruptly, leaving Banks to follow suit.

The hotel manager had provided a small room on the ground floor for them to conduct interviews. First, they read over the statements that DI Loder and his men had taken from the hotel staff, then asked to see Meg Wayne, the chambermaid.

She looked no older than fourteen or fifteen, a frightened schoolgirl with her uniform and starched cap that couldn’t quite contain her abundant golden hair. She had a pale, clear complexion, and with a couple of red spots on her cheeks, Gristhorpe thought, she could probably pass herself off as one of Tess’s milkmaid friends in Hardy’s book. Her Dorset burr was even more pronounced than Loder’s, her voice soft and surprisingly low.

“Mr Ballard, the manager, said I could take the day off,” she said, “but I don’t see the point, do you? I mean, the rooms need doing every day no matter what happens, and I could certainly do with the money.”

“Still,” said Gristhorpe, “it must have been a shock?”

“Oh yes. I’ve never seen a dead body before. Only on telly, like.”

“Tell us what you saw yesterday, Meg.”

“We-ell, I opens the door as usual, and as soon as I does I knows something’s wrong.”

“Were the curtains open?”

“Part way. Enough to see by.”

“And the window?”

“Open a bit. It was chilly.” She fiddled with a set of room keys on her lap as she spoke.

“Did you go into the room?”

“Not right in. I just stood in the doorway, like, and I could see her there on the bed, with her head all covered up.”

“Tell me exactly what you saw,” said Gristhorpe. He knew that people tend to embellish on what they have observed. He also wanted to be certain that Loder and his SOCO team had restored the room to the way it had been when Meg opened the door. He grimaced and rubbed his stomach; the heartburn was getting worse.

“It looked like just twisted sheets at first,” she said, “but then, when my eyes grew more accustomed, I could tell it was someone under there. A shape.” She blushed and looked down at her lap. “A woman’s shape. And the pillow was over her head, so I knew she was… dead.”

“It’s all right, Meg,” said Gristhorpe. “I know it’s upsetting. We won’t be much longer.”

Meg nodded and took a deep breath.

“Did you see the woman’s face?”

“No. No, I just knew it was a woman by the outline of the sheets.”

“Did you disturb anything in the room?”

“Nothing. Like I told Mr Loder, I ran straight off to Mr Ballard and he sent for the police. That’s God’s honest truth, sir.”

“I believe you,” said Gristhorpe. “We just have to make certain. You must have been upset. Maybe there’s something you forgot?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. Did you ever see the people who were staying in that room?”

“Not as far as I know. I don’t see many guests, sir. I have to do my job when they’re out.”

“Of course. Now think, Meg, try to remember, was there anything else about the scene that struck you at the time?”

Meg squeezed her eyes shut and fiddled with the keys. Finally, she looked at Gristhorpe again. “Just how tidy it was, sir. I mean, you wouldn’t believe the mess some guests leave you to clean up. Not that I mind, like. I know they pay for the service and it’s my job, but…”

“So this room was unusually tidy?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anything at all on the table or the dresser?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. They were empty.”

“All right, Meg, we’re just about finished now. Can you remember anything else at all?”

“Well, it’s funny,” she said, “but just now when I had my eyes closed I did remember something. I never really paid it any mind at the time, though I must have noticed, but it stuck.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t think it can be important, but it was the smell. I use Pledge Natural on the furniture. I’d know that smell anywhere. Very clean and… But this was something else… a sort of pine-scented polish… I don’t know. Why would anybody want to polish furniture in a hotel room?”

“Thank you, Meg,” said Gristhorpe. “You can go now. You’ve been a great help.”

“I have? Thank you.” She went to the door and turned with her fingers touching the handle. “I’m not looking forward to this, sir,” she said. “Between you and me, I’m not looking forward to opening any doors in this hotel this morning.” And she left.

Gristhorpe reached into his side pocket, took out a pack of Rennies he carried for such emergencies as English breakfasts and southern fish and chips, and chewed two of them.

“All right?” Banks asked.

“Aye.” Gristhorpe pulled a face. “Just ought to watch my diet, that’s all.”

Next they saw the receptionist, Maureen, rather prickly at being called away from her domain. Gristhorpe basked in antacid relief and left Banks to do most of the questioning. She had very little to tell them save that the Barlows had checked in the evening of Wednesday, September 24, at about six o’clock with just one tan suitcase between them. She had told them about parking and got their car licence number, then he had signed the register Mr and Mrs Barlow and given an address in Lichfield. Loder had already checked this and found it didn’t exist. No, Maureen hadn’t asked for any identification. Why should she? And yes, of course he had skipped out on his bill. If you’d just murdered your lover, you’d hardly stop at the front desk and pay your hotel bill, would you? No, nobody had seen him leave. It wasn’t a prison camp or one of those Russian gulags, you know. What did she think of them? Just ordinary, no one you’d look twice at if you saw them in the street. Her, maybe, but he was just a nondescript bloke with a nice smile. In fact, Maureen remembered wondering what an attractive, if rather stuck-up, girl like her was doing with the likes of him.

And that was it. They talked briefly with Mr Ballard, who didn’t remember seeing the Barlows at all, and to the bellboy who had carried their suitcase to their room and remembered nothing but the pound tip the bloke had given him. Nobody knew what they did with their time. Went for walks, the cinema in the evening, or to a pub. Nothing unusual about them. Nothing much else to do in Weymouth.

By the time they had finished the interviews, it was eleven-thirty. DI Loder had said he would drop by that morning as soon as the autopsy results became available, and they met him walking into the lobby. He looked as if he had slept badly, too, Gristhorpe thought, with bags under his eyes and his long face pale and drawn. The three of them decided to take some fresh air on the prom while they discussed the results.

“Anything?” Gristhorpe asked as they leaned on the railings. A faint breeze ruffled his thick grey hair. The weather was overcast, but reasonably warm. Seagulls squawked overhead.

Loder shook his head slowly. “First, we’ve made enquiries at the ferry dock and no one remembers anyone of his description. We can’t really make too much of that, though, as it’s very busy down there. And the autopsy findings bear out what the doc suspected. She died of asphyxiation, and the pillow fibres in her lungs indicate that’s how it happened. No sign of drugs or anything, though it’ll be a while before all the test results come back. We’ve sent the tissue for DNA testing — it looks like our man’s Group O, by the way — but that’ll take some time. She did have sex prior to death, and there were no signs of sexual assault, so we assume it was by consent. Otherwise healthy. Poor woman, we don’t even know her name yet. Only one surprise: she was eight weeks pregnant.”

“Hmm,” said Gristhorpe. “I wonder if Chivers knew that.”

Loder shrugged. “Hardly a motive for murder.”

“I don’t think he needs much of a motive. It could have pushed him over the edge.”

“Or maybe it made her a liability,” Banks suggested. “Not so much just because she was pregnant but because it softened her, brought out the guilt over what they’d done? If she found out she was going to have a child of her own…”

“There’s no point in speculating,” said Gristhorpe. “It’s something we might never know. Anything else?”

“Nothing from the car,” Loder said. “A few partials… fibres and the like, but you know as well as I do most stuff’s mass-produced these days. Could have come from almost any blue cotton shirt. There’s not a lot else to say. We’ve got men asking around about him, if anyone saw him after he left the hotel. Nothing so far. Oh, and I informed Interpol and the authorities on the Channel Islands.”

“Good,” said Gristhorpe. “That seems to cover it all.”

“What next?” asked Loder.

“We can only wait, can’t we?”

“Looks like it. I’d better be off back to the station, keep on top of it.”

“Thanks.” Gristhorpe shook his hand. “Thanks a lot.”

They watched Loder walk off towards his car. “He’s got a point,” said Gristhorpe. “What do we do next?”

Banks shrugged. “I can only speculate.”

“Go ahead.”

Banks watched a ferry steam out of the dock. The flock of gulls swooped on a dead fish on the beach. “I’ve been thinking about Chivers,” he said, lighting a cigarette and looking out to sea. “Trying to fathom his thought processes.”

“And?”

“And I’m not sure, but… look, he must know we’re after him by now. Surely he’s seen the stuff in the newspapers. What does he do? He kills the woman, too much extra baggage, and he takes off. Now a normal criminal would certainly head for the continent and disappear. But we know Chivers isn’t normal.”

“I think I follow your train, Alan. I’ve had the same thought myself. He’s playing a game, isn’t he? Laughing at us.”

Banks nodded. “And he likes the attention. Jenny said he’s likely to be egocentric, but he’s also probably impulsive and irresponsible. I’ve thought about that a lot.”

“So where would he head, given the way he thinks?”

“Back to where it started, I think,” said Banks. “I’ll bet you a pound to a penny the bastard’s back in Eastvale.”

II

It was late that Saturday evening when Banks and Gristhorpe arrived back in Eastvale. They were delayed by a six-car pile-up into a jackknifed lorry on the M1 just south of Leicester, and as they passed by Pontefract and Castleford on the A1, the rain fell in buckets, slowing traffic to a crawl.

So it was that on Sunday morning, as the bells rang in the church and people crossed the market square in their Sunday best for the morning service, the members of Eastvale CID sat in the conference room around the large circular table drinking coffee and pooling their findings.

Richmond and Susan brought the others up to date on John Fairley’s information about Chivers and the fact that he owned a gun.

“Fairley seems the least involved of them all,” said Richmond. “We had a good long chat when we brought him in. He’s got no prior form. I’m sure he’s dealt with stuff that fell off the back of a lorry before, but the Fletcher’s warehouse job is his first big bit of fencing, we’re sure of that. Susan?”

“I agree,” said Susan Gay, looking up from the notes in front of her. “Seems it was Johnson’s idea, and he recruited Les Poole easily. They were mates of Fairley’s, genuinely helping out at the shop for a bit of under-the-counter pocket money. Chivers was the prime mover. Without him, I don’t reckon the others would have had the guts to go through with it. It was Chivers drugged the guard dogs and cut through the chain-link fence. Poole drove the van, backed it up to the loading bay and away they went. The back of Fairley’s shop is just a quiet backstreet, so they got unloaded without any trouble. It wasn’t too hard to make a few sales through their pub mates, word of mouth, and they’d already got rid of most of the stuff by the time we called.”

“Was there any falling out over the loot?” Banks asked.

“No,” said Richmond. “Not as far as we could tell. Everyone seemed happy with his share. Poole took the television and stereo as part of his cut. Johnson got a thousand in cash. Fairley’s got no idea why Johnson was killed, though he said he wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Chivers had done him. Chivers scared him, seemed the type who’d do it for fun.”

“And he’s seen or heard nothing of him since?”

“No, sir. And doesn’t want to.”

“What about Gemma?” Banks asked. “Does Fairley know anything about what happened to her?”

“Just confirms what Poole told us, that’s all,” said Richmond. “After we spotted the whitewash in the cellar, we had the team do a thorough search last night, but they’ve turned up nothing to indicate Gemma was there.”

“Right,” said Gristhorpe, standing up and looking at his watch. “I’ve told you what Alan thinks about Chivers being in the area, and I agree with him. What I propose is that we start trying to flush him out. Phil, I’d like you to muster as many men as you can and start knocking on doors, asking questions. Somebody must have seen the bastard. The station and the bus station are obvious places to start. He left his car in Weymouth and unless he stole one, the odds are that he took some other form of transport. The lads down there are doing their bit, too. We’re co-ordinating with a DI Loder. I’ll get in touch with the media and we’ll see if we can’t get something on the local news tonight. I want it all in the open. If he is here, I want him to know we’re closing in on him. I want him to panic and make a run for it.

“Susan, get in touch with as many of those concerned citizens who helped in the search for Gemma and get them to ask around. Tell them to make sure they don’t take any risks, though. This one’s dangerous. You know the kind of thing to ask about. Smoke from a cottage that’s supposed to be empty, odd noises, suspicious strangers, that kind of thing. Especially anyone who insists on paying cash in large amounts. We’d better put a watch on Fairley’s shop, Brenda Scupham’s place and the holiday cottage, too, just in case. And we’ll ask around the pubs. He’s not the type to lie low. He’ll be wanting to see the effect he’s having. And remember, he may have altered his appearance a bit. He’s done it before, so don’t rely on hair colour. The one thing he can’t change is that bloody smile. All right?”

Everyone nodded and dispersed. Banks returned to his office and looked out on the church-goers pouring into the market square: women in powder blue suits holding onto their broad brimmed hats in the wind, clutching handbags; husbands in dark suits at their sides, collars too tight, shifting from foot to foot as their wives chatted, thinking maybe now they’d done their duty they’d be able to sneak off to the Queen’s Arms or the Crooked Billet for a quick one before dinner; restless children dreaming of an afternoon at Kinley Pond catching frogs, or climbing trees to collect birds’ eggs in Brinely Woods — either that or sniffing glue under the railway bridge and planning a bit of recreational B and E. And somewhere, in the midst of all that quotidian human activity and aspiration, was Jeremy Chivers.

Banks didn’t notice Susan in his doorway until she cleared her throat. He turned.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, “it slipped my mind at the meeting, but you had a call from Piet Kuypers, Amsterdam police. Said to call him back, you’d know what it was about.”

“Did he leave a message?”

“No. Just said he had a few interesting speculations for you.” Susan handed him a piece of paper. “The top’s his work number,” she said, pointing, “and that one’s home.”

“Thank you.” Banks took the paper and sat down. In the excitement of the chase for Chivers, he realized, he had quite forgotten asking Piet to check up on Adam Harkness. He hadn’t liked the man much, but as soon as it became clear that Chivers had more than likely killed Carl Johnson, there had seemed no real reason to consider Harkness any longer.

Puzzled, he dialled Piet’s home number. A child’s voice answered. Banks couldn’t speak Dutch, and the little girl didn’t seem to understand English. The phone banged down on a hard surface and a moment later a man’s voice came over the line, again in Dutch.

“Piet? It’s me. Alan Banks in Eastvale?”

“Ah, Alan,” said Piet. “That was my daughter, Eva. She only began to learn her English this year.” He laughed. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Piet. Hope I didn’t disturb your lunch but I’ve been out of town and I got a message to call you.”

“Yes. You have a moment?”

“Yes, of course.”

Banks heard the receiver placed, more gently this time, on the hard surface, and he put his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette while he waited for Piet to come back. He realized he had been talking too loudly, as one does on the telephone to foreigners, and reminded himself that Piet’s English was almost as good as his own.

“Sorry about that,” said Piet. “Yes, I did a little snooping, as you call it, about that man Harkness.” His voice bore only traces of a Dutch accent.

“Anything interesting?”

“Interesting, yes, I think so. But nothing but rumours, you understand. Hearsay. I found his wife. She has since remarried, and she didn’t want to talk about her relationship with Harkness, but she hinted that part of the reason they separated was that he had what she called filthy habits.”

“Filthy habits?”

“Yes. Like what, I thought? What do you English regard as a filthy habit? Picking his nose in bed? But I couldn’t get her to say any more. She is very religious. She had a strict Dutch Protestant upbringing in a small town in Friesland. I’m sorry, Alan, but I couldn’t force her to talk if she did not want to.”

Banks sighed. “No, of course not. What happened next?”

“I talked to some of my colleagues on drugs and vice, but they don’t know him. Mostly they’re new. You don’t last that long working on drugs and vice, and Harkness has been gone, how long did you say, two years?”

“Something like that,” said Banks.

“So I had an idea,” Piet went on. “I went to see Wim Kaspar. Now Wim is a strange man. Nobody really knows how far it all went, but he was, how do you English say, made to leave work early?”

“Fired?”

“No. I know that word. Not exactly fired.”

“Made redundant?”

Piet laughed. “Yes, that’s it. Such an odd phrase. Well, there was something of a cloud over Wim, you see. Nobody could prove anything, but it was suspected he took bribes and that he was involved with the drugs and girls in the Red Light district. But Wim worked many years in the Red Light district, ever since patrolman, and he knows more than anybody else what goes on there. And I don’t care what people say — maybe it is true — but he is a good man in many ways. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Banks, remembering now that Piet was a nice bloke but took ages getting to the bloody point.

“Wim heard and saw many things that went no further. It’s give and take in that world. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Especially if what they say about him is true. So I talked to him and he remembers something. Now you must understand, Alan, that there is no proof of this. It’s just rumours. And Wim will never repeat officially what he told me.”

“Tell me, Piet.”

“According to Wim’s contacts, your Mr Harkness visited the Red Light district on several occasions.”

“Piet, who doesn’t visit the Red Light district? It’s one of your main tourist attractions.”

“No, wait. There’s more. There are some places, very bad places. Not just the pretty women in the windows, you understand?”

“Yes?”

“And Wim told me that your Mr Harkness visited one of these places.”

“How did your source know who he was?”

“Alan, you must remember Mr Harkness is well known in Amsterdam, and not without influence. Do you want me to go on?”

“Yes, please.”

“It was a very bad place,” Piet continued. “You understand prostitution is not illegal here, that there are many brothels?”

“Yes.”

“And the live sex shows and the whips and chains and all the rest. But this one brothel, Wim says, was a very special place. A place that caters for people who like little girls.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“It happens, Alan. What can I say? Girls disappear from the big cities, they turn up in these places. Sometimes they are used for snuff films. You know what they are?”

“I know. Why wasn’t he arrested?”

“Sometimes it is better to leave the little fish. Also, Harkness was an important man and, how shall I say, perhaps pressure could be brought to bear. He could have been useful.”

Banks sighed. He knew the scenario. Get something on a man like Harkness and you’ve got him in your pocket: the police version of blackmail.

“Alan, in Amsterdam, just as, I suspect, in your London, you can get anything you want if you have the money to pay for it. Anything. If we can find these places and find evidence, we close them down and arrest the people responsible. But these men are very clever. And sometimes policemen can be bought, protection can be paid. Or blackmailed. We all have skeletons in our closets. Alan? Are you still there?”

“Yes. Yes, Piet, I know. I was thinking. Listen, I’d like you to do me a big favour. I assume places like this are still in existence?”

“There is one place now we are suspicious of. On the surface, it seems like an ordinary brothel, but rumour has it that young girls can be had there, for a price. Our undercover men are watching, but we have no proof yet.”

“I’d like you to find out if there are any new girls.” He gave Piet Gemma’s description, praying he was wrong. At least it meant she might still be alive, if Harkness kept his connections in Amsterdam. He still couldn’t work out the whys and the wherefores, how everything linked up, but he knew it would not have been so difficult for Harkness or someone else to smuggle Gemma out of the country, even during the search. The ferry from Immingham, for example, was always crowded; it would be easy enough to slip in among the other families with a sleeping child on the overnight journey, when everyone was tired. “I don’t care whether you get enough proof to lock them up or not. Rumours will do fine for me. Use your contacts, informers. Maybe even your friend Wim might be able to help?”

“Yes,” said Piet slowly. “I understand. I’ll try. What more can I say?”

“And Piet.”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. You did a great job.” Then Banks slammed down the receiver and rushed to find Gristhorpe.

III

It was about time the place had a good cleaning, Brenda thought, wielding the Hoover like a lawnmower. She knew she wasn’t good at housekeeping, but now she had so much time on her hands and nothing but bad thoughts and terrifying dreams, she had to do something or she would fall apart. The ground-in dirt and the food stains wouldn’t come out, of course, they would need shampooing, but the dust would. At least it was a start.

The vacuum was so noisy that she didn’t hear the bell. It was only the steady thumping on her door that broke through. She turned off the machine and listened again. Another knock. For a moment she just stood there, worried it might be Les. She wasn’t frightened of him — she knew he was a coward at heart — but she didn’t feel like another public row and she was damned if she was going to let him in. On the other hand, it might be the police with news of Gemma. She glanced out of the window but couldn’t see a police car. That didn’t matter, she realized. The plain-clothes men drove ordinary cars.

She sighed and stood the Hoover in the corner. Well, if it was Les, she’d just have to tell him to stay away and call the police if he insisted on pestering her. The blurred figure through the frosted glass wasn’t Les, that was for certain, but she couldn’t tell who it was until she opened the door and saw Lenora Carlyle standing there with her long black hair and penetrating eyes. She didn’t want to let Lenora in. Somehow, she thought, that entire episode had been a weakness, a mistake. She had been grasping at straws. And look what she was left with: nothing but a video of herself, which was already beginning to feel like an embarrassment. But she stood aside politely. Lenora hung up her coat and followed her into the front room.

“Tea?” said Brenda, feeling like a cup herself.

“Yes, please, dear, if it’s no trouble.” Lenora sat on the sofa and brushed down her skirt. “Been cleaning, I see.”

“Yes.” Brenda shrugged and went to make the tea. When it was ready, she brought it in on a tray and poured, then lit a cigarette.

“I sense there’s been some great change,” Lenora said, frowning with concentration. “Some sort of upheaval.”

“If you mean I chucked Les out, I suppose you’re right.”

Lenora looked disappointed at such a prosaic explanation. “Any news?”

Brenda shook her head.

“Well, that’s why I’m here, really. You remember what I said before?”

“That Gemma’s still alive?”

“That’s right.” Her eyes glittered. “More than ever I’m convinced of it, Brenda.”

“I don’t think so.” Brenda shook her head. “Not after all this time.”

“But you must have faith. She’s frightened and weak. But she’s alive, Brenda.”

“Don’t.”

“You must listen.” Lenora put her mug down and leaned forward, clasping her hands. “I saw animals. Jungle animals, Brenda. Lions, tigers, leopards. They’re connected with Gemma somehow.”

“What are you saying? She’s been taken to Africa or something?”

Lenora flopped back on the sofa. “I don’t know. The message is very weak. That’s all I see. Gemma and animals.”

“Look, I really don’t—”

“They’re not harming her, Brenda.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“But you must believe!”

“Why must I believe? What good has it done me?”

“Don’t you want to see your Gemma again?”

Brenda stood up. “Of course I want to see Gemma again. But I can’t. She’s dead. Can’t you understand? She’s dead. She must be. If she’s not dead by now she must be suffering so much. It’s best that she’s dead.” The tears and grief she had felt welling up for so long were breaking the dam.

“We must cling to the gift of life, Brenda.”

“No. I don’t want to listen to this. You’re frightening me. Go away. Leave me alone.”

“But Brenda, I—”

“Go on.” Brenda pointed at the door, tears burning her eyes. “Go away. Get out!”

Lenora shook her head slowly, then, shoulders slumped, she got up and left the room. When Brenda heard the door close, she sank back into her chair. She was shaking now and tears burned down her cheeks. Dammit, why wouldn’t they all leave her alone? And why couldn’t she know for sure? Every day that Gemma stayed missing was more like hell. Why couldn’t they find her body, then Brenda could get her grieving done with, organize the funeral, move on. But no. Just day after day of misery. And it was all her fault, all Brenda’s fault for not loving her daughter enough, for losing control and shaking her so much she was terrified what she might do the next time.

She stared at the large TV screen and saw her own reflection distorted through her tears. She remembered the interview she had watched over and over again. Vanity. Madness. It had all been madness. In a sudden burst of rage, she drew back her arm and flung her mug as hard as she could at the screen.

IV

Just a few hours ago the wind had been cool, and there had been only enough blue sky to make baby a new bonnet. Now, as Banks and Susan drove to Harkness’s, the wind had dropped, the sun had come out and the afternoon had turned out fine. Gristhorpe had been out when Banks went to find him, so he had left a message and found Susan, who happened to be in the corridor at the time.

Enjoying probably the last fine weekend of the season, families sat out on the green at Fortford eating picnics, even though it wasn’t particularly warm and the grass must still be damp. Banks turned right on the Lyndgarth road, and as they approached the bridge, they saw even more people ambling along The Leas or sitting on the riverbank fishing.

Banks drove in silence, tense and angry over the forthcoming confrontation. They turned in the drive just before the old pack-horse bridge, and the car flung up gravel as they stopped. They had no evidence, he reminded himself, only supposition, and everything depended on bluffing and scaring Harkness into blabbing. It wouldn’t be easy; it never was with those so used to having things their own way. Piet’s information wasn’t anywhere near enough to get him in court. But Harkness had known Johnson, and Johnson had known Chivers. Jenny said the paedophile was likely to be over forty, lived alone, and probably knew Gemma. Well, Harkness hadn’t known Gemma, but he could have heard of her through Johnson and Chivers. It made sense.

After the conversation, Banks had checked the time and, finding they were only two hours ahead, tried the South African police again. They still had nothing to report, and he got the impression they were dragging their feet. He could only speculate on the nature of the crime there, and on the depth of the cover-up. He had tried Linda Fish from the Writers’ Circle again, too, but she had heard no more from her writer friend. He had felt too edgy simply to wait around for more information to come in.

Harkness answered the door at the first ring. He seemed nervous to see them, Banks thought, fidgety and too talkative as he led them this time into the living-room and bade them sit.

“Have you found out who killed Carl?”

“We’re looking for a man called Jeremy Chivers,” Banks said. “Someone Johnson knew. Did he ever mention the name?”

“Let’s not go through all that again.” Harkness walked over to the mantelpiece. “Who is this Chivers?”

“A suspect.”

“So why have you come to pester me again?”

Banks scratched the little scar by his right eye. It wasn’t always reliable, but it did have a tendency to itch in warning when he hadn’t quite realized that something was wrong. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr Harkness. I’ve just had a chat with a friend of mine on the Amsterdam police, and he told me some very odd things.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You lived there for some time, didn’t you?”

“Yes, you know I did. But I can assure you I never came into contact with the police.”

“Clever there, sir, weren’t you?” said Susan suddenly.

Harkness looked from one to the other, reddening. “Look, what is this?” he said. “You can’t just come in here—”

Banks waved him to silence, ready to make his accusation. But just before he opened his mouth to speak, he paused. Something was definitely bothering him. Even now, he didn’t know what it was: tension in the air, a feeling of déjà vu, or that little shiver when someone steps on your grave. It would come. He went on, “Everyone knows you can get anything you want in Amsterdam. If you know where to go. If you can pay for it.”

“So what? It’s hardly different from any other city in that way, I should think.” Harkness paced, hands in his pockets.

“True,” said Banks, “though it does have something of a reputation for sex in various forms, straight and other.”

“What are you suggesting? Get to the point.”

“That’s just it. We have information leading us to believe that you frequented a brothel. A very special kind of brothel. One that made young children available to its customers.”

“What! This is monstrous. I’ve already told you the Assistant Chief Commissioner is a good friend of mine, the Commissioner, too. If you don’t take back your slanderous allegations, I’ll make sure you’re out of the force before bedtime tonight. Damn it, I think I’ll do it anyway.”

“I don’t think so,” said Banks. “The Commissioner is particularly upset about this case. He has grandchildren the same age as Gemma Scupham, so I don’t think the fact that you belong to the same golf club will cut a lot of ice with him, sir.”

“But this is preposterous! You can’t possibly be suggesting that I had anything to do with that?”

“Well, I—” Banks stopped, suddenly aware of what was bothering him. He shot Susan a quick glance and stood up. Looking puzzled, she followed suit. “Probably not,” he said, “but I had to find out. I’m sorry, Mr Harkness. I just wanted to test your reaction to the allegations.”

“You’ve got a damned nasty way of going about your business, Banks. I most certainly will be talking to your superior.”

“As you wish.” Banks followed Susan to the door. “But please understand, we have to follow every lead, however incredible, however distasteful. I’m very sorry to have bothered you, sir. I think I can safely say we won’t be troubling you again.”

“Well…” Harkness looked confused. He opened his mouth as if to complain more, then seemed to think better of it, realizing they were leaving, and stood there gulping like a fish. “I should damn well think so,” he muttered finally. “And don’t think I don’t mean it about talking to the Commissioner.”

“What is it?” Susan asked as they drove back onto the road. “Sir? Why did you do that?”

Banks said nothing. When they were out of sight of the house, about half a mile down the road, hidden by the roadside trees, he pulled into a lay-by.

“What is it?” Susan asked again. “I picked up signal to get out, but why? You were rattling him. We could have had him.”

“This is the third time I’ve visited Harkness,” Banks said slowly, hands still gripping the wheel. “Both times before the place has been a bit of a mess — dusty, untidy, a typical bachelor dwelling.”

“So?” said Susan. “He’s had the cleaning lady in.”

“I don’t think so. He said he didn’t employ one. Notice how clean the surfaces were, and that silver goblet on the coffee-table?”

“Yes. Polished so you could see your face.”

“You weren’t there,” Banks said, “but it’s the same polish smell as in the Weymouth hotel room, something with a strong scent of pine.”

“You can’t be thinking… surely?”

Banks nodded. “That’s just what I am thinking, Susan. We’ve got to radio for help.” He gestured with his thumb back towards the house. “I think Chivers is in there somewhere, and he’s armed.”