Wednesday's Child

I

To the casual observer, nothing unusual occurred around The Leas and Devraulx Abbey that fine Sunday afternoon in late September. If one fisherman approached another, had a chat, then replaced him at the riverbank, or if a picnicking family, shortly after having a few words with a passing rambler complete with rucksack and stick, decided to pack up and leave because the wasps were bothering them, then what of it? The Abbey closed early, and there were a few more cars on the road than usual, but then, it was such a surprisingly beautiful afternoon that everyone wanted to enjoy a bit of it before the rain and wind returned.

Still in the same position, about half a mile down the road, out of sight of the Harkness house, Banks and Susan waited. Birds called, insects hummed, a light breeze hissed through the trees. At last, another car joined them, and Superintendent Gristhorpe got out, along with DS Richmond, and strode purposefully over to Banks’s Cortina. There wasn’t much to say; everything had been taken care of on the radio. The replacement fishermen were policemen in plain clothes; the picnicking families had all been cleared from the area, and a tight circle had been drawn around Harkness’s house and grounds.

“If he’s in there,” Gristhorpe said. “He won’t get away. Alan, let’s you and I go back to the house, say we have a few more questions. Let’s see if we can’t defuse this mess before it blows up.”

“But sir,” said Susan. “I think I should go, too.”

“No,” said Gristhorpe. “Stay here with Phil.”

“But—”

“Look. I’m not doubting your competence, Susan. But what we need here is experience. Alan?”

“I agree,” said Banks.

Gristhorpe took a.38 Smith and Wesson from his pocket and handed it to Banks, who automatically checked it, though he knew Gristhorpe would have already done so. Susan’s lips drew tight and Banks could feel the waves of humiliation flowing from her. He knew why — she had potential, but she was young, inexperienced, and she had made mistakes before — and he agreed completely with the superintendent’s judgment. There was no room for error in dealing with someone like Chivers.

“Ready?” said Gristhorpe.

Banks nodded and joined him in the unmarked Rover, leaving Susan to fume and Richmond to console her in Banks’s own Cortina.

“How do you read it?” Gristhorpe asked, as Banks drove slowly back towards the pack-horse bridge.

“Harkness is nervous, and I think he’s shit-scared, too. And it’s not just because of what I think he’s done to Gemma Scupham. If I had to guess, I’d say Chivers is either in the house somewhere, or he’s been there and he’s hiding out nearby. And Harkness isn’t harbouring him out of the kindness of his heart. He’s damn close to being held hostage. There’s nothing he can do, though, without incriminating himself.”

“All right,” said Gristhorpe. “Let me do the talking. Keep your eyes peeled. We’ll try and get Harkness out of there if we can.”

Banks nodded, turned into the driveway and crunched over the gravel. He felt a claw tighten at the pit of his stomach; the gun hung heavy in his pocket.

They rang the doorbell. Harkness flung the door open and growled, “You again? What the bloody hell do you want this time?”

Gristhorpe introduced himself. “I think it might be best if we did this at the station,” he said to Harkness.

“Am I under arrest? You can’t be serious. This is nothing but a tissue of unsubstantiated lies.”

He was sweating.

“I think it would be best, sir,” said Gristhorpe. “Of course, you have the right to consult your solicitor.”

“I’ll sue the both of you for wrongful arrest. I’ll have you off the force. I’ll—”

Banks thought he noticed a flash of movement behind Harkness on the staircase, but it was hard to see into the house clearly. What followed next was so sudden and so unexpected, he realized in retrospect that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

They heard a sound like a dull pop and Harkness’s eyes seemed to fill with blood. His forehead opened like a rose in time-lapse photography. Both Banks and Gristhorpe flung themselves out of the way by instinct. As Banks flattened himself against the wall of the house, he became aware of the blood and tissue on his face and chest. Harkness’s. He wanted to be sick.

Time seemed to hang like over-ripe fruit ready to fall at any moment. Harkness lay half in and half out the door, only a small hole showing in the back of his closely cropped skull and a pool of dark blood thickening under his face around his head. Gristhorpe stood back, flat against the wall on one side of the door, Banks on the other. From inside, they heard nothing but silence. Then, it could have been minutes or just seconds after the shooting, they heard a crash from the far side of the house, followed by a curse and the sound of someone running.

They glanced quickly at one another, then Gristhorpe nodded and swung himself into the doorway first, gun sweeping the hall and stairwell. Nothing. Banks followed, adopting the stance he had learned in training: gun extended in one hand, other hand gripping the wrist. They got to the front room and found no one. But there, beyond the french windows, one of which had been smashed by a careless elbow as he dashed by, they saw Chivers running down the lawn towards the riverbank.

“Get on the radio, Alan,” said Gristhorpe. “Tell them to close in. And tell them to be bloody careful. Get an ambulance here, too.”

Banks dashed to the car and gave the message to the plain-clothes watchers, all of whom carried police radios in their fishing boxes or picnic hampers. After he had radioed headquarters for an ambulance, he hurried through the house after Gristhorpe and Chivers.

Chivers was in the garden, heading for the river. As he ran, he turned around and fired several times. A window shattered, slate chips showered from the roof, then Gristhorpe went down. Banks took cover behind the copper beech and looked back at the superintendent’s body sprawled on the lawn. He wanted to go to him, but he couldn’t break cover. Carefully, he edged around the tree trunk and looked for Chivers.

There weren’t many places Chivers could go. Fences and thick hedges blocked off the riverbank to the east and west, enclosing Harkness’s property, and ahead lay the water. With a quick glance right and left and a wild shot, Chivers charged into the water. Soon it was up to his hips, then his waist. He aimed towards the tree and fired again. The bullet thudded into the bark. When Banks looked around the trunk again, he saw the other police in a line across the river, all with guns, closing fast. Gristhorpe must have commandeered the whole bloody dale, he thought. Glancing back towards the house, he saw Susan Gay and Phil Richmond framed by the french window staring at Gristhorpe. He waved to them to take cover.

Chivers stopped when the water came up to his armpits and fired again, but the hammer fell with an empty click. He tried a few more times, but it was empty. Banks shouted for Richmond and Susan to see to the superintendent, then he walked down the slope.

“Come on,” he said. “Look around you. It’s over.”

Chivers looked and saw the men lining the opposite bank. They were in range now. He looked again at Banks. Then he shrugged, tossed the gun in the water, and smiled.

II

Everything had been done by the book; Banks saw to that. Thus, when they finally got to talk to Chivers, the custody record had been opened; he had been offered the right to legal advice, which he had repeatedly refused; offered the chance to inform a friend or relative of his arrest, at which he had laughed; and even offered a cup of tea, which he had accepted. The desk sergeant had managed to rustle up a disposable white boiler suit to replace his wet clothes, as according to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, “a person may not be interviewed unless adequate clothing has been offered to him.” And the interview room they sat in, while not especially large, was at least “adequately heated, lit and ventilated” according to the letter of the law. If questioning went on for a long time, Chivers would be brought meals and allowed periods of rest.

In addition, Jenny Fuller had turned up at the station and asked if she could be present during the questioning. It was an unusual request, and at first Banks refused. Jenny persisted, claiming her presence might even help, as Chivers seemed to like to show off to women. Finally, Banks asked Chivers’s permission, which galled him, and Chivers said, “The more the merrier.”

Back at Harkness’s house, Banks knew, the SOCO team would be collecting evidence, Glendenning poring over Harkness’s body, a group of constables digging up the garden that Carl Johnson had so lovingly tended, and police frogmen searching the river.

Sometimes, thought Banks, the creaking machinery of the law was a welcome prophylactic on his desire to reach out and throttle someone. Hampered as he had often felt by the Act, today, ironically enough, he was glad of it as he sat across the table looking at the man who had murdered at least three people, wounded Superintendent Gristhorpe and abducted Gemma Scupham.

As he looked, he certainly felt the impulse to kill Chivers, simply to swat him as one would a troublesome wasp. But it wasn’t an impulse he was proud of. All his life, both in spite of and because of his job, Banks had tried to cultivate his own version of compassion. If crime really was part of what made us human, he thought, then it merited deep study. If we simply kill off the pests that bother us, we make no progress at all. He knew that he could, in some strange way, learn from Chivers. It was a knowledge he might deeply wish to reject, but spiritual and intellectual cowardice had never been among his failings.

Banks sat opposite Chivers, Richmond stood behind him, by the door, and Jenny sat by the window, diagonally across from him.

Close up, the monster didn’t look like much at all, Banks noted. About Banks’s height, and with the same kind of lean, wiry strength, he sat erect, hands placed palms down on the table in front of him, their backs covered with ginger down. His skin was pale, his hair an undistinguished shade of sandy brown, and his general look could only be described as boyish — the kind of boy who pulled pranks and was amused to see their effects on the victims.

If there was anything outstanding about him at all, it was his eyes. They were the kind of green the sea looks sometimes, and when he wasn’t smiling they looked just as cold, as deep and as unpredictable as the ocean itself. When he did smile, though, they lit up with such a bright, honest light you felt you could trust him with anything. At least, it was almost like that, Banks thought, if it weren’t for that glint of madness in them; not quite insanity, but close enough to the edge. Not everyone would notice, but then not everyone was looking at him as a murderer.

Banks turned on the tape-recorder, repeated the caution and reminded Chivers of his rights. “Before we get onto the other charges against you,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Gemma Scupham.”

“Why not?” said Chivers. “It was just a lark really.” His voice, a little more whiny and high-pitched than Banks had expected, bore no trace of regional accent; it was as bland and characterless as a BBC 2 announcer’s.

“Whose idea was it?”

“Mr Harkness wanted a companion.”

“How did he get in touch with you?”

“Through Carl Johnson. We’d known each other for a while. Carl was… well, between you and me he wasn’t too bright. Like that other chap, what’s his name?”

“Poole?”

“That’s right. Small-time, the two of them. Low-lifes.”

“How did you first meet Harkness?”

“Look, does any of this really matter? It’s very dull stuff for me, you know.” He shifted in his chair, and Banks noticed him look over at Jenny.

“Humour us.”

Chivers sighed. “Oh, very well. Harkness knew Carl was a gutless oaf, of course, but he had contacts. Harkness needed someone taken care of a couple of months ago.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Someone had been stealing from him in the London office, apparently, and Harkness wanted him taught a lesson. Carl got in touch with me.”

“What happened?”

“I did the job, of course. Harkness paid well. I got an inkling from our little chats that this was a man with unusual tastes and plenty of money. I thought a nice little holiday in Yorkshire might turn out fruitful.” He smiled.

“And did it?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

“Please. A gentleman never discusses money.”

“How much?”

Chivers shrugged. “I asked for twenty thousand pounds. We compromised on seventeen-fifty.”

“So you abducted Gemma Scupham just for money?”

“No, no. Of course not. Not just for the money.” Chivers leaned forward. “You don’t understand, do you? It sounded like fun, too. It had to be interesting.”

“So you’d heard about Gemma through Les Poole and thought she would be the perfect candidate?”

“Oh, the fool was always moaning about her. Her mother sounded as thick as two short planks, and she clearly didn’t care much about the child anyway. They didn’t want her. Harkness did. It’s a buyer’s market. It was almost too easy. We picked her up, drove around for a while just to be on the safe side, then dropped her off at Harkness’s after dark and returned the car.” He smiled. “You should have seen his face light up. It was love at first sight.”

“Did either Johnson or Poole know about this?”

“I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t have trusted either of them.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Nothing. It was the perfect crime,” Chivers mused. “But Carl got foolish and greedy. Otherwise you’d never have gone anywhere near Harkness.”

“But we did.”

“Yes. Carl suspected something. Maybe he actually saw the child, I don’t know. Or perhaps he caught Harkness drooling over his kiddie porn and put two and two together. That surprised me, that did. I never thought him capable of that. Putting two and two together and coming up with the right answer. I must admit I underestimated him.”

“What happened?”

Chivers made a steeple with his hands and his eyes glazed over. He seemed lost in his own world. Banks repeated the question. Chivers seemed to come back from a great distance.

“What? Oh.” He gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “He tried to put the touch on Harkness. Harkness got worried and called me again. I said I’d take care of it.”

“For a fee?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t say I’m in it for the money, but I need a fair bit to keep me in the style to which I’m accustomed. Harkness arranged to meet him at the old lead mine to pay him off and Chelsea and I gave him a lift there. Poor bastard, he never suspected a thing.”

“Chelsea?”

He stared at a spot above Banks’s left shoulder. “Yes. Silly name, isn’t it? Fancy naming someone after a flower show, or a bun. Poor Chelsea. She just couldn’t quite understand.”

“Understand what?”

“The beauty of it all.” Chivers’s eyes turned suddenly back on Jenny. They looked like a dark green whirlpool, Banks thought, with blackness at its centre, evil with a sense of humour. “She liked it at the time, you know, the thrill. And she never liked poor Carl anyway. She said he was always undressing her with his eyes. You should have seen the look in her eyes when I killed him. She was standing right next to me and I could smell her sex. Needless to say, we had a lot of fun later that night. But she got jittery, read the newspapers, began to wonder, asked too many questions… As I said, she didn’t fully comprehend the beauty of it all.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

He turned his eyes slowly back to Banks. “Yes. That was the last straw. It turned her all weepy, the sentimental fool. I had to kill her then.”

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t want another one like me in this universe, would we?” He winked. “Besides, it was what she wanted. I have a knack of knowing what people really want.”

“What did she want?”

“Death, of course. She enjoyed it. I know. I was there. It was glorious, the way she thrust and struggled.” He looked over at Jenny again. “You understand, don’t you?”

“And Harkness?” Banks said.

“Oh, it was very easy to see into his dirty soul. Little children. Little kiddies. He’d had it easy before. South Africa, Amsterdam. He found it a bit difficult here. He was getting desperate, that’s all. It’s simply a matter of knowing the right people.”

Banks noticed that Chivers had dampened a part of his cuff and was rubbing at an old coffee ring on the desk. “What happened to Gemma?” he asked.

He shrugged. “No idea. I completed my side of the bargain. I suppose when the old pervert had finished with her he probably killed her and buried the body under the petunia patch or something. Isn’t that what they do? Or maybe he sold her, tried to recoup what he’d spent. There’s plenty in the market for that kind of thing, you know.”

“What about the clothing we found?”

“You want me to do your job for you? I don’t know. I suppose as soon as things got too hot for him he wanted to put you off the scent. Does that sound about right?”

“Why did you come back to Eastvale? You could probably have got away, you know.”

Chivers’s eyes dulled. “Fatal flaw, I suppose. I can’t bear to miss anything. Besides, you only caught me because I wanted you to, you know. I’ve never been on trial, never been in jail. It might be interesting. And, remember, I’m not there yet.” He shot Jenny a quick smile and began to rub harder at the coffee stain, still making no impression. He was clearly uncomfortable in the boiler suit they had found for him, too, scratching now and then where the rough material made his skin itch.

Banks walked over to the door and opened it to the two uniformed officers who stood outside and nodded for them to take Chivers down to the holding cells for the time being.

Chivers sat at the desk staring down at the stain he was rubbing and rubbing. Finally, he gave up and banged the table once, hard, with his fist.

III

Banks stood by his office window with the light off and looked down on the darkening market square again, a cigarette between his fingers. Like Phil and Jenny, he had felt as if he needed a long, hot bath after watching and listening to Chivers. It was odd how they had drifted away to try to scrub themselves free of the dirt: Jenny, pale and quiet, had gone home; Richmond had gone to the computer room. They all recognized one another’s need for a little solitude, despite the work that remained.

Little people like Les Poole and others Banks had met in Eastvale sometimes made him despair of human intelligence; someone like Chivers made him wonder seriously about the human soul. Not that Banks was a religious man, but as he looked at the Norman church with its low square tower and the arched door with its carvings of the saints, he burned with unanswered questions.

They could wait, though. The hospital had called to tell him that Gristhorpe had a flesh wound in his thigh and was already proving to be a difficult patient. The SOCOs had called several times from The Leas area; no luck so far in finding Gemma’s body, and it was getting dark. The frogmen had packed up and gone home. They had found Chivers’s gun easily enough, but no trace of Gemma. They would be back tomorrow, though they didn’t hold out much hope. The garden was in ruins, but so far the men had uncovered nothing but stones and roots.

Harkness’s body lay in the mortuary now, and if anyone had to make him look presentable for the funeral, good luck to them. Banks shuddered at the memory. He had washed and washed his face, but he could still smell the blood, or so he thought. And he had tossed away his jacket and shirt, knowing he could never wear them again, and changed into the spares he always kept at the station.

And he thought of Chelsea. So that was her name, the poor twisted shape on the hotel bed in Weymouth. Why had she been so drawn to a monster like Chivers? Can’t people see evil when it’s staring them right in the face? Maybe not until it’s too late, he thought. And the baby. Chivers knew his own evil, revelled in it. Chelsea. Who was she? Where did she come from? Who were her parents and what were they like? Bit by bit, he would find out.

He had been alone with his thoughts for about an hour, watching dusk fall slowly on the cobbled square and the people dribble into the church for the evening service. The glow from the coloured-glass windows of the Queen’s Arms looked welcoming on the opposite corner. God, he could do with a drink to take the taste of blood out of his mouth, out of his soul.

The harsh ring of the telephone broke the silence. He picked it up and heard Gristhorpe say, “The buggers wouldn’t let me out to question Chivers. Have you done it? Did it go all right?”

Banks smiled to himself and assured Gristhorpe that all was well.

“Come and see me, Alan. There’s a couple of things I want to talk about.”

Banks put on his coat and drove over to Eastvale General. He hated hospitals, the smell of disinfectant, the starched uniforms, the pale shadows with clear fluid dripping into them from plastic bags being pushed on trolleys down gloomy hallways. But Gristhorpe had a pleasant enough private room. Already, someone had sent flowers and Banks felt suddenly guilty that he had come empty-handed.

Gristhorpe looked a little pale and weak, mostly from shock and blood loss, but apart from that he seemed in fine enough fettle.

“Harkness never expected any trouble from the police over Gemma’s abduction, did he?” he asked.

“No,” said Banks. “As Chivers told us, why should he? It was almost the perfect crime. He’d managed to keep a very low profile in the area. Nobody knew how sick his tastes really were.”

“Aye, but everything changed, didn’t it, after Johnson’s murder?”

“Yes.”

“And you were a bit hard on Harkness, given that chip on your shoulder, weren’t you?”

“I suppose so. What are you getting at?”

Gristhorpe tried to sit up in bed and grimaced. “So much so that he might think we’d get onto him?” he said.

“Probably.” Banks rearranged the pillows. “I think he felt quite certain I’d be back.” The superintendent was wearing striped pyjamas, he noticed.

“And he claimed harassment and threatened to call the Commissioner and probably the Prime Minister for all I know.”

“Yes.” Banks looked puzzled. What was Gristhorpe getting at? It wasn’t like him to beat about the bush. Had delirium set in?

“Let’s assume that Chivers is telling the truth,” Gristhorpe went on, “and he delivered Gemma to Harkness on Tuesday evening and killed Johnson on Thursday evening. Now Harkness could have spirited Gemma out of the house, say to Amsterdam, before Johnson’s murder, but why should he? And if he hadn’t done it by then, he’d probably be too nervous to make such a move later.”

“I suppose he would,” Banks admitted. “And he could have taken her clothes up to the moors to put us off the scent on Thursday evening or Friday, whenever Chivers told him Johnson was dead and came to collect his fee. Harkness must have known we’d visit him then, given his connection with Johnson. But he could have buried her anywhere. It’s a very isolated house, and pretty well sheltered by trees. I mean, even someone passing by on the road wouldn’t notice him burying a body in the garden, would they?”

“But our men have found nothing so far.”

“You know it can take time. It’s a big garden. If she’s there, they’ll find her. Then there’s the river.”

“If she’s there.”

Banks watched the blood drip slowly into Gristhorpe’s veins. “What do you mean?”

“This.” Gristhorpe rolled over carefully and took something out of his bedside cabinet. “I got one of the lads to tag it as evidence and bring it here to me.”

Banks stared at the polished silver. “The goblet?”

“Yes. It’s a chalice actually, sixteenth-century, I think. Remember when Phil and Susan took me into Harkness’s living-room and laid me on the couch till the ambulance came? That’s when I noticed it. I could hardly miss it, it was right at eye-level.”

“I still don’t see what that’s got to do with Gemma,” said Banks, who was beginning to worry that Gristhorpe was more seriously injured than he let on.

“Don’t you?” Gristhorpe passed him the chalice. “See those markings?”

Banks examined it. “Yes.”

“It’s the banner of the Pilgrimage of Grace. See where it shows the five wounds of Christ? I’ll explain it, then you can go see if I’m right.”

Puzzled, Banks crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.

IV

It was late twilight as Banks drove: the time of evening when the greens of the hillsides and the grey of the limestone houses and walls are all just shades of darkness. But the river seemed to glow with a light of its own, hoarded from the day, as it snaked through the wooded river meadows known as The Leas.

As he drove, Banks remembered Gristhorpe’s words: “In Yorkshire history, The Pilgrimage of Grace started as a religious uprising against Henry VIII, sparked by the closing of the monasteries in 1536. Harkness’s house was built later, so this chalice would probably be a precious family heirloom and a powerful symbol to whoever owned it. In the seventeenth century, it was often dangerous to be a Roman Catholic in this part of the country, but they persisted. They didn’t take unnecessary risks, though. So while they would invite some wandering incognito priest around to perform mass or take confession in their houses, they knew they might hear the soldiers hammering on the door at any moment, so they built priest holes, cavities in the walls where the priests could hide. Some were even more elaborate than that. They led to underground passages and escape routes.

“I grew up in Lyndgarth, just up the hill from Harkness’s,” Gristhorpe had continued, “and when we were kids there were always rumours about the old De Montfort house, as it was called then. We thought it was haunted, riddled with secret passages. You know how kids dream. We never went inside, of course, but we made up stories about it. I’d forgotten all about it until we went there tonight — and I must admit things happened quickly enough to put it right out of my mind again. Until I saw this chalice. It started me thinking. The date’s right, the history, so it’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

Banks had agreed. He turned into the drive and stopped at the police tape. The man on duty came forward, and when he recognized Banks he let him through.

Banks nodded greetings as he passed the SOCO team at work in the garden, receiving shakes of the head to indicate that nothing new had been discovered. The grounds looked like a film set, with the bright arc-lights casting shadows of men digging, and it was loud with the sound of drills, the humming of the generator van and instructions shouted above the noise. Inside the house, men examined the corners of carpets and settees, sticking on pieces of Sellotape and lifting off fibres, or running over areas with compact hand-vacuums.

First, Banks checked the kitchen, behind the fridge and cooker, then the dining-room, getting help to move out the huge antique cabinet that held cutlery and crystal glasses. Nothing.

The library yielded nothing either, so he went next to the living-room, where he had first noticed the grimy, tarnished chalice on the coffee-table. It was partly seeing it again and noticing how clean it was that had first made him uneasy earlier that day, on his visit with Susan.

The bookcase opposite the fireplace looked promising, and Banks started pulling out the old National Geographics, looking for some kind of lever or button to press, and feeling, as he did so, more than a little foolish. It was like something out of Edgar Allan Poe, he thought.

Then he found it: a brass bolt sunk perfectly in the wood at the back of the central shelf, on the left. It slid back smoothly, as if recently oiled, and the whole bookcase swung away from the wall on hinges, just like a door. Before him loomed a dark opening with a flight of worn stone steps leading down.

Banks called for a torch, and when he had one, he stepped into the opening. On a hook to his left hung two keys on a ring. He plucked them off as he went by.

At the bottom of the stairs, a rough, dank passage led on, probably far away from the house to provide an escape for the itinerant priest. Banks shone his torch ahead and noticed that the passage was blocked by rubble after a few yards. But the two heavy wooden doors, one on either side of the passage, looked more interesting. Banks went to the one on his right and tried to open it. It was locked. Holding his breath, heart pounding, he tried the keys. The second one worked.

The hinges creaked a little as he slowly pushed the door open. Groping in the dark, he found a light switch, and a bare bulb came on, revealing a small, square room with whitewashed walls. At the centre of the room stood a leather armchair, the kind with a footrest that slides out as you sit in it, and in front of that stood a television set attached to a video. Banks doubted that priest holes had electricity, so Harkness must have gone to all the trouble of wiring his private den himself. In a rack beside the chair, Banks found a range of pornographic magazines, all of them featuring children being subjected to disgusting and degrading acts. In the cabinet under the video were a number of video cassettes of a similar nature.

Afraid of what he might find, Banks crossed the passage and fitted the other key in the lock. It opened easily. This time, he had no need to grope for a light switch. Beside the narrow bed stood a small orange-shaded table-lamp. Next to it sat a book of Thomas the Tank Engine stories and a bottle of pills. The walls were painted with the same whitewash as the other room, but a quilt decorated with stylized jungle animals — lions, tigers and leopards with friendly human expressions — covered the small, still shape on the bed.

It was Gemma Scupham, no doubt about it. From what Banks could see of her face between the dirty patches, it looked white, and she lay motionless on her back, her right arm raised above her head. The scar of a thin cut ran across the pale flesh of her inner arm.

Banks could sense no breath, no life. He bent over to look more closely. As he leaned over Gemma, he fancied he noticed one of her eyelids twitch. He froze. It happened again.

“My God,” he muttered to himself, and gazed down in awe as a tear formed and rolled out of the corner of Gemma’s eye, leaving a clean and shining path through the grime.