Wednesday's Child

I

As Banks drove west towards Fortford again, the low sun silhouetted the trees ahead. Some of them, stripped bare by Dutch elm disease, looked like skeletal hands clawing their way out of the earth. An evening haze hung over Fortford and softened the edges of the hills beyond the village. It muted the vibrant greens of the ryegrass on the lower dalesides and washed out the browns and greys of the upper pastures.

Banks drove into the village and passed the green, to his left, where a group of elderly locals sat gossiping and passing the time on a bench below the partially excavated Roman fort on the round hillock opposite. Smoke from their pipes drifted slowly on the hazy evening air.

It felt like a summer evening, Banks thought, and wondered just how long the fine weather would last; not long, if you believed the forecasters. Still, at least for now he could drive with his window down and enjoy the fresh air, except when it was permeated by the overripe tang of manure. Sometimes, though, a different smell would drift in, a garden bonfire, burning vegetation acrid on the air. He listened to Gurney’s “Preludes” and felt that the piano music possessed the same starkly beautiful quality as the songs, unmistakably Gurney, heart-rending in the way it snatched moments of order from chaos.

At the corner, by the whitewashed sixteenth-century pub, he turned right onto the Lyndgarth road. Way ahead, about halfway up the daleside, he could see Lyndgarth itself, limestone cottages clustered around a small green, and the stubby, square tower of St Mary’s. About half a mile north of the village, he could make out Gristhorpe’s old grey farmhouse. Just to the left of Lyndgarth, a little lower down the hillside, stood the dark ruin of Devraulx Abbey, partially hidden by trees, looking eerie and haunted in the smoky evening light.

Banks drove only as far as the small stone bridge over the River Swain and turned left into a gravelled drive. Sheltered on all sides but the water by poplars, “Leasholme” was an ideal, secluded spot for a reclusive millionaire to retire to. Banks had phoned Adam Harkness earlier and been invited that very evening. He doubted he would find out much from Carl Johnson’s employer, but he had to try.

He parked at the end of the drive beside Harkness’s Jaguar. The house itself was a mix of Elizabethan and seventeenth-century styles, built mostly of limestone, with grit-stone lintels and cornerstones and a flagged roof. It was, however, larger than most, and had clearly belonged to a wealthy landowner. Over the door, the date read 1617, but Banks guessed the original structure had been there earlier. The large garden had little to show but roses that time of year, but it looked well designed and cared for. Carl Johnson’s green fingers, no doubt.

Finally, irritated by the cloud of gnats that hung over him, Banks rang the bell.

Harkness opened the door a few moments later and beckoned him inside, then led him along a cavernous hallway into a room at the back of the house, which turned out to be the library. Bookcases, made of dark wood, covered three walls, flanking a heavy door in one and a stone hearth in another. A white wicker armchair faced the fourth wall, where french windows opened into the garden. The well-kept lawn sloped down to the riverbank, fringed with rushes, and just to the left, a large copper beech framed a view of the Leas, with Lyndgarth and Aldington Edge beyond, just obscuring Devraulx Abbey behind its thick foliage. The river possessed a magical quality in the fading light; slow-moving, mirror-like, it presented a perfect reflection of the reeds that grew by its banks.

“It is spectacular, isn’t it?” Harkness said. “It’s one of the reasons I bought the place. It’s much too big for me, of course. I don’t even use half the rooms.”

Banks had noticed the dust in the hall and a certain mustiness to the atmosphere. Even the library was untidy, with a large desk littered with papers, pens, rubber bands and a few books placed in small piles on the floor beneath the shelves.

“How long have you been here?” Banks asked.

“Two years. I still travel a fair bit. I’m not retired yet, you know, still got a lot of life in me. But I thought it was time I deserved to take things easy, put in a bit more golf.”

Harkness looked about fifty-five. He was Banks’s height, with silver hair and that brick-red, lined complexion peculiar to the Englishmen who have spent years in warmer climates. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and navy-blue trousers. The pot-belly and sagging breasts showed he wasn’t a man who took much exercise off the golf course.

“Drink?”

“A small Scotch, please,” Banks said.

“Sit down.” Harkness offered Banks the wicker chair and pulled a swivel chair for himself from behind the desk.

Banks sat. Music played softly in the background: the Radio Three Dvorak concert, by the sound of it. He glanced at the books on the shelves and, for some reason, got the impression they were more for show than use, bought by the yard. A full set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, some Book Club editions of Jane Austen and Dickens, a mail-order “Great Writers” series.

Harkness passed Banks the drink in a heavy crystal glass then joined him, carefully tugging up the creases of his trousers before he sat. “You didn’t tell me very much on the telephone,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Carl Johnson.”

Harkness shook his head slowly. “I still find it hard to believe such a thing could happen. We live in dangerous times.” His accent was an odd mix of South African and public-school English, his manner relaxed. A man used to being in charge, Banks guessed.

“Did you know much about Mr Johnson? About his life, his background?”

Harkness shook his head. “I rarely saw him. He would come and put in his hours whether I was here or not. That was our arrangement. I’m afraid I know nothing at all about his personal life.”

“Did you know he had a criminal record?”

Harkness raised an eyebrow and looked at Banks over the top of his glass. “I know he’d been in jail, if that’s what you mean.”

“How did you find out?”

“He told me when he came for the interview.” Harkness allowed a brief smile. “In fact, he told me that’s where he learned the job.”

“And that didn’t bother you?”

“The man had served his time. He was obviously honest enough to let me know about his past right from the start. Besides, I believe in giving everyone another chance. Everyone’s capable of change, given the right conditions. Carl was a good, hard worker. And he was always very open and honest in his dealings with me. Anyway, I’m not an easy man to defraud.”

“I thought you hardly ever talked to him.”

“We had to discuss his work occasionally.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“Five pounds an hour. I know that’s not very much for a skilled worker, but he seemed grateful enough. And it was… how shall I say?… cash in hand.”

“How long had he been working for you?”

“Since March.”

“How did you make contact with him?”

“My previous gardener left. I placed an advertisement in the local paper and Carl Johnson replied. He seemed to know his stuff, and I was impressed with his frankness, so I took him on. I never regretted it.” He pointed towards the windows. “As you can see, he did a fine job.”

Banks put his glass down. Harkness offered him another, but he refused. The light had almost gone now, and the river seemed to hoard its last rays and glow from deep within. Harkness turned on the desk lamp.

“Do you know any reason,” Banks asked, “why someone might want to kill him?”

“None. But as I said, I knew nothing about his personal life.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Monday.”

“Did he seem worried about anything?”

“Not that I could tell. We had a brief conversation about the lawn and the roses, as far as I can remember, and that’s all. As I said, he didn’t confide in me.”

“He didn’t seem different in any way?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention any of his friends or acquaintances, a girl friend, perhaps?”

“No. I assumed he acted like any normal young man on his own time.”

“Ever heard of a bloke called Les Poole?”

“No.”

Banks scratched the scar by his right eye and crossed his legs.

“Mr Harkness,” he said, “can you think of any reason why Johnson had over a thousand pounds hidden in his flat?”

“A thousand pounds, you say? Well… no. I certainly didn’t pay him that much. Perhaps he saved up.”

“Perhaps.”

“He may have worked for others, too. We didn’t have an exclusive contract.”

“You never asked?”

“Why should I? He was always available when I needed him.”

“Where were you on Thursday evening?”

“Really, Chief Inspector! You can’t believe I had anything to do with the man’s death?”

“Just a matter of elimination, sir.”

“Oh, very well.” Harkness rubbed his chin. “Let me see… Well, Thursday, I’d have been at the Golf Club. I played that afternoon with Martin Lambert, and after the game we had dinner at the club.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Not until well after eleven. The others will vouch for me.”

Banks nodded. He felt that Harkness was enjoying the game, one he knew he could win. There was a kind of smugness and arrogance about him that irked Banks. He had come across it before in powerful and wealthy people and had never been able accept it.

“I understand you were born around these parts?” he asked.

“Yes. Lyndgarth, as a matter of fact. We emigrated when I was four.”

“South Africa?”

“Yes. Johannesburg. My father saw opportunities there. He liked to take risks, and this one paid off. Why do you ask?”

“Out of interest. You took over the business?”

“When he died. And, I might add, I succeeded him out of ability, not nepotism. I worked with him for years. He taught me all he knew.”

“Is the company still in existence?”

“Very much so. And our mines are still productive. But I’ve had very little to do with that part of the operation of late. I moved to Amsterdam over ten years ago to handle the sales end of the business.” He looked down, swirled the amber liquid in his crystal snifter, then looked Banks in the eye. “Quite frankly, I couldn’t stomach the politics over there. Apartheid disgusted me, and I lacked the courage to become a revolutionary. Who wants another white liberal, anyway?”

“So you moved to Amsterdam?”

“Yes.”

“But you kept your business interests in South Africa?”

“I said I couldn’t stand living with the politics, Chief Inspector. I didn’t say I was a fool. I also don’t believe in sanctions. But that’s not what you came to hear about.”

“Still, it is fascinating. Are you married?”

“Divorced, back in Amsterdam.” He shifted in his chair. “If you don’t mind—”

“I’m sorry.” Banks put down his empty glass and stood up. “It’s just a copper’s instinct. Curiosity.”

“It’s also what killed the cat.”

Harkness said it with a smile, but Banks could hardly miss the cutting edge. He ignored it and walked to the library door.

As they walked down the gloomy hall with its waist high wainscoting, Banks turned to one of the doors. “What’s in here?” he asked.

Harkness opened the door and turned on a light. “Living-room.”

It was a spacious, high-ceilinged room with wall-to-wall thick pile carpeting and a burgundy three-piece suite. Next to the fireplace stood a tall bookcase stacked with old National Geographic magazines. A couple of landscapes hung on the walls: original oils, by the look of them. Banks couldn’t tell who the artists were, but Sandra would probably know. Again, Banks noticed how untidy the room was and how dusty the fixtures. Beside the sofa was a long, low table, and at its centre stood a tarnished silver goblet encrusted with dirt. Banks picked it up. “What’s this?” he asked.

Harkness shrugged. “Carl found it when he was digging the garden one day and he brought it to me. It looks old. I keep meaning to get it cleaned up and valued. He thought it might be worth something. I suppose,” he went on, “you could take that as another example of his honesty. He could have kept it.”

Banks examined the goblet. It had some kind of design engraved on it, but he couldn’t make out what it was through the grime. It looked like a coat of arms. He put it back down on the table. It was something Tracy would be interested in, he thought. Would have been, he corrected himself.

Harkness noticed him looking around. “It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. But as I said, the house is too big and I don’t use all of it anyway.”

“Don’t you have a cleaning lady?”

“Can’t abide maids. Ever since I was a child in South Africa we had them, and I never could stand them. Always fussing around you. And I suppose as much as anything I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone having to clean up after anyone else. It seemed so undignified, somehow.”

Banks, whose mother had charred at a Peterborough office block to bring in a bit of extra money, said, “Yet you employed a gardener?”

Harkness led the way to the front door. “That’s different, don’t you think? A gardener is a kind of artist in a way, and I’ve no objection to being a patron of the arts. I always thought of the grounds as very much Carl’s creation.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Banks said at the door. “Just one more question: Did he ever mention the old lead mine near Relton?”

“No. Why?”

“I just wondered if it was special to him for some reason. Can you think of any reason he might have been there?”

Harkness shook his head. “None at all. Digging for hidden treasure, perhaps?” His eyes twinkled.

“Perhaps,” Banks said. “Thank you for your time.”

“My pleasure.”

Harkness closed the door slowly but firmly and Banks got into his car. As he drove back to Eastvale in the blue-grey twilight with the haunting piano music playing, he wondered about Harkness. Many business dealings don’t bear close scrutiny, of course, and you don’t get as rich as Harkness without skirting the law and stepping on a few toes here and there. Is that what Harkness was getting at with his remark about curiosity killing the cat? If that was so, where did Johnson fit in? It might be useful having a criminal for a gardener if you wanted other kinds of dirty business done. On the other hand, it might also, after a while, turn out to be very inconvenient, too. At least, Banks concluded, it might be worthwhile asking a few questions about Mr Adam Harkness.

II

“This must be it, sir,” said DS Richmond as he pulled in behind Patricia Cummings outside the last cottage in a terrace of four, right on the north-western edge of Eastvale, where the road curved by the side of River Swain into the dale. It was a pleasant spot, handy for both the town life, with its cinemas, shops and pubs, and for getting out into the more rural reaches of the dale itself. The holiday cottages were small — just right for a couple — and the view of the entry into the dale proper was magnificent. Of course, the slopes there were not as dramatic as they became beyond Fortford and Helmthorpe, but looking down the valley even in the fading light one could make out the grey, looming shapes of the higher fells and peaks massed in the distance, and the nearer, gentler slopes with their dry-stone walls and grazing sheep showed a promise of what was to come.

Patricia Cummings opened the door, and Richmond entered the living-room with Gristhorpe, who had returned to the station just a few minutes after Richmond had been to see Patricia. She turned on the light, and they looked around the small room that the estate agent would probably describe as cosy, with its two little armchairs arranged by the fireplace. Gristhorpe felt he had to stoop under the low ceiling, even though a few inches remained. He felt like Alice must have done before she took the shrinking potion.

What struck Gristhorpe immediately was the absolute cleanliness of the place. It reminded him of his grandmother’s cottage, a similarly tiny place in Lyndgarth, in which he had never seen a speck of dust nor a thing out of place. The dominant smell was pine-scented furniture polish, and the gleaming dark surfaces of wood stood testament to its thorough application. They glanced in the kitchen. There, too, everything shone: the sink, the small fridge, the mini-washer and dryer unit under the counter.

“Did the cleaner do the place?” Gristhorpe asked.

Patricia Cummings shook her head. “No. It was like this when she found it. Spotless. She phoned me because she was sure they were supposed to be staying another two weeks.”

“And were they?”

“Yes.”

“They’d already paid the rent?”

“For a month, altogether. Cash in advance.”

“I see.”

Mrs Cummings shifted from one foot to the other. She was a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed in a grey suit with a pearl blouse and ruff. She had a small lipsticked mouth and pouchy rouged cheeks that wobbled as she spoke. Gristhorpe noticed a gold band with a big diamond cluster biting into the flesh of her plump ring finger.

“They said they were responding to an advertisement we placed in The Dalesman,” she said.

“What names did they give?”

“Manley. Mr and Mrs Manley.”

“Did you see any identification?”

“Well, no… I mean, they paid cash.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not really. Not normal, but it happens.”

“I see.” Gristhorpe looked over towards Richmond, who seemed similarly constrained by the tininess of the place. “Let’s have a look around, shall we, Phil?”

Richmond nodded.

“I’ll show you,” Patricia Cummings said.

“If you don’t mind,” Gristhorpe told her, “it would be best if you waited here. It would give forensics one less person to eliminate, if it comes to that.”

“Very well. Is it all right if I sit down?”

“By all means.”

The stone staircase was narrow and its whitewashed ceiling low.

Both men had to stoop as they went up. Upstairs were two small bedrooms and a bathroom-toilet. Everywhere was just as spotless as the living-room, ceramic surfaces gleaming.

“Someone’s really done a job on this, sir,” Richmond said as they entered the first bedroom. “Look, they’ve even washed the sheets and folded them.” It was true; a small pile of neatly folded sheets lay on the mattress, and the oak chest of drawers shone with recent polish. The same pine scent hung in the air. The second bedroom was a little shabbier, but it was easy to see why. From the neatly made bed and the thin patina of dust that covered the wardrobe, it was clear the room hadn’t been used by the cottage’s most recent occupants.

“I can’t imagine why there’d even be two bedrooms,” Richmond said. “I mean, it’d feel crowded enough in this place with two people, let alone children as well.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “It’s old-world rustic charm all right.”

Both the sink and the bathtub had been thoroughly cleaned out, and shelves and medicine cabinet emptied.

“Come on,” said Gristhorpe. “There’s nothing for us here.”

They went back downstairs and found Patricia Cummings painting her nails. The sickly smell of the polish pervaded the small room. She raised her eyebrows when they entered.

“Are all the cottages rented out?” Gristhorpe asked.

“All four,” she said.

They went outside. The row reminded Gristhorpe of Gallows View, a similar terrace not too far away, where he and Banks had investigated a case some years ago. The light of the cottage next door was on, and Gristhorpe thought he saw the curtains twitch as they walked towards it. Gristhorpe knocked, and a few moments later a skinny young man with long, greasy hair answered.

Gristhorpe introduced himself and Richmond, and the young man let them in. The place was furnished exactly the same as next door: sideboard along one wall, a small television on a stand, two armchairs, an open fireplace, wall-to-wall dark carpets and wallpaper patterned with grapevines against an off-white background. Job lot, no doubt. The young man had made his mark by arranging a row of books along the sideboard, using wine bottles as bookends. They were mostly poetry, Gristhorpe noticed, and a couple of local wildlife guides.

“This won’t take long,” he said to the youth, who had introduced himself as Tony Roper. “I’d just like to know if you can tell me anything about your neighbours.”

“Not really,” said Tony, leaning against the sideboard. “I mean, I came here mostly for the isolation, so I didn’t do much mixing.” He had a Scottish accent, Gristhorpe noticed, leaning more towards Glasgow than Edinburgh.

“Did you meet them?”

“Just in passing.”

“Did they introduce themselves?”

“The Manleys. Chris and Connie. That’s what they said. They seemed pleasant enough. Always had a smile and a hello whenever we bumped into one another. Look, what’s wrong? Nothing’s happened to them, has it?”

“When did you last see them?”

Tony frowned. “Let me see… It was a couple of days ago. Thursday, I think. Thursday morning. They were going off in the car.”

“Did they say where?”

“No. I didn’t ask.”

“Had they packed all their stuff, as if they were leaving?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice. Sorry. I was out walking most of the time.”

“It’s all right,” Gristhorpe said. “Just try and remember what you can. Did you see or hear them after that time?”

“Come to think of it, I don’t reckon I did. But they never made much noise anyway. Maybe a bit of telly in the evenings. That’s about all.”

“Did they ever have any visitors?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You never heard them arguing or talking with anyone?”

“No.”

“Were they out a lot?”

“A fair bit, I’d say. But so was I. I’ve been doing a lot of walking, meditating, writing. I’m really sorry, but I honestly didn’t pay them a lot of attention. I’ve been pretty much lost in my own world.”

“That’s all right,” Gristhorpe said. “You’re doing fine. What did they look like?”

“Well, he… Chris… was about medium height, with light, sandy-coloured hair brushed back. Receding a bit. He looked quite fit, wiry, you know, and he had a pleasant, open kind of smile. The kind you could trust.”

“Any distinctive features?”

“You mean scars, tattoos, that kind of thing?”

“Anything.”

Tony shook his head. “No. He was quite ordinary looking, really. I just noticed the smile, that’s all.”

“How old would you say he was?”

“Hard to say. I’d guess he was in his late twenties.”

“What about the woman?”

“Connie?” Tony blushed a little. “Well, Connie’s a blonde. I don’t know if it’s real or not. Maybe a year or two younger than him. Very pretty. A real looker. She’s got lovely blue eyes, a really smooth complexion, a bit pale…”

“How tall?”

“An inch or two shorter than him.”

“What about her figure?”

Tony blushed again. “Nice. I mean, nice so’s you’d notice in the street, especially in those tight jeans she wore, and the white T-shirt.”

Gristhorpe smiled and nodded. “Did you notice what kind of car they drove?”

“Yes. It was parked outside often enough. It was a Fiesta.”

“What colour?”

“White.”

“Did they always dress casually?”

“I suppose so. I never paid much attention, except to her, of course. Now I think of it, Chris was a bit more formal. He usually wore a jacket and a tie. You don’t think anything’s happened to them, do you?”

“Don’t worry, Tony,” Gristhorpe said. “I’m sure they’re fine. Just one more thing. Did you ever hear sounds of a child there at all?”

Tony frowned. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d have noticed. Yes, I’m sure. They didn’t have any children.”

“Fine. Thanks very much, Tony,” Gristhorpe said. “We’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your holiday in peace.”

Tony nodded and accompanied them to the door.

“You’ll let me know, will you, if they’re all right? I mean, I didn’t really know them, but they were neighbours, in a way.”

“We’ll let you know,” said Gristhorpe, and followed Richmond to the car.

“Will you be needing me any more?” asked Patricia Cummings.

Gristhorpe smiled at her. “No, thanks very much, Mrs Cummings. You can go home now. Just one thing, could you leave that set of keys with us?”

“Why?”

“So we can let the scene-of-crime team in.”

“But—”

“This is important, Mrs Cummings, believe me. I wouldn’t ask it otherwise. And don’t rent the place out again until we give the OK.”

Her cheeks quivered a bit, then she dropped the keys into Gristhorpe’s outstretched hand, climbed into her car and drove off with a screech of rubber. Gristhorpe got into the police Rover beside Richmond. “Well, Phil,” he said, “what do you think?”

“I’m not sure, sir. The description doesn’t fit.”

“But it would if they dyed their hair and got dressed up in business clothes, wouldn’t it? Both descriptions were vague enough — Brenda Scupham’s and Tony Roper’s.”

“That’s true. But what about the car?”

“They could have stolen one for the abduction, or rented one.”

“A bit risky, isn’t it? And we’ve checked all the rental agencies.”

“But we used the descriptions Brenda Scupham gave us.” Gristhorpe scratched his ear. “Better get back to the rental agencies and find out about any couples their general age and appearance. Mention the man’s smile. That seems to be a common factor. And the woman is clearly attractive. Someone might remember them.”

Richmond nodded. “You think it was this Manley couple, sir?”

“I’m not saying that, but I think we’d better treat them as serious contenders for the moment.”

“It certainly seems odd the way they left the place in such a hurry.”

“Yes,” Gristhorpe muttered. “And that cleaning job. Why?”

“Just a fastidious couple, maybe?”

“Maybe. But why did they leave in a hurry?”

“Could be any number of reasons,” Richmond said. “A family emergency, maybe?”

“Did you notice a phone in the cottage?”

“No. I suppose that’s part of the rustic peace.”

“Mm. There is one thing.”

“Sir?”

“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that they did have to leave because of a family emergency. Nobody could have phoned them, but they could have used the nearest phonebox if they had to keep checking on someone who was ill.”

“You mean they wouldn’t have stayed behind to clean up the place, sir?”

“There’s that, aye. But there’s something odder. The money. They paid cash in advance. How much do these places go for?”

“I don’t know, sir. I forgot to ask.”

“It doesn’t matter, but it must be a fair whack. Say a hundred and fifty a week.”

“Something like that. And probably a deposit, too.”

“Then why didn’t they ask for some of their money back?”

“They might have had a hard time getting it.”

“Perhaps. But they didn’t even try. That’s three hundred quid we’re talking about, Phil. Plus deposit.”

“Maybe they were loaded.”

Gristhorpe fixed Richmond with the closest his benign features could get to a look of contempt. “Phil, if they were loaded, the first thing they would do is ask for their money back. That’s how the rich get that way, and that’s how they stay that way.”

“I suppose so,” Richmond mumbled. “What do we do now?”

“We get the forensic team in, that’s what we do,” Gristhorpe said, and reached for the radio.

III

The house was in darkness when Banks got home from the station around ten o’clock that Saturday evening. Tracy, he remembered, was at a dance in Relton with her friends. Banks had grilled her thoroughly about who was going and who was driving. He had been undecided, loath to let her go, but Sandra had tipped the balance. She was probably right, Banks admitted. Barring a punch-up between the Eastvale lads and the Relton lads, a fairly regular feature of these local dances, it ought to be a harmless enough affair. And Tracy was a big girl now.

So where was Sandra? Banks turned the lights on, then went into the kitchen thinking he might find a note. Nothing. Feeling anxious and irritated, he sat down, turned on the television and started switching channels: an American cop show, a documentary on Africa, a pirate film, a quiz show. He turned it off. The silence in the house closed in on him. This was absurd. Normally he would change into jeans and a sports shirt, pour a drink, put some music on, perhaps even smoke a cigarette if both Sandra and Tracy were out. Now all he could do was sit down and tap his fingers on the chair arm. It was no good. He couldn’t stay home.

Grabbing his jacket against the evening chill, he walked along Market Street past the closed shops and the Golden Grill and the Queen’s Arms. The light through the red and amber coloured windows beckoned, and he could see people at tables through the small clear panes, but instead of dropping in, he continued along North Market Street, quiet under its old-fashioned gas-lamps, window displays of gourmet teas, expensive hiking gear, imported shoes and special blends of tobacco.

The front doors of the community centre stood open. From the hall, Banks could hear a soprano struggling through Schubert’s “Die Junge Nonne” to a hesitant piano accompaniment. It was Saturday, amateur recital night. He took the broad staircase to his left and walked up to the first floor. He could hear voices from some of the rooms, mostly used for the meetings of local hobby clubs or for committees of various kinds. The double glass doors of the gallery were closed, but a faint light shone from behind the partition at the far end of the room.

Banks walked softly down the carpeted gallery, its walls bare of pictures at the moment, and stopped outside the cramped office at the end. He had already heard Sandra’s voice, but she was unaware of his presence.

“But you can’t do that,” she was pleading. “You’ve already agreed—”

“What? You don’t give a… Now look—” She moved the receiver away from her ear and swore before slamming it down in its cradle. Then she took two deep breaths, tucked loose strands of blonde hair behind her ears, and picked up the phone again.

“Sandra,” Banks said as gently as he could.

She turned round and put her hand to her chest. Banks could see the angry tears burning in her eyes. “Alan, it’s you. What are you doing here? You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“Look, it’s not a good time. I’ve got so damn much to do.”

“Let’s go for a drink.”

She started dialling. “I’d love to, but I—”

Banks broke the connection.

Sandra stood up and faced him, eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He took her arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

She shook him off. “What are you playing at?”

Banks sighed and sat on the edge of the desk. “Look at you,” he said. “You’re frustrated as hell.” He smiled. “You look pretty close to murder, too. I think it’s time you took a break, that’s all. God knows, you’ve helped take my mind off my problems often enough when you’ve watched me beating my head against a brick wall. I’m just trying to return the favour.”

Sandra bit her lower lip. Some of the anger left her eyes, but the tears still burned there. “It’s just that bloody Morton Ganning,” she said. “He’s only pulled out of the show, that’s all.”

“Well, bugger him,” Banks said.

“But you don’t understand.”

Banks took her coat from the rack by the office door. “Come on. You can tell me over a drink.”

Sandra glared at him for a moment, then smoothed her skirt and walked over. Before she could put her coat on, Banks put his arms around her and held her close. At first she stood limp, then slowly, she raised her arms and linked them behind him. She buried her head in his shoulder, then broke free, gave him a playful thump on the arm and that cheeky smile he loved so much. “All right, then,” she said. “But you’re buying.”

Ten minutes later, they managed to squeeze into a small corner table in the Queen’s Arms. The place was busy and loud with the jokes and laughter of the Saturday night crowd, so they had to put their heads close together to talk. Soon, though, the noise became a background buzz and they no longer had to strain to hear one another.

“He’s the most famous of the lot,” Sandra was saying. “He’s got paintings in galleries all over the country. It was going to be a hell of a coup to get him, but now he’s backed out. He’s a real bastard.”

“I thought the idea was to give locals a chance, the lesser-known ones?”

“It is. But Ganning would have drawn a damn good crowd. Indirectly, he’d have got them all more publicity, given them more chance of making a sale.”

“For the right reasons?”

“That doesn’t matter. So what if they come to see his work? They’d see the others too.”

“I suppose so.”

Sandra sipped her gin and tonic. “I’m sorry to go on about it, Alan, really I am. It’s just that I’ve been so involved. I’ve put in so much bloody work it makes me boil.”

“I know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

Her blue eyes hardened. “Yes it is. I can tell by your tone. You’re not complaining, are you? That I haven’t been doing my little wifely duties — cooking your meals, washing your clothes?”

Banks laughed. “I didn’t marry you for your ‘little wifely duties’ as you call them. I can look after myself. No. If I am complaining at all, it’s about hardly seeing you over these past few weeks.”

“Like I hardly see you when you’re on a case?”

“Touché.”

“So what do you mean? You expect me to be there whenever you decide to come home?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

Banks lit a cigarette, playing for time. “It’s… well, just that the house seems so empty. You’re never there, Tracy’s never there. I feel like I’m living alone.”

Sandra leaned back in her chair. She reached out and grabbed one of Banks’s cigarettes. “Hey,” he said, putting his hand over hers. “You’ve stopped.”

She broke free. “And I’ll stop again tomorrow. What’s really bothering you, Alan?”

“What I said. The empty house.”

“So it’s not just me, what I’m doing?”

“No, I don’t suppose it is.”

“But you take it out on me?”

“I’m not taking anything out on you. I’m trying to explain what the problem is. For Christ’s sake, you asked me.”

“Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on. Maybe you need another pint.”

“Wouldn’t mind.”

Sandra held out her hand. “Money, then.”

Banks looked gloomily into the last quarter-inch of deep gold liquid in his glass while Sandra threaded her way to the bar. She was right. It wasn’t just her at all. It was the whole damn situation at home. He felt as if his children had suddenly become different people overnight, and his wife hadn’t even noticed. He watched her coming back. She walked slowly, concentrating on not spilling the drinks. It was absurd, he felt, but even after all these years just seeing her made his heart speed up.

Sandra placed the glass carefully on the beer-mat in front of him and he thanked her.

“Look,” she said, “I know what you mean, but you have to accept things. Brian’s gone. He’s got his own life to lead. When did you leave home?”

“But that’s not the same.”

“Yes it is.”

“It was stifling in Peterborough, with Dad always on at me and Mum just taking it all. It wasn’t the same at all.”

“Perhaps the circumstances weren’t,” Sandra allowed. “But the impulse certainly is.”

“He’s got a perfectly good home with us. I don’t see why he’d want to go as far as bloody Portsmouth. I mean, he could have gone to Leeds, or York, or Bradford and come home on weekends.”

Sandra sighed. “Sometimes you can be damned obtuse, Alan Banks, do you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s left the nest, flown the coop. For him it’s a matter of the farther the better. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love us any more. It’s just a part of growing up. You did it yourself. That’s what I mean.”

“But I told you, that was different.”

“Not all that much. Didn’t you use to get on at him all the time about his music?”

“I never interfered with what he wanted. I even bought him a guitar.”

“Yes. In the hope he’d start playing classical or jazz or something other than what he did.”

“Don’t tell me you liked that bloody racket any more than I did?”

“That doesn’t matter. Oh, what’s the use. What I’m trying to say is that we didn’t drive him away, no more than your parents drove you away, not really. He wants to be independent like you did. He wants his own life.”

“I know that, but…”

“But nothing. We still have Tracy. Enjoy her while you can.”

“But she’s never home. She’s always out with that Harrison boy, getting up to God knows what.”

“She’s not getting up to anything. She’s sensible.”

“She doesn’t seem interested in anything else any more. Her schoolwork’s slipping.”

“Not much,” Sandra said. “And I’ll bet yours slipped a bit when you got your first girlfriend.”

Banks said nothing.

“Alan, you’re jealous, that’s all.”

“Jealous? Of my own daughter?”

“Oh, come on. You know she was the apple of your eye. You never were as close to Brian as you were to her. Now she seems to have no time for you, you resent it.”

Banks rubbed his cheek. “Do I?”

“Of course you do. If only you could bring as much perception to your own family as you do to your cases you wouldn’t have these problems.”

“Knowing is one thing, feeling all right about it is quite another.”

“I realize that. But you have to start with knowing.”

“How do you cope?” Banks asked. “You’ve been like a stranger to me these past few months.”

“I didn’t say I’d been coping very well either, only that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about things.”

“And?”

“It’s not easy, but we’ve reached that time where our children are no longer children. They can no longer keep us together.”

Banks felt a chill run through him. “What do you mean they can’t keep us together?”

“What I say. Oh, for God’s sake don’t look so worried. I didn’t mean it that way. Maybe I didn’t choose the best words. The kids gave us a lot in common, shared pleasures, anxieties. They’ll still do that, of course, though I’m sure more on the anxieties side, but we can’t relate to them the same way. They’re not just children to be seen and not heard. You can’t just order them not to do things. They’ll only rebel and do worse. Remember your own childhood? You were a bit of a shit-disturber even when I met you. Still are, if truth be known. See Brian and Tracy for what they are, for what they’re becoming.”

“But what did you mean about them keeping us together? It sounded ominous to me.”

“Only that we won’t have them to gather around for much longer. We’ll have to find other things, discover one another in other ways.”

“It could be fun.”

Sandra nodded. “It could be. But we’ve both been avoiding it so far.”

“You too?”

“Of course. How many times have we spent an evening in the house alone together these past eighteen years?”

“There’s been times.”

“Oh yes, but you can count them on the fingers of one hand. Besides, we knew Brian would be back from Boys’ Brigade or Tracy from the Guides, or they were up in their rooms. We’re not old, Alan. We married young and we’ve got a lot ahead of us.”

Banks looked at Sandra. Not old, certainly. The earnest face, her eyes shining with emotion, black eyebrows contrasting the blonde hair that hung down over her shoulders. A lump came to his throat. If I walked into the pub right this moment, he thought, and saw her sitting there, I’d be over like a shot.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

Sandra tossed back her head and laughed. People turned to look at her but she paid them no attention. “Well, I’ve got this bloody show to organize still, and it’s not all been a matter of staying late at the gallery to avoid facing things. I do have a lot of hours to put in.”

“I know that,” Banks said. “And so do I.”

Sandra frowned. “There’s still nothing on that missing child, is there?”

Banks shook his head. “No. It’s been five days now since she was abducted.”

“Just imagine what her poor mother must be going through. Have you given up hope?”

“We don’t expect miracles.” He paused. “You know something? She reminds me of Tracy when she was that age. The blonde hair, the serious expression. Tracy always did take after you.”

“You’re being sentimental, Alan. From the photo I saw in the paper she didn’t look a bit like Tracy.”

Banks smiled. “Maybe not. But I’m on another case now. That reminds me. Have you ever heard of a bloke called Adam Harkness?”

“Harkness? Of course I have. He’s pretty well known locally as a patron of the arts.”

“Yes, he mentioned something like that. Has he given your lot any money?”

“We weren’t as needy as some. Remember that bumper grant we got?”

“The oversight?”

“They still haven’t asked for it back. Anyway, he’s given money to the Amateur Operatic Society and a couple of other groups.” She frowned.

“What is it?”

“Well, some of the arts groups are a bit, you know, leftish. They tend to get blinkered. It’s the old package deal: if you’re against this, you have to be against that too. You know, you have to be pro-abortion, anti-apartheid and green to boot.”

“Well?”

“Some of them wouldn’t take Harkness’s money because of the way he makes it.”

“South Africa?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s anti-apartheid. He just told me. That’s partly why he left. Besides, things have changed over there. Apartheid’s fallen to pieces.”

Sandra shrugged. “Maybe. And I wouldn’t know about his personal beliefs. All I know is that Linda Fish — you know, that woman who runs the Writers’ Circle — wouldn’t take any money towards engaging visiting speakers and readers.”

“Linda Fish, the Champagne socialist?”

“Well, yes.”

“What does she know about him?”

“Oh, she’s got contacts among South African writers, or so she claims. All this anti-apartheid stuff is a load of bunk, she thinks. She’s got a point. I mean, after all, whatever he professes to believe he’s still earning his fortune by exploiting the system, isn’t he?”

“I’d better have a talk with her.”

“Well,” Sandra said, “you don’t make his kind of money by being square and above-board, do you? Let’s drop it anyway. I’m sure Linda will be delighted to see you. I think she’s secretly fancied you ever since she found out you’d read Thomas Hardy.”

Banks gave a mock shudder. “Look,” he said, “I’ve just had an idea.”

Sandra raised her eyebrows.

“Not that kind of idea. Well… Anyway, when all this is over — the show, the case — let’s go on holiday, just you and me. Somewhere exotic.”

“Can we afford it?”

“No. But we’ll manage somehow. Tracy can stay with your mum and dad. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

“No. They’re always glad to see her. I bet she’ll mind this time, though. To be separated from the first boyfriend for even a day is a pretty traumatic experience, you know.”

“We’ll deal with that problem when we get to it. What about the holiday?”

“You’re on. I’ll start thinking of suitably exotic places.”

“And… er… about that other idea…”

“What other idea?”

“You know. Erotic places.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Yes. Well?”

Sandra looked at her watch. “It’s ten past eleven. Tracy said she’ll be home at twelve.”

“When has she ever been on time?”

“Still,” Sandra said, finishing her drink and grabbing Banks’s arm. “I think we’d better hurry.”

IV

The tea was cold. Wearily, Brenda Scupham picked up her cup and carried it to the microwave. When she had reheated it, she went back into the living-room, flopped down on the sofa and lit a cigarette.

She had been watching television. That was how she had let the tea get cold. Not even watching it really, just sitting there and letting the images and sounds tumble over her and deaden the thoughts that she couldn’t keep at bay. It had been a documentary about some obscure African tribe. That much she remembered. Now the news was on and someone had blown up a jumbo jet over a jungle somewhere. Images of the strewn wreckage taken from a helicopter washed over her.

Brenda sipped her tea. Too hot now. It wasn’t tea she needed, anyway, it was a drink. The pill she had taken had some effect, but it would work better with a gin and tonic. Getting up, she went and poured herself a stiff one, then sat down again.

It was that man from the newspaper who had got her thinking such terrible thoughts. Mostly the police did a good job of keeping the press away from her, but this one she had agreed to talk to. For one thing, he was from the Yorkshire Post, and for another, she liked the look of him. He had been kind and gentle in his questioning, too, sensitive to her feelings, but had nevertheless probed areas Brenda hadn’t even known existed. And somehow, talking about her grief over the loss of her “poor Gemma” had actually made her feel it more, just as speculating about what might have happened to the child had made her imagine awful things happening, fears she couldn’t shut out even now, long after the man had gone, after she had taken the tranquillizer, and after the images of Africa had numbed her. It was like being at the dentist’s when the anaesthetic numbs your gums but you can still feel a shadow of pain in the background when he probes with his drill.

Now she found herself drifting way back to when she first got pregnant. Right from the start she knew instinctively that she didn’t want the child growing inside her. Some days, she hoped to fall and induce a miscarriage, and other, worse days, she wished she would get run over by a bus. The odd thing was, though, that she couldn’t actually bring herself to do any of these things — throw herself down the stairs, get rid of the foetus, jump out of a window. Maybe it was because she had been brought up Catholic and believed in a sort of elemental way that both suicide and abortion were sins. She couldn’t even sit in a bathtub and drink gin like that dateless June Williams had done when Billy Jackson had got her in the family way (not that it had worked anyway; all June had got out of it was wrinkled skin and a nasty hangover). No, whatever happened just had to happen; it had to be God’s will, even though Brenda didn’t think now that she really believed in God.

Later, still stunned by the pain of childbirth, when she saw Gemma for the first time, she remembered wondering even back then how such a strange child could possibly be hers. And she turned her back. Oh, she had done the necessaries, of course. She could no more neglect to feed the child and keep her warm than she could have thrown herself under a bus. But that was where it stopped. She had been unable to feel love for Gemma, which is why it felt so strange, after talking about her loss to the reporter, that she should actually feel it now. And she felt guilty, too, guilty for the way she had neglected and abandoned Gemma. She knew she might never get a chance to make it up to her.

She poured another gin. Maybe this would do the trick. The thing was, it had been guilt made her hand Gemma over in the first place. Guilt and fear. The social workers, real or not, had been right when they talked about abuse; it was their timing that seemed uncanny, for though Brenda might have neglected her daughter, she had never, ever hit her until a few days before they called. Even then, she hadn’t really hit Gemma, but when the man and the woman with their posh accents and their well-cut clothes called at her door, she somehow felt they had arrived in answer to a call; they were her retribution or her salvation, she didn’t really know which.

Gemma had angered Les. When she spilled the paint on the racing page of his paper, he retaliated, as he usually did, not by violence, but by hitting her where it hurt, tearing up and throwing out some of her colouring books. Afterwards, he had been in a terrible mood all through tea-time, needling Brenda, complaining, arguing. And to cap it all, Gemma had been sitting there giving them the evil eye. She hadn’t said a word, nor shed a tear, but the accusation and the hurt in those eyes had been too much. Finally, Brenda grabbed her by the arm and shook her until she did start to cry, then let go of her and watched her run up to her room, no doubt to throw herself on her bed and cry herself to sleep. She had shaken Gemma so hard there were bruises on her arm. And when the social workers came, it was as if they knew not only how Brenda had lost her temper that day, but that if it happened again she might keep on shaking Gemma until she killed her. It was silly, she knew that — of course they couldn’t know — but that had been how she felt.

And that was why she had given up Gemma so easily, to save her. Or was it to get rid of her? Brenda still couldn’t be sure; the complexity of her feelings about the whole business knotted deep in her breast and she couldn’t, try as she might, sort it all out and analyze it like she assumed most people did. She couldn’t help not being smart, and most of the time it never really bothered her that other people knew more about the world than she did, or that they were able to talk about things she couldn’t understand, or look at a situation and break it down into all its parts. It never really bothered her, but sometimes she thought it was bloody unfair.

She finished her gin and lit another cigarette. Now she had talked to the reporter she thought she might like to go on television. They had asked her on the second day, but she had been too scared. Maybe, though, in her best outfit, with the right make-up, she might not look too bad. She could make an appeal to the kidnapper, and if Gemma was still alive… Still alive… no, she couldn’t think about that again. But it might help.

She heard a key in the door. Les back from the pub. Her expression hardened. Over these past few days, she realized, she had come to hate him. The door opened. She went and poured herself another gin and tonic. She would have to do something about Les soon. She couldn’t go on like this.

V

Later that Saturday night, after closing-time, a car weaved its way over a desolate stretch of the North York Moors some thirty miles east of Eastvale. Its occupants — Mark Hudson and Mandy Vernon — could hardly keep their hands off one another. They had been for a slap-up dinner and drinks at the White Horse Farm Hotel, in Rosedale, and were now on their way back to Helmsley.

As Mark tried to concentrate on the narrow, unfenced road, the rabbits running away from the headlights’ beam, his hand kept straying to Mandy’s thigh, where her short skirt exposed a long stretch of delectable nylon-encased warm flesh. Finally, he pulled into a lay-by. All around them lay darkness, not even a farmhouse light in sight.

First they kissed, but the gear-stick and steering wheel got in the way. Metros weren’t built for passion. Then Mark suggested they get in the back. They did so, but when he got his hand up her skirt and started tugging at her tights, she banged her knee on the back of the seat and cursed.

“There’s not enough room,” she said. “I’ll break my bloody leg.”

“Let’s get out, then,” Mark suggested.

“What? Do it in the open air?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“But it’s cold.”

“It’s not that cold. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm. I’ve got a blanket in the back.”

Mandy considered it for a moment. His hand found her left breast inside her blouse and he started rubbing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“All right,” she said. “We’ve not got much choice, have we?”

And indeed they hadn’t. They couldn’t take a room at the hotel because Mark was married, supposed to be at a company do, and Mandy still lived with her mother and brother, who expected her home from her girlfriend’s by midnight. He had bought her an expensive five-course dinner, and they had drunk Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Going home, he had even negotiated the winding one-in-three hill that led over the open moors because it was more isolated up there than on the valley road. This might be one of the last warm evenings of the year; he might never get another chance.

Using the torch, they made their way over the heather and found a shaded knoll surrounded by rocks and boulders about fifty yards from the road. Mark spread the blanket and Mandy lay down. Open moorland stretched for miles all around, and a half-moon frosted the heather and gave the place the eerie look of a moon-scape. It was cold, but they soon ceased to notice as they warmed each other with caresses. Finally, Mark got Mandy’s tights and knickers down around her ankles, pushed her knees apart and lay on top of her.

Mandy stretched out her arms and snatched at the heather as the waves of pleasure swept through her. Soon, Mark speeded up and began to make grunting sounds deep in his throat. Mandy knew the end was close. She could smell the port and Stilton on his breath and feel his stubble against her shoulder. The more he groaned, the more she snatched at the heather by the nearest rock, but even as he came and she encouraged him with cries of ecstasy, she was aware that what she clutched in her right hand wasn’t grass or heather, but something softer, some kind of material, more like an article of clothing.