Wednesday's Child

I

By Tuesday morning, the searchers had turned up nothing buried in the garden of the holiday cottage; nor had anything of interest been discovered on the moors where Gemma’s clothing had been found. Gristhorpe sat in his office going over the paperwork, waiting to hear from forensics about Parkinson’s car. Outside, mucky clouds, like balls of black wool, started to attack from the west.

It was close to twelve when Vic Manson called.

“What did you find?” Gristhorpe asked.

“Plenty. The girl was in there all right. We found her prints. Windows, back of the front seat, all over. I checked them with the ones on file, and they match.”

“Good work, Vic.”

“And we found yellow fibres.”

“The dungarees?”

“Looks like it. I’m still waiting for the confirmation.”

“Anything else?”

“A bit of black hair-dye smeared on the driver’s headrest. Soil and gravel in the wheels, could have come from just about anywhere locally. Lay-by, track, drive, quarry.”

“No particular kind of limestone deposit you only find on Aldington Edge, or anything like that?”

Manson laughed. “Sorry, no. Look, remember that whitish powder I told you about on the kid’s dungarees? It’s a lime solution, most likely whitewash.”

“Where from?”

“Same as the soil and gravel, it could have come from anywhere, really. A pub wall, a cellar, outhouse.”

“You can’t be more specific?”

“Whitewash is whitewash. Now if you’ll kindly get off the bloody phone and let me get on with the confirmations, we’ll have a pile of stuff that just might stand up in court when you catch the bastards.”

“All right, all right. And Vic?”

“Yes.”

“I’m eternally grateful.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Gristhorpe hung up. He no longer had to sit around waiting for the phone to ring. There were things to do: question Parkinson again, and his neighbours; get in touch with the press and television. They could run this on “Crimewatch.” And where had he seen whitewash recently? Calling for Richmond on his way, he swept down the corridor towards the stairs.

II

Why was it, Banks thought, as he sat in Corrigan’s Bar and Grill on York Road near the bus station, that so many people gravitated towards these trendy, renovated pubs? What on earth was wrong with a down-to-earth, honest-to-goodness old pub? Just look at Le Bistro, that place he had met Jenny last week. All coral pink tablecloths, long-stemmed wine glasses and stiff napkins.

And now this: eighteenth-century Yorkshire translated almost overnight into twentieth-century New York, complete with booths, brass rails, square Formica-top tables and waitresses who might bustle in New York, but in Yorkshire moved at their normal couldn’t-care-less pace. At least some things didn’t change.

And then there was the menu: a large, thin laminated card of bold, handwritten items with outrageous prices. Burgers, of course, club sandwiches, corned beef on rye (and they didn’t mean Fray Bentos), and such delights for dessert as raspberry cheesecake, pecan pie and frozen yoghurt. All to the accompaniment (not too loud, thank the Lord) of Euro-pop.

Maybe he was getting conservative since the move to Yorkshire, he wondered. Certainly in London, Sandra and he had happily embraced the changes that seemed to happen so fast from the sixties on, delighted in the varieties of food and ambience available. But somehow here, in a town with a cobbled market square, ancient cross, Norman church and excavated pre-Roman ruins, so close to the timeless, glacier-carved dales and towering fells with their jagged limestone edges and criss-cross dry-stone walls, the phoney American theme and fashionable food seemed an affront.

The beer was a problem, too, just as it was in Le Bistro. Here was no Theakston’s bitter, no Old Peculier, no Tetley’s, Marston’s or Sam Smith’s, just a choice of gassy keg beer and imported bottled lagers from Germany, Holland, Mexico and Spain, all ice cold, of course. Funnily enough, he sat over a glass (they didn’t serve pints, only tall heavy glasses that tapered towards their thick bases) of Labatt’s, one of the less interesting lagers he remembered from his trip to Toronto.

Such were his thoughts as he puzzled over the menu waiting for Linda Fish, the Champagne socialist, to show. Corrigan’s had been her choice, and as he wanted information, he had thought it best to comply. The sacrifices a copper makes in the course of duty, he thought to himself, shaking his head. At least there was an ashtray on the table. He looked out of the window at the lunch-time shoppers darting in and out of the shopping centre opposite in the rain. Raincoats, waxed-jackets, a chill in the air: it looked as if autumn had arrived at last.

Linda walked in after he had been musing gloomily for ten minutes or so. She packed up her telescope umbrella and looked around, then waved and came over to join him. She had always reminded Banks of an overgrown child. It was partly the way she dressed — today blue sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt with a pink teddy bear on its front — and partly the slightly unformed face, a kind of freckled, doughy blob on which had been stuck two watery eyes accentuated by blue shadow, a button nose and thin lips made fuller by lipstick. Her straw-coloured hair looked as if she had just cut it herself with blunt scissors in front of a funfair mirror. As always, she carried her oversized and scuffed leather shoulder-bag, something she had picked up in Florence, she had once told him, and with great sentimental value. Whether it was stuffed with bricks and toiletries or unpublished manuscripts, he had no idea, but it certainly looked heavy.

Linda squeezed her bulk into the booth opposite Banks. “I hope you don’t mind meeting here,” she said conspiratorially, “but I’m afraid I’ve become quite addicted to the chili-burgers.”

“It’s fine,” Banks lied. She wasn’t from Yorkshire, and her slight lisp seemed to make the Home Counties accent sound even posher. Whatever you might say or think about Linda, though, Banks reminded himself, she was far from stupid. Not only did she run the local Writers’ Circle with such energy and enthusiasm that left most bystanders gasping, but she was indeed a published writer, not a mere hopeful or dilettante. She had, in fact, published a short novel with a large firm only a year ago. Banks had read it, and admitted it was good. Very good, in fact. No, Linda Fish was no fool. If she wanted to look ridiculous, then that was her business.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you very much, you know,” she said.

“Even a little will help.” Banks flapped the menu. “Anything you’d recommend?”

Her blue eyes narrowed in a smile. “I can see you’re uncomfortable,” she said. “I’m sorry I suggested we meet here. Men are obviously much happier in pubs.”

Banks laughed. “You’re right about that. But let’s see what I can salvage from the situation. Who knows, I might even find something I like.”

“Good,” said Linda. “Well, you know what I’m having. Are you not familiar with this kind of food?”

“American? Yes. I’ve never been to the States but I was in Toronto a couple of years ago. I think I can find my way around. I always found it was best to stick with the burgers.”

“I think you’re right.”

A waitress ambled along, playing with her hair as she approached. “Yes?” She stood beside the booth, weight balanced on her left hip, order pad in one hand and pencil in the other. She didn’t even look at them. Linda ordered her chili-burger and a bottle of San Miguel, and Banks went for the mushroom-and-cheese burger and another glass of Labatt’s. He leaned back on the red vinyl banquette and lit a Silk Cut. The grill had filled up a bit since Linda arrived, mostly truant sixth-formers buzzing with conversation and laughter, and the Euro-pop droned on.

“Do you want to interrogate me before lunch or after?” Linda asked.

Banks smiled. “I always find a full stomach helps. But if you’re—”

She waved her hand. “Oh no, I’m not in a hurry or anything. I’m just interested.” She stuck her hand deep in her bag and frowned, leaning slightly to the side, as she rummaged around in there like a kid at a fairground lucky-dip. “Ah, got them.” She pulled out a packet of menthol cigarettes.

“You know,” she said, lighting up, “I’d never really thought about it before, but you could be useful to me.”

“Me? How?”

“I’m thinking of writing a detective story.”

“Good lord,” said Banks, whose knowledge of detective fiction stopped at Sherlock Holmes.

“From what I’ve read,” Linda went on, “it’s clear that one can get away without knowing much police procedure, but a little realism does no harm. What I was thinking was—”

The waitress appeared with their food and drinks at that moment, and Linda’s attention was diverted towards her chili-burger. Feeling relieved at the interruption, Banks bit into his burger. It was good. But his reprieve was only temporary.

“What I was thinking,” Linda went on, wiping the chili sauce from her chin with a paper napkin, “was perhaps that you could advise me. You know, on police procedure. And maybe tell me a bit about some of your cases. Give me an insight into the criminal mind, so to speak.”

“Well,” said Banks, “I’d be glad to help if you have any specific questions. But I don’t really think I can just sit down and tell you all about it.”

Her eyes narrowed again, and she bit into her burger. When she had finished that mouthful, she went on. “I suppose that’s a compromise of sorts. I’m sure your time is too valuable to waste on writers of fiction. Though I did get the impression that you are fairly well read.”

Banks laughed. “I like a good book, yes.”

“Well, then. Even Hardy and Dickens had to do their research, you know. They had to ask people about things.”

Banks held up his hands. “All right, you’ve convinced me. Just give me specific questions and I’ll do my best to answer them, okay?”

“Okay. I haven’t got that far yet, but when I do I’ll take you up on it.”

“Now, what can you tell me about Adam Harkness?”

“Ah-hah, the interrogation at last. As I said, I can’t tell you very much, really. But I don’t believe all that phoney anti-apartheid rubbish, for a start.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t square with what I’ve heard. Oh, I’m sure he probably even believes it himself now, and it’s a trendy enough position for white South African expatriates to take. But how do you think his father made his money? You can’t tell me he didn’t exploit the blacks. Everybody did. And you won’t see Adam Harkness giving his money away to support the ANC.”

“He told me he left South Africa because he didn’t agree with the politics.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“What did you hear?”

“It’s just rumours, but I’ve a friend lives there, a writer, and she said there was some kind of scandal about to break but the Harknesses hushed it up.”

“What kind of scandal?”

“Nobody really knows. My friend suspects he killed someone, a black mine-worker, but there’s no proof.”

It was possible, Banks supposed, ten or more years ago to cover up the murder of a black by a rich and powerful white man in South Africa. For all he knew, despite the scrapping of racial classification, it probably still was. Attitudes don’t change overnight, whatever politicians might decree.

“Have you ever heard of a man called Carl Johnson?” Banks asked.

“Only from the papers. He was the one killed, wasn’t he, at the old lead mine?”

“That’s right. He worked as a gardener for Harkness.”

“Did he now?” She leaned forward. “And you think there might be some connection?”

“There might be.”

“You surely don’t think Adam Harkness murdered him?”

“Harkness has an alibi. But a man like him can afford to have things done.”

Her eyes opened wide. They looked like oysters on a half-shell. “Do you mean that kind of thing really goes on? In England? Hit men and contracts and all that.”

Banks smiled. “It has been known.”

“Well… there’s obviously more to this crime business than I realized. But I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.”

“Could you get in touch with your friend? Ask her for more information?”

“I could try, but I got the impression they put a lid on it pretty securely. Still, if it might help…”

“It might.”

“I’ve just had a thought.”

“Yes?”

“If the rumour’s true, about Harkness and the black miner, and if that Johnson person was killed at an old mine, there’s a sort of symmetry to that, isn’t there?”

“I suppose there is,” Banks agreed. Symmetry, for Christ’s sake, he thought. Plenty of it in books, but not in real life. “It’s just a very isolated spot,” he said.

“So why would anyone go there to meet a killer?”

“Obviously it was someone he trusted. He didn’t have a car, so someone must have picked him up, or met him somewhere, and taken him there. Perhaps he thought he was going to get money.”

“Oh, yes,” said Linda. “I see. Well, I’d better leave the police work to you, hadn’t I? But, you know, that’s exactly the kind of thinking I’m interested in. Now, I’m going to have a chocolate sundae and you can tell me all about your most interesting case.”

III

Gristhorpe and Richmond stood in the rain outside Parkinson’s house. Semi-detached, with a frosted-glass door and a pebble-dash façade, it was more modern than the row of tiny limestone cottages that faced it across the lopsided square of unkempt grass. Gristhorpe hadn’t realized that Parkinson’s house was so close to the abandoned cottage. This was the extreme north-western edge of Eastvale, and both the new and the old houses shared a superb view west along the valley bottom. Not today, though; everything was lost in the grey haze of rain.

Richmond wore a belted navy-blue Aquascutum over his suit, and Gristhorpe a rumpled fawn raincoat with the collar turned up. Neither wore a hat. It was the kind of rain that you felt inside rather than out, Gristhorpe thought, already registering the aches in his joints. Outside you merely got beaded in moisture, but inside you were damp and chilled to the marrow.

They had already tried the semis to the west, the last pair, with only the Helmthorpe Road and a dry-stone wall between them and the open country, but found nobody home. In fact, as Gristhorpe stood there looking around, he noticed how quiet and secluded the area was. Given that Parkinson had kept his car in the garage at the back of his house, it wouldn’t have been at all difficult for someone to “borrow” it without being seen. Apart from a few cars and delivery vans on the main road, there was nothing else around.

They walked up the path and rang the bell of the semi adjoining Parkinson’s. A few moments later a man answered and, after they had showed their identification, he invited them in.

“Come in out of the rain,” he said, taking their coats. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

He was about forty, small and thick-set, with sparse fair hair and lively grey eyes. His right arm, encased in plaster, hung in a sling over the lower part of his chest.

They settled down in the cheerful living-room, where the element of an electric fire took some of the chill out of their bones, and their host, Mr David Ackroyd, came in with mugs of tea and joined them. Two women were talking on the radio about menopause. He turned it off and sat down. Richmond installed himself in the armchair opposite, long legs crossed, notebook and pen in hand.

“What happened?” Gristhorpe asked, indicating the arm.

“Broke it on Sunday. Doing a bit of climbing out Swainshead way.” He shook his head. “Silly bugger I am. I ought to know I’m too old for that sort of thing.”

“So you’re not usually home weekdays?”

“Good lord, no. I’m a civil servant… well, civil as I can be to some of the riff-raff we get in the job centre these days.” His eyes twinkled. “And servant to the devil, according to some. I’ll be back at work again in a couple of days. The doctor says I just need a bit of a rest to get over the shock.”

“Are you married?”

He frowned. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Does your wife work?”

“She’s an auditor with the tax office.”

“So she’s usually out all day, too?”

“Yes. Most people around here are. Have to be to pay the mortgages, prices being the way they are. What’s going on?”

“Just trying to feel out the lie of the land, so to speak,” Gristhorpe said. “Did you know Mr Parkinson’s car was stolen while he was away?”

“Yes. He came dashing in to tell me as soon as he checked the mileage. I told him to go to the police.”

“Did you notice anything at all?”

“No. Of course, I was out at work all the time until the weekend. Everything seemed quite normal.”

“Did he often make these trips?”

“Yes. Quite proud of himself he was about it too. He got a promotion in the company a short while ago. Exports. They do a bit of business with the Common Market countries. You know how it is, everything’s Euro-this and Euro-that these days.”

“And he always left his car in the garage?”

“Yes. Look, between you and me, Bruce is a bit tight. Short arms and deep pockets, if you know what I mean. He hasn’t quite got to the company-car level yet but his boss, the bloke who usually goes with him, has. He lives a few miles north of here, so it’s easy for him to pick Bruce up.”

“How many people do you think knew about this arrangement?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“But Mr Parkinson was the sort to talk about such things in public?”

“Well, I suppose so. I mean, it’s nothing, is it, really? Just idle chatter, pub talk. He liked to let people know how important he was, how he got to travel to Europe on business and all that. I don’t think he was worried that someone might overhear him and take off with his car.”

“Could that have happened?”

“Easily enough, I suppose.” He rubbed the plaster on his arm.

Gristhorpe noticed that a couple of people had signed it in ball-point just below the elbow. “We ought to be more careful, oughtn’t we?” Ackroyd went on. “Lord knows, we hear enough about crime prevention on telly, we should know better than to go blabbing all our holiday and business plans in a pub. You just don’t think, do you?”

“Which pub is this, Mr Ackroyd?”

“Pub? Well, I was speaking figuratively, really, but there’s a local in the next street. It’s called The Drayman’s Rest. Nothing special really, but they do a decent pint and the company’s all right.”

“Do you and Mr Parkinson go there regularly?”

“I suppose you could say that. Not that we’re big drinkers, mind you.” He laughed. “Bruce always drinks halves and makes them last. It’s just the social thing, the local, isn’t it? A chat and a few laughs with the lads after work, that sort of thing.”

“Do you know most of the regulars?”

“Oh, aye. Except we get a few strangers in from the holiday cottages over the road. They never cause any trouble, though, and we make them welcome enough.”

“Get friendly with them, do you?”

“Well, some are easier than others, if you know what I mean. Some just like to keep to themselves, grab a sandwich and a pint and sit in the corner reading the paper. But there’s outgoing ones. I like talking to people. That’s how you learn, isn’t it?”

“Have you met any interesting strangers in there recently?”

“What?”

“The past couple of weeks. Anyone been especially friendly?”

Ackroyd rubbed his chin. “Aye, well now you mention it, there was Chris and Connie.”

Gristhorpe looked over at Richmond. “The Manleys?”

“That’s it. I always thought it a bit odd that they liked to stand at the bar and talk to the locals.”

“Why?”

“Well, with a bird like her I wouldn’t be in the pub in the first place,” Ackroyd said, and winked. “But usually it’s the couples tend to keep to themselves.”

“They didn’t?”

“No. Oh, they weren’t pushy or anything. Just always there with a hello and a chat. Nowt special. It might be the weather, the news… that kind of thing.”

“And Mr Parkinson’s European business trips?”

“Well, he did go on a bit… Now wait a minute, you can’t be suggesting that Chris and Connie…? No, I don’t believe it. Besides, they had a car of their own. I saw them in it.”

“A white Fiesta?”

“That’s right.”

“What kind of impression did they give you, Mr Ackroyd?”

“They just seemed like regular folk. I mean, Chris liked to talk about cars. Bit of a know-it-all, maybe. You know, the kind that likes to dominate conversations. And she seemed happy enough to be there.”

“Did she say much?”

“No, but she didn’t need to. I mean most of the men in that place would’ve given their right arms—” He stopped, looked at his cast and laughed. “No, that wasn’t how I got it, honest. But what I’m trying to say is that it wasn’t just that she was a looker, though she was that all right. The long blonde hair, those lovely red lips and the blue eyes. And from what I could tell she had all her curves in the right places, too. No, it wasn’t just that. She was sexy. She had a presence. Like she didn’t have to do anything. Just walk in, smile, stand there leaning on the bar. There was something about her you could feel, like an electric charge. I am rambling on, aren’t I? Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so, Mr Ackroyd.” Some women just gave out an aura of sex, Gristhorpe knew. That kind of sex appeal was common enough on screen — the way Marilyn Monroe’s clothes always seemed to want to slip off her body, for example — but it also happened in real life. It was nothing to do with looks, though a combination of beauty and sex appeal could be deadly when it occurred, and some women didn’t even realize they had it.

“How did Mr Manley act towards her?” he asked.

“No special way in particular. I mean, he wasn’t much to look at himself. I got the impression he was sort of pleased that so many men obviously fancied her. You knew she was his and you could look but you couldn’t touch. Now I think about it, he definitely seemed to be showing her off, like.”

“Nobody tried to chat her up?”

“No.” He scratched his cheek. “And that’s a funny thing, you know. Now you’ve got me talking I’m thinking things that never really entered my head at the time. They were just an interesting couple of holidaymakers, but the more I think about them…”

“Yes?”

“Well, the thing that really struck you about Chris was his smile. When he smiled at you, you immediately wanted to trust him. I suppose it worked with the women too. But there was something… I mean, I can’t put my finger on it, but you just sort of knew that if you really did try it on with Connie, outside a bit of mild flirting, that is, then he’d be something to reckon with. That’s the only way I can express it. I suppose everyone picked up on that because nobody tried it on. Not even Andy Lumsden, and he goes after anything in a skirt as a rule.”

“Where were they from?”

“Chris and Connie? Do you know, I couldn’t tell you. He didn’t have a Yorkshire accent, that’s for certain. But it was hard to place. South, maybe. It was sort of characterless, like those television newsreaders.”

“They didn’t say where they were from?”

“Come to think of it, no. Just said they were taking some time off and travelling around for a while, having a rest from the fast lane. They never really said anything about themselves. Funny that, isn’t it?”

“They didn’t even say what they were taking time off from?”

“No.”

Gristhorpe stood up and nodded to Richmond. He shook Mr Ackroyd’s good hand and wished him well, then they walked back out into the drizzle.

“What now?” Richmond asked.

Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “It’s half past two,” he said. “I reckon we’ve just got time for a pint and a sandwich at The Drayman’s Rest, don’t you?”

IV

Susan Gay parked her red Golf outside and went up to her flat. She had had a busy day going over mug-shots with Edwina Whixley — to no avail — and questioning the other occupants of 59 Calvin Street again. She had also made an appointment to see the governor of Armley Jail, where Johnson had served his time, at four-thirty the following afternoon. She knew she could probably have asked him questions over the phone, but phone calls, she always felt, were too open to interruptions, and too limiting. If the governor needed to consult a warden for additional information, for example, that might prove difficult over the phone. Besides, she was old-fashioned; she liked to be able to watch people’s eyes when she talked to them.

She put her briefcase by the door and dropped her keys on the hall table. She had made a lot of changes to the place since her promotion to CID. It had once been little more than a hotel suite, somewhere to sleep. But now she had plants and a growing collection of books and records.

Susan favoured the more traditional, romantic kind of classical music, the ones you remember bits from and find yourself humming along with now and then: Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, bits of opera from films and TV adverts. Most of her records were “greatest hits,” so she didn’t have their complete symphonies or anything, just the movements everyone remembered.

Her reading was still limited mostly to technical stuff, like forensics and criminology, but she made space on her shelves for the occasional Jeffrey Archer, Dick Francis and Robert Ludlum. Banks wouldn’t approve of her tastes, she was sure, but at least now she knew she had tastes.

As usual, if she was in, she had “Calendar” on the television as she fussed around in the kitchen throwing together a salad. Normally, she would just be listening, as the TV set was in the living-room, but this evening, an item caught her attention and she walked through, salad bowl in hand and stood and watched open-mouthed.

It was Brenda Scupham and a gypsyish looking woman on the couch being interviewed. She hadn’t caught the introduction, but they were talking about clairvoyance. Brenda, in a tight lemon chiffon blouse tucked into a black mini-skirt much too short for a worried mother, sat staring blankly into the camera, while the other woman explained how objects dear to people bear psychic traces of them and act as conduits into the extrasensory world.

Brenda nodded in agreement occasionally. When Richard Whiteley turned to her and asked her what she thought, she said, “I don’t know. I really don’t know,” then she looked over at the other woman. “But I’m convinced my Gemma is still alive and I want to beg whoever knows where she is to let her come back to her mother, please. You won’t be punished, I promise.”

“What about the police?” he asked. “What do they think?”

Brenda shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think they believe she’s dead. Ever since they found her clothes, I think they’ve given up on her.”

Susan flopped into her armchair, salad forgotten for the moment. Bloody hell, she thought, Superintendent Gristhorpe’s going to love this.