Wednesday's Child (22 page)

Brenda steadied herself on the back of the small chair by Gemma's desk. She felt dizzy, her skin cold and clammy, as if she had had too much to drink and the world was spinning fast. “Where can I find her?” she asked. “Where do I look? Tell me, where do I look?”

EIGHT

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.