Wednesday's Child (35 page)

Brian was eighteen, and Banks had turned forty in May. With a smile, he remembered the compact disc of Nigel Kennedy playing the Brahms violin concerto that Brian had bought him for his birthday. Well, at least the thought was there. And he also remembered his recent row with Tracy. In a way, she had been right: Brian
had
got away with a lot, especially that summer, before he had left for the polytechnic: late-night band practices; a week-long camping trip to Cornwall with his mates; coming in once or twice a little worse for drink. But of one thing Banks was certain: Brian wasn't taking drugs. As an experienced detective, he knew the signs, physical and psychological, and had never observed them in his son.

He turned from the beach and found a phonebox on The Esplanade. It was eleven o'clock. Would he be in? He put his
phonecard in and punched in the number Brian shared with the other students in the house. It started to ring.

“Hello?”

A strange voice. He asked for Brian, said it was his father.

“Just a minute,” the voice mumbled.

He waited, tapping his fingers against the glass, and after a few moments Brian came on the line.

“Dad! What is it? What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. I'm just down the coast from you and I wanted to say hello. How are you doing?” Banks felt choked, hearing Brian's voice. He wasn't sure his words came out right.

“I'm fine,” Brian answered.

“How's college?”

“Oh, you know. It's fine. Everything's fine. Look, are you sure there's nothing wrong? Mum's okay, isn't she?”

“I told you, everything's all right. It's just that I won't be able to make the time to drop by and I thought, well, being so close, I'd just give you a ring.”

“Is it a case?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Are you still there, Dad?”

“Of course I am. When are you coming up to visit us again?”

“I'll be up at Christmas. Hey, I've met some really great people down here. They play music and all. There's this one guy, we're going to form a band, and he's been playing some great blues for me. You ever heard of Robert Johnson? Muddy Waters?”

Banks smiled to himself and sighed. If Brian had ever taken the trouble to examine his collection—and of course, no teenager would be seen dead sharing his father's taste in music—he would have found not only the aforementioned, but Little Walter, Bessie Smith and Big Bill Broonzy, among several dozen others.

“Yes, I've heard of them,” he said. “I'm glad you're having a good time. Look, keep in touch. Your mother says you don't write often enough.”

“Sorry. There's really a lot of work to do. But I'll try to do better, promise.”

“You do. Look—”

His time ran out and he didn't have another card. Just a few more seconds to say hurried goodbyes, then the electronic insect sound of a dead line. When he put the phone down and started walking back to the hotel, Banks felt empty. Why was it always like that? he wondered. You call someone you love on the phone, and when you've finished talking, all you feel is the bloody distance between you. Time to try sleep, perhaps, after a little music. Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care. Some hope.

THIRTEEN

I

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you expect?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell us what you saw yesterday, Meg.”

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

“Were the curtains open?”

“Part way. Enough to see by.”

“And the window?”

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

“Did you go into the room?”

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

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

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

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

Meg nodded and took a deep breath.

“Did you see the woman's face?”

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

“Did you disturb anything in the room?”

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“So this room was unusually tidy?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

“All right?” Banks asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loder shrugged. “Hardly a motive for murder.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What next?” asked Loder.

“We can only wait, can't we?”

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