WEDNESDAY'S CHILD

PENGUIN BOOKS


Peter Robinson grew up in Leeds, Yorkshire. He emigrated
to Canada in 1974 and attended York
University and the University of Windsor, where he
was later Writer in Residence. He received the Arthur
Ellis Award in 1992 for Past Reason Hated and in
1997 for Innocent Graves, and was shortlisted for the
John Creasey Award in Britain for his first Inspector
Banks mystery, Gallows View. Past Reason Hated
also won the 1994 TORGI Talking Book of the Year
Award, and Wednesday's Child was nominated for an
Edgar Award. Six additional Inspector Banks novels
have all been published to critical acclaim. Peter
Robinson is also the author of the psychological
thriller Caedmon's Song and the LAPD procedural No
Cure for Love. He lives in Toronto.






Other Inspector Banks mysteries published by
Penguin:


Gallows View

A Dedicated Man

A Necessary End

The Hanging Valley

Past Reason Hated

Final Account

Innocent Graves

Dead Right

In a Dry Season


Also by Peter Robinson:


Caedmon's Song

No Cure for Love



WEDNESDAY'S CHILD

An Inspector Banks Mystery

Peter Robinson

Penguin Books




PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario,

Canada M4V 3B2

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England	FOf SilClla

First published in Viking by Penguin Books Canada Limited, 1992
Published in Penguin Books, 1993

Copyright  Peter Robinson, 1992

ISBN 0-14-017474-5




WEDNESDAY'S
CHILD


"Lost in the desart wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?"


Sleeping Lyca lay

While the beasts of prey,

Come from caverns deep,

View'd the maid asleep.



William Blake


"The Little Girl Lost"


1


The room was a tip, the woman a slattern. On the floor,
near the door to the kitchen, a child's doll with one eye
missing lay naked on its back, right arm raised above its
head. The carpet around it was so stained with ground-in
mud and food, it was hard to tell what shade of brown it
had been originally. High in one corner, by the front window,
pale flowered wallpaper had peeled away from a
damp patch. The windows were streaked with grime, and
the flimsy orange curtains needed washing.


When Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks perched
at the edge of the scuffed olive-green armchair, he felt a
spring dig into the back of his left thigh. He noticed
Detective Constable Susan Gay turn up her nose as she
looked at a garish oil-painting of Elvis Presley above the
mantelpiece. "The King" was wearing a jewelled white
cape with a high collar and held a microphone in his
ringed hand.

In contrast to the shabby decor, a compact music centre
in mint condition stood against one wall, a green-and- yellow
budgie in a cage nonchalantly sharpened its bill
on a cuttlefish, and an enormous matte black colour television
blared out from one corner. "Blockbusters" was


on, and Banks heard Bob Holness ask, "What 'B' is the

name of an African country bordering on South Africa?"


"Could you turn the sound down, please, Mrs
Scupham?" Banks asked the woman.

She looked at him blankly at first, as if she didn't understand
his request, then she walked over and turned off
the TV altogether. "You can call me Brenda," she said
when she sat down again.

Banks took a closer look at her. In her late twenties,
with long dirty-blonde hair showing dark roots, she possessed
a kind of blowzy sexuality that hinted at concupiscent
pleasure in bed. It was evident in the languor of
her movements, the way she walked as if she were in a
hot and humid climate.

She was a few pounds overweight, and her pink polo-neck
sweater and black mini-skirt looked a size too
small. Her full, pouty lips were liberally coated in scarlet
lipstick, which matched her long, painted fingernails, and
her vacuous, pale blue eyes, surrounded by matching
eye-shadow, made Banks feel he had to repeat every
question he asked.

Seeing the ashtray on the scratched coffee-table in
front of him, Banks took out his cigarettes and offered
the woman one. She accepted, leaning forward and holding
back her hair with one hand as he lit it for her. She
blew the smoke out through her nose, emulating some
star she had seen in a film. He lit a cigarette himself,
mostly to mask the peculiar smell, redolent of boiled
cabbage and nail-polish remover, that permeated the
room.

"When did you first get the feeling something was
wrong?" he asked her.

She paused and frowned, then answered in a low
voice, husky from too many cigarettes. "Just this afternoon.
I phoned them, and they said they'd never heard of


Mr Brown and Miss Peterson."


"And you got worried?"

"Yes."

"Why did you wait so long before checking up?"

Brenda paused to draw on her cigarette. "I don't
know," she said. "I thought she'd be all right, you
know.. .."

"But you could have called this morning. That's when
they said they'd bring her back, isn't it?"

"Yes. I don't know. I suppose so. I just. .. besides, I'd
got things to do."

"Did the visitors show you any identification?"

"They had cards, like, all official."

"What did the cards say?"

Mrs Scupham turned her head to one side, showing
only her profile. "I didn't really get a good look. It all
happened so fast."

"Did the cards have photographs on them?"

"No, I don't think so. I'm sure I would have noticed."

"What exactly did they say to you?" Banks asked.

"They told me their names and said they was from the
social, like, and then they showed their cards ..."

"This was at the door, before you let them in?"

"Yes. And then they said they'd come to see me about
my Gemma. Well, I had to let them in, didn't I? They
were from the authorities."

Her voice cracked a little when she mentioned her
daughter's name, and she sucked her lower lip. Banks
nodded. "What happened next?"

"When I let them in, they said they'd had reports of
Gemma being ... well, being abused . .."

"Did they say where they'd heard this?"

She shook her head.

"Didn't you ask them?"

"I didn't think to. They seemed so ... I mean, he was

wearing a nice suit and his hair was all short and neatly

brushed down, and she was dressed proper smart, too.

They just seemed so sure of themselves. I didn't think to

ask anything."


"Was there any truth in what they said?"

Mrs Scupham flushed. "Of course not. I love my
Gemma. I wouldn't harm her."

"Go on," Banks said. "What did they say next?"

"That's about it really. They said they had to take her
in, just overnight, for some tests and examinations, and if
everything was all right they'd bring her back this morning,
just like I told you on the phone. When they didn't
come, I got so worried ... I ... How could anyone do
something like that, steal someone else's child?"

Banks could see the tears forming in her eyes. He
knew there was nothing he could say to console her. In
fact, the best thing he could do was keep quiet about how
bloody stupid she'd been, and not ask her if she hadn't
heard about the cases, just a few years ago, when bogus
social workers had visited homes all around England
with stories just like the one they'd given her. No, best
keep quiet.

She had a fear of authority, probably bred into her, that
meant she would believe just about anything that someone
in a suit with a card, a nice haircut and an educated
accent told her. She wasn't unique in that. Most often,
the phoney social workers had simply asked to examine
the children in the home, not to remove them. For all the
mothers who had sent them packing, Banks wondered
how many had allowed the examination and had then
been too afraid or ashamed to admit it.

"How old is Gemma?" Banks asked.

"Seven. Just seven."

"Where's your husband?"

Mrs Scupham crossed her legs and folded her hands


on her lap. "I'm not married," she said. "You might as

well know. Well, there's no shame in it these days, is

there, what with so much divorce about."


"What about Gemma's father?"

"Terry?" She curled her upper lip in disgust. "He's
long gone."

"Do you know where he is?"

Mrs Scupham shook her head. "He left when Gemma
was three. I haven't seen or heard from him since. And
good riddance."

"We need to contact him," Banks pressed. "Can you
give us any information at all that might help?"

"Why? You don't . . . surely you don't think Terry
could have had anything to do with it?"

"We don't think anything yet. At the very least he deserves
to know what's happened to his daughter."

"I don't see why. He never cared when he was around.
Why should he care now?"

"Where is he, Brenda?"

"I've told you, I don't know."

"What's his full name?"

"Garswood. Terry Garswood. Terence, I suppose, but
everyone called him Terry."

"What was his job?"

"He was in the army. Hardly ever around."

"Is there anyone else? A man, I mean."

"There's Les. We've been together nearly a year now."

"Where is he?"

She jerked her head. "Where he always is, The
Barleycorn round the corner."

"Does he know what's happened?"

"Oh, aye, he knows. We had a row."

Banks saw Susan Gay look up from her notebook and
shake her head slowly in disbelief.

"Can I have another fag?" Brenda Scupham asked. "I


meant to get some more, but it just slipped my mind."


"Of course." Banks gave her a Silk Cut. "Where do
you work, Brenda?"

"I don't ... I ... I stay home." He lit the cigarette for
her, and she coughed when she took her first drag.
Patting her chest, she said, "Must stop."

Banks nodded. "Me, too. Look, Brenda, do you think
you could give us a description of this Mr Brown and
Miss Peterson?"

She frowned. "I'll try. I'm not very good with faces,
though. Like I said, he had a nice suit on, Mr Brown,
navy blue it was, with narrow white stripes. And he had
a white shirt and a plain tie. I'm not sure what colour that
was, dark anyways."

"How tall was he?"

"About average."

"What's that?" Banks stood up. "Taller or shorter than
me?" At around five foot nine, Banks was small for a policeman,
hardly above regulation height.

"About the same."

"Hair?"

"Black, sort of like yours, but longer, and combed
straight back. And he was going a bit thin at the sides."

"How old would you say he was?"

"I don't know. He had a boyish look about him, but he
was probably around thirty, I'd say."

"Is there anything else you can tell us about him? His
voice, mannerisms?"

"Not really." Brenda flicked some ash at the ashtray
and missed. "Like I said, he had a posh accent. Oh, there
was one thing, though I don't suppose it'd be any help."

"What's that?"

"He had a nice smile."

And so it went. When they had finished, Banks had a
description of Mr Brown that would match at least half


the young businessmen in Eastvale, or in the entire country,

for that matter, and one of Miss Peterson--brunette,

hair coiled up at the back, well-spoken, nice figure, expensive

clothes--that would fit a good number of young

professional women.


"Did you recognize either of them?" he asked. "Had
you seen them around before?" Banks didn't expect
much to come from this--Eastvale was a fair-sized
town--but it was worth a try.

She shook her head.

"Did they touch anything while they were here?"

"I don't think so."

"Did you offer them tea or anything?"

"No. Of course I didn't."

Banks was thinking of fingerprints. There was a slight
chance that if they had drunk tea or coffee, Mrs Scupham
might not have washed the cups yet. Certainly any prints
on the door handles, if they hadn't been too blurred in
the first place, would have been obscured by now.

Banks asked for, and got, a fairly recent school photograph
of Gemma Scupham. She was a pretty child, with
the same long hair as her mother--her blonde colouring
was natural, though--and a sad, pensive expression on
her face that belied her seven years.

"Where could she be?" Brenda Scupham asked. "What
have they done to her?"

"Don't worry. We'll find her." Banks knew how empty
the words sounded as soon as he had spoken them. "Is
there anything else you can tell us?"

"No, 1 don't think so."

"What was Gemma wearing?"

"Wearing? Oh, those yellow overall things, what do
you call them?"

"Dungarees?"

"Yes, that's right. Yellow dungarees over a white T-

shirt. It had some cartoon animal on the front. Donald

Duck, I think. She loved cartoons."


"Did the visitors mention any name other than Brown
or Peterson?"

"No."

"Did you see their car?"

"No, I didn't look. You don't, do you? I just let them
in and we talked, then they went off with Gemma. They
were so nice, I ... I just can't believe it." Her lower lip
trembled and she started to cry, but it turned into another
coughing fit.

Banks stood up and gestured for Susan to follow him
out into the hall. "You'd better stay with her," he whispered.

"But, sir--"

Banks held his hand up. "It's procedure, Susan. And
she might remember something else, something important.
I'd also like you to get something with Gemma's
fingerprints on it. But first I want you to radio in and tell
Sergeant Rowe to phone Superintendent Gristhorpe and
let him know what's going on. You'd better get someone
to contact all the Yorkshire social services, too. You
never know, someone might have made a cock-up of the
paperwork and we'd look right wallies if we didn't
check. Ask Phil to organize a house-to-house of the
neighbourhood." He handed her the photograph. "And
arrange to get some copies of this made."

Susan went out to the unmarked police Rover, and
Banks turned back into the living-room, where Brenda
Scupham seemed lost in her own world of grief. He
touched her lightly on the shoulder. "I have to go," he
said. "DC Gay will be back in a moment. She'll stay
with you. And don't worry. We're doing all we can."

He walked down the short path to the patrol car and
tapped on the window. "You told me you searched the


place, right?" he said to the constable behind the wheel,

pointing back up the path with his thumb.


"Yes, sir, first thing."

"Well, do it again, just to be certain. And send someone
to get Mrs Scupham a packet of fags, too. Silk Cut'11
do. I'm off to the pub." He headed down the street leaving
a puzzled young PC behind him.


II



Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe squatted by his dry
stone
wall in the back garden of his house above the village

of Lyndgarth and contemplated retirement. He

would be sixty in November, and while retirement was

not mandatory, surely after more than forty years on the

job it was time to move aside and devote himself to his

books and his garden, as the wise old Roman, Virgil, had

recommended.


He placed a stone, then stood up, acutely aware of the
creak in his knees and the ache in his lower back as he
did so. He had been working at the wall for too long.
Why he bothered, the Lord only knew. After all, it went
nowhere and closed in nothing. His grandfather had been
a master waller in the dale, but the skill had not been
passed down the generations. He supposed he liked it for
the same reason he liked fishing: mindless relaxation. In
an age of technocratic utilitarianism, Gristhorpe thought,
a man needs as much purposeless activity as he can find.

The sun had set a short while ago, and the sharp line
of Aldington Edge cut high on the horizon to the north,
underlining a dark mauve and purple sky. As Gristhorpe
walked towards the back door, he felt the chill in the
light breeze that ruffled his thatch of unruly grey hair.
Mid-September, and autumn was coming to the dale.

Inside the house, he brewed a pot of strong black tea,
threw together a Wensleydale cheese-and-pickle sandwich,
then went into his living-room. The eighteenth- century
farmhouse was sturdily built, with walls thick
enough to withstand the worst a Yorkshire winter could
throw at them, and since his wife's death Gristhorpe had
transformed the living-room into a library. He had placed
his favourite armchair close to the stone hearth and spent
so many an off-duty hour reading there that the heat from
the fire had cracked the leather upholstery on one side.

Gristhorpe had given the television his wife had enjoyed
so much to Mrs Hawkins, the lady who "did" for
him, but he kept the old walnut-cabinet wireless so he
could listen to the news, "My Word," cricket and the
plays that sometimes came on in the evenings. Two walls
were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a series
of framed prints from Hogarth's "The Rake's Progress"
hung over the fireplace.

Gristhorpe set his tea and sandwich beside the books
on the small round table, within easy reach, and settled
back with a sigh into his chair. The only sounds that
broke the silence were the wind soughing through the
elms and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

To retire or not to retire, that was the question that
kept him from immediately picking up The Way of AH
Flesh. Over the past few years he had delegated most of
the investigative work to his team and spent his time on
administrative and co-ordinating duties. He had absolute
trust in Alan Banks, his protg, and both DS Richmond
and the recently appointed DC Gay were coming along
well. Should he move aside and clear the space for
Banks's promotion? Certainly Alan showed an enthusiasm
for work and learning that reminded Gristhorpe of
himself as a young lad. Both lacked formal education beyond
the local grammar school, but neither let it hold

him back. Banks was a good detective, despite his anti authoritarian
tendencies, occasional rashness and a
loathing for the politics that were now becoming so
much a part of the job. But Gristhorpe admired him for
that. He, himself, hated police politics. Banks, though
twenty years younger, was a real copper, a man who had
come from the street. He also had imagination and curiosity,
two qualities that Gristhorpe thought essential.

And what would he do with his time if he did retire?
There was the dry-stone wall, of course, but that was
hardly a full-time occupation. Nor was reading, especially
with the way his eyesight had been declining of
late. He was at an age when every odd ache or pain
brought a little more fear than it had before, when colds
lingered and settled on the chest. But he was no
hypochondriac. The Gristhorpes were robust, always had
been.

He would like to travel, he decided, to revisit Venice,
Florence, Paris, Madrid, and go somewhere he had never
been before--the Far East, perhaps, or Russia. But travel
cost money, and a policeman's pension wouldn't stretch
that far. Gristhorpe sighed and picked up Samuel Butler.
He didn't have to make his decision tonight; best wait for
a while.

He had hardly got through the first paragraph when
the phone rang. Marking the page with a leather strip and
putting the book aside, he got up and walked into the
hall. It was Sergeant Rowe from the station. He had received
a message from Susan Gay about a child gone
missing from the East Side Estate. Could the superintendent
come in as soon as possible? Gristhorpe could get
few more details over the phone, except that the child
had been taken by a man and a woman pretending to be
social workers and that she had been gone over a day. As
he listened to Sergeant Rowe deliver the message in his

flat, emotionless voice, Gristhorpe felt a shiver go up his
spine.

Grimly, he put on his tweed jacket and went outside to
the car. It was completely dark now, and the lights of
Lyndgarth twinkled below on the daleside. Gristhorpe
drove through the village, past the squat St Mary's, and
onto the main Eastvale road. It was a journey he had
made hundreds of times, and he drove automatically,
without even having to think about the dips and turns.
Normally, even in the dark, he would glance at certain
landmarksthe lights of the old Lister house way up on
the opposite slopes of the valley; the six trees bent over
by the wind on the drumlin to the westbut this time he
was too distracted to notice the landscape.

As he drove towards the lights of Eastvale, he remembered
that long Saturday in October, 1965, when he and
dozens of other young policemen had stood in the drizzle
and the biting wind 1,600 feet up the Pennines listening
to their orders. There they all stood, in anoraks and
Wellington boots, shivering in the late autumn cold on
the top of Saddleworth Moor, complaining about the
Saturday afternoon football they were missing. It was
eerie enough just being up there in the banshee wind, the
rain and inky light, with those outcrops of rocks like decayed
teeth on the skyline. All day they had searched,
dragging their feet through the mud and peat, from 9:30
a.m. until well after three o'clock. The rain had stopped
by then, and the weather was a little warmer, the moor
shrouded in a slight mist.

Suddenly Gristhorpe had heard the shout from a
searcher in the distance: a young lad, he remembered,
just out of training college, who had taken a break to answer
a call of nature. Those nearby, Gristhorpe included,
hurried towards him, and watched in horror as Detective
Sergeant Eckersley came and scraped away the clinging

peat from a child's arm bone. A little more digging revealed
a head. Eckersley stopped at that. He sent for the
scene-of-crime officers, and soon they all arrived, out of
nowhere, the Assistant Chief Constable, police surgeons,
photographers, Joe Mounsey, the lot.

They put up canvas screens and everyone but the brass
and the SOCOs had to stand back. As the doctor scraped
off the dirt and the flash camera popped, the whole gruesome
discovery finally lay revealed. Gristhorpe caught
only a glimpse of the body through a gap in the canvas,
but it was enough.

They had been looking for a boy called John Kilbride,
but what they had found was the near-skeletal body of a
girl lying on her side with her right arm raised above her
head. Close to her feet, her clothes lay bundleda blue
coat, a pink cardigan, a red-and-green tartan skirt.
Instead of John Kilbride, they had found the body of
Lesley Ann Downey, aged ten, another victim of the couple
who came to be called the "Moors Murderers," Ian
Brady and Myra Hindley.

Somehow, that day stood engraved in Gristhorpe's
memory more than any other day in his life. Months,
even years, might go by and he wouldn't even think of
that October day in 1965, but when something like this
happened, there it was, every bit as real and as horrifying
as if he were back there on the moor seeing that arm
sticking up through the quagmire as if it were waving or
pointing.

He had thought of it only once in the past few years,
and that was when a sixteen-year-old girl had gone missing
from one of the Swainsdale villages. And now two
people, a man and a womanjust as Brady and Hindley
had beenhad walked bold as brass into a house on the
East Side Estate and abducted a seven-year-old girl.

As Gristhorpe drove down narrow North Market

Street past the Town Hall, the lit window displays of the
tourist shops and the community centre, he gripped the
wheel so hard his knuckles turned white as he once again
heard the girl's voice in his head from the tape Brady and
Hindley recorded before they murdered her: Lesley Ann
whimpering and begging for her mummy and daddy to
help her; Brady telling her to put something in her mouth
and saying he wants to photograph her. And that damn
music, that damn music, "The Little Drummer Boy."
Gristhorpe had never been able to listen comfortably to
any music since then without hearing the girl screaming
and begging for mercy in his head, and he let everyone
believe he was tone deaf to avoid awkward explanations.
He turned his car into the parking area at the back of
the station, an old Tudor-fronted building, the front of
which faced Eastvale's market square, and sat for a few
moments to calm himself down and rid himself of the
memory. And before he went inside, he delivered a silent
prayer--not without some embarrassment, for he wasn't
a religious man--that there should be nothing, nothing to
compare between this affair and the Moors Murders. No
time for thoughts of retirement now.


Ill



As Banks walked down the street towards The

Barleycorn, he glanced at the rows of identical red brick

houses. There was no doubt about it, the East Side Estate

was a disaster. True, some tenants had bought the houses

when the Thatcher government sold them off, and many

had added a white fence here, a lick of paint there, or

even a dormer window. But it was a shabby area, with

junk-littered lawns, children's tricycles left in the street,

and mangy dogs running free, fouling the pavements,



barking and snapping at passersby.

And The Barleycorn was a typical estate pub, right
from its unimaginative name and its squat flat-roofed exterior
to its jukebox, video games and poorly kept keg
beer.

Banks pushed open the door and glanced around.
Little Richard's "Good Golly Miss Molly" was playing
too loudly on the jukebox. The cash register rang up another
sale. Most of the tables were empty, and only a few
diehard drinkers stood at the bar.

As the door shut behind him, Banks noticed the people
look in his direction, and suddenly one man took off towards
the back. Banks dashed after him, bumping his
knee on a chair and knocking it over as he went. He
caught the man by the shoulder just before he had
reached the exit. The man tried to pull free, but Banks
kept his grip, spun him around and hit him hard, just
once, in the solar plexus. The man groaned and doubled
up. Banks took him by the elbow and helped him to a
table the way one escorts an elderly relative.

As soon as they had sat down, the barman rushed over.

"Look, mister, I don't want no trouble," he said.

"Good," Banks answered. "Neither do I. But I'd like a
small brandy for my friend here, just to settle his stomach."

"What do you think I am, a bloody waitress?"

Banks looked at the man. He was about six feet tall
and gone to fat. His nose looked as if it had been broken
a few times, and old scar tissue hooded his left eye.

"Just bring the drink," Banks said. "I won't have anything
myself. Not while I'm on duty."

The barman stared at Banks, then his jaw dropped. He
shrugged and turned back to the bar. In a few seconds he
came back with the brandy. "It's on the house," he mumbled.

Banks thanked him and passed the glass over to his
companion, who sat rubbing his stomach and gasping for
breath. "Here's to your health, Les."

The man glared at him through teary eyes, knocked
back the brandy in one and banged the glass down hard
on the table. "You didn't need to have done that," he
said. "I was only off for a piss."

"Bollocks, Les," said Banks. "The only time I've seen
anyone run as fast as that to the bog they had dysentery.
Why were you running?"

"I told you."

"I know, but I want you to tell me the truth."

Les Poole was well known to the Eastvale police and
had been a frequent guest at the station. He had congeni tally
sticky fingers and couldn't stand the idea of anything
belonging to anyone else but him. Consequently, he
had been in and out of jail since Borstal, mostly for burglary.
No doubt, Banks thought, had he the intelligence,
he might also have risen to the dizzy heights of fraud and
blackmail. Les had never held a job, though rumour had
it that he had, in fact, once worked as a dustbin man for
six weeks but got the sack for wasting too much time
rummaging through people's rubbish looking for things
he could keep or sell. In short, Banks thought, Les Poole
was little more than a doodle in the margin of life. At
least until now.

Les was an odd-looking character, too, like someone
who had fallen through a time warp from the 1950s. He
had greased-back hair, complete with quiff, sideboards
and duck's arse, a triangular face with a Kirk Douglas
dimple on his chin, a long, thin nose, and eyes as flat and
grey as slate. About Banks's height, he was wearing a
black leather jacket, red T-shirt and jeans. His beer-belly
bulged over the belt. He looked as if he should be playing
stand-up bass in a rockabilly band. Why he had
always been so attractive to women, Banks couldn't
fathom. Maybe it was his long dark eyelashes.

"Well?" prompted Banks.

"Well what?"

Banks sighed. "Let's start this again, Les. What we'll
do is we'll back up and lead nice and slowly to the question.
Maybe that way you'll be able to understand it, all
right?"

Les Poole just glared at him.

Banks lit a cigarette and went on. "I came down here
to ask if you know anything about young Gemma's disappearance.
Do you?"

"She was taken away, that's all I know. Brenda told
me."

"Where were you when it happened?"

"Eh?"

"Where were you yesterday afternoon?"

"Out and about."

"Doing what?"

"Oh, this and that."

"Right. So while you were out and about doing this
and that, a man and a woman, both well-dressed and official-looking,
called at your house, said they were child care
workers, talked their way inside and persuaded
Brenda to hand over her daughter for tests and further
examination. Now what I want to know, Les, is do you
know anything about that?"

Les shrugged. "It's not my kid, is it? I can't help it if
she's so fucking daft she'll give her kid away."

The barman appeared at Banks's shoulder and asked if
they wanted anything else.

"I'll have a pint, Sid," Les said.

"Bring me one too, this time," Banks added. "I feel
like I bloody well need it."

After the barman had brought the beer, which tasted

more like cold dishwater than real ale, Banks carried on.

"Right," he said, "so we've established you don't give
a damn about the child one way or another. That still
doesn't answer my questions. Where were you, and do
you know anything about it?"

"Now come on, Mr Banks. I know I've been in a bit of
bother now and then, but surely even you can't suspect
me of doing a thing like that? This is what they call persecution,
this is. Just because I've got a record you think
you can pin everything on me."

"Don't be a silly bugger, Les. I'm not trying to pin
anything on you yet. For a start, I couldn't picture you in
a suit, and even if you'd managed to nick one from
somewhere, I think Brenda might still have recognized
you, don't you?"

"You don't have to take the piss, you know,"

"Let's make it simple, then. Do you know anything
about what happened?"

"No."

"Right. Another one: what were you doing?"

"What's that got to do with anything? I don't see what
that's got to do with anything. I mean, if you don't suspect
me, why does it matter where 1 was?"

"Got a job, Les?"

"Me? Nah."

"I don't suppose you'd want me to know if you did
have, would you? I might tell the social and they'd cut
off your benefits, wouldn't they?"

"I don't have a job, Mr Banks. You know what it's like
these days, all that unemployment and all."

"Join the rest of us in the nineties, Les. Maggie's gone.
The three million unemployed are a thing of the past."

"Still. . ."

"Okay. So you don't have a job. What were you doing?"

"Just helping a mate move some junk, that's all."

"That's better. His name?"

"John."

"And where does he live, this John?"

"He's got a shop, second-hand stuff, down Rampart
Street, over by The Oak . . ."

"I know it. So you spent the afternoon with this bloke
John, helping him in his shop?"

"Yeah."

"I suppose he'd confirm that?"

"Come again?"

"If I asked him, he'd tell me you were with him."

"Course he would."

"Where'd you get the nice new television and stereo,
Les?"

"What do you mean? They're Brenda's. She had them
before she met me. Ask her."

"Oh, I'm sure she'll back you up. The thing is, they
don't look that old. And Fletcher's electronics warehouse
got broken into last Friday night. Someone took off with
a van full of stereos and televisions. Did you know that?"

"Can't say as I did. Anyway, what's all this in aid of? I
thought you were after the kid?"

"I cast a wide net, Les. A wide net. Why did Brenda
wait so long before calling us?"

"How should I know? Because she's a stupid cow, I
suppose."

"Sure it was nothing to do with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"She said you had a row. Maybe you didn't want the
police coming to the house and seeing that television, or
the new music centre."

"Look, I told you"

"I know what you told me, Les. Why don't you answer
the question? Was it you persuaded Brenda to wait

so long before calling us?"

Poole looked away and said nothing.

"Do you know Gemma could be dead?"

Poole shrugged.

"For Christ's sake, don't you care?"

"I told you, she's not my kid. Bloody nuisance, if you
ask me."

"You ever hit her, Les?"

"Me? Course I didn't. That's not my style."

"Ever see Brenda do it?"

Poole shook his head. Banks stood up, glanced at the
beer in his glass and decided to leave it.

"I'm off now, Les," he said, "but I'll be around. You'll
be seeing so much of the police in the next few days
you'll think you've died and gone to hell. And I want
you to stick around, too. Know what I mean? Be seeing
you."

Banks left The Barleycorn for the dark autumn
evening. He was wearing only his sports jacket over his
shirt, and he felt the chill in the air as he walked back to
Brenda Scupham's with a terrier yapping at his heels.
Television screens flickered behind curtains, some pulled
back just an inch or two so the neighbours could watch
all the excitement at number twenty-four.

As he turned up the path, he thought of Brenda and the
enormity of what she had allowed. He could have told
her about the recent Children's Act, designed to protect
parents from over-zealous social workers, but he knew
he would only get a blank stare in return. Besides, telling
her that was as clear an example as you can get of bolting
the stable door after the horse has gone.

He thought again about Les Poole and wondered what
he was hiding. Maybe it had just been the criminal's typical
nervousness at an encounter with the police.
Whatever it was, it had been evident in his clipped an
swers, his evasions, his nervous body language, and most
of all in the guilty thoughts Banks could see skittering
about like tiny insects behind the slate eyes.


IV



Gristhorpe tried to recall whether he had left anything

undone. He had informed the ACC, made sure the press

had all the information they needed, set up a mobile unit

on a patch of waste ground at the end of Brenda

Scupham's street, drawn up a search plan, arranged to

draft in extra personnel, and got someone working on a

list of all known local child-molesters. Also, he had

faxed the bare details and a copy of Gemma's photograph

to the paedophile squad, which operated out of

Vine Street police station, in London. Soon, every policeman

in the county would be on the alert. In the morning,

the searchers would begin. For now, though, there

was nothing more he could do until he had discussed developments

with Banks.


His stomach rumbled, and he remembered the cheese-and-pickle
sandwich left uneaten on the table at home,
the tea going cold. Leaving a message for Banks, he
went across the street to the Queen's Arms and persuaded
Cyril, the landlord, to make him a ham sandwich,
which he washed down with a half-pint of bitter.

He had been sitting hunched over his beer at a dimpled,
copper-topped table for about ten minutes, oblivious
to the buzz of conversation around him, when a
voice startled him out of his dark thoughts.

"Sir?"

Gristhorpe looked up and saw Banks standing over
him. "Everything all right, Alan?" Gristhorpe asked.
"You look knackered."

"I am," said Banks, sitting down and reaching for his
cigarettes. "This Gemma Scupham business . . ."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe. "Get yourself a drink and
we'll see what we can come up with."

Banks bought a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps and
a pint, then told Gristhorpe about his suspicions of Les
Poole.

Gristhorpe rubbed his chin and frowned. "We'll keep
an eye on him, then," he said. "Give him a bit of slack. If
we bring him in over that Fletcher's warehouse job it'll
do us no good. Besides, we can hardly cart off the poor
woman's telly when someone's just abducted her child,
can we?"

"Agreed," said Banks. "OK. So far we've got six men
working on the house-to-house, questioning the neighbours.
Phil and Susan are with them. At least there's a
chance someone might have seen the car."

"What about the mother? Who's with her?"

"Susan stayed for a while, then she offered to get a
WPC to come in, but Mrs Scupham didn't want one. I
don't think either she or Les feel comfortable with the
police around. Anyway, she's got a friend in."

"I suppose we'd better start with the obvious, hadn't
we?" Gristhorpe said. "Do you believe the mother's
story?"

Banks took a sip of beer. "I think so. She seemed genuinely
shocked, and I don't think she's bright enough to
make up a story like that."

"Oh, come on, Alan. It doesn't take much imagination.
She could have hurt the child, gone too far and killed
heror Poole could havethen they dumped the body
and made up this cock-and-bull story."

"Yes, she could have. All I'm saying is the story
seems a bit over-elaborate. It would have been a hell of a
lot easier just to say that Gemma had been snatched

while she was out playing, wouldn't it, rather than having
to make up descriptions of two people and risk us
finding it odd that no one in the street saw them. They're
a nosy lot down on the East Side Estate. Anyway, I had
the officers on the scene search the house thoroughly
twice and they didn't come up with anything. We've got
a SOCO team there now doing their bit. If there's any
chance Gemma was harmed in the house then taken
somewhere else, they'll find it."

Gristhorpe sighed. "I suppose we can rule out kidnapping?"

"Brenda Scupham's got no money. She might be fiddling
the social, making a bit on the side, but that hardly
makes her Mrs Rothschild."

"What about the father? Custody battle? Maybe he
hired someone to snatch Gemma for him?"

Banks shook his head. "According to Brenda, he's not
interested, hasn't been for years. We're tracking him
down anyway."

Gristhorpe waved a plume of smoke aside. "I don't
like the alternatives," he said.

"Me neither, but we've got to face them. Remember
those stories a while back? Paedophiles posing as social
workers and asking to examine people's kids for evidence
of abuse?"

Gristhorpe nodded.

"Luckily, most parents sent them away," Banks went
on. "But suppose this time they succeeded?"

"I've checked on the descriptions with the divisions
involved," Gristhorpe said, "and they don't match. But
you're right. It's something we have to consider.
Someone else could have got the idea from reading the
papers. Then there's the ritual stuff to consider, too."

Not long ago, the press had been rife with stories of
children used for ritual abuse, often with satanic over
tones. In Cleveland, Nottingham, Rochdale and the
Orkneys, children were taken into care after allegations
of just such abuse involving torture, starvation, humiliation
and sexual molestation. Nobody had come up with
any hard evidencein fact, most people thought it was
more likely that the children needed to be protected from
the social workersbut the rumours were disturbing
enough. And Gristhorpe didn't fool himself that such a
thing couldn't happen in Eastvale. It could.

That Satanists now existed out in the dale was beyond
doubt. There had been trouble with them recently, when
local farmers had complained of finding sheep ritually
slaughtered in copses and hollows. There was a big difference
between sheep and children, of course, as there
was between Satanism and witchcraft. Gristhorpe had
been aware of local witch covens for years. They consisted
mostly of meek husbands and bored housewives in
search of an evening's naughtiness dancing naked in the
woods. But the Satanists were a different breed. If they
could go as far as killing sheep and draining their blood,
what would they stop at?

"But you know what I'm thinking about most of all,
don't you, Alan?" Banks was one of the few people
Gristhorpe had talked to about his small role in the
Moors Murders and the lasting effect it had on him.

Banks nodded.

"Different way of operating, of course. Brady and
Hindley snatched their victims. But there could be reasons
for that. It's the couple aspect that bothers me. A
man and a woman. I know there's been a lot of argument
about Myra Hindley's degree of involvement, but there's
no doubt they acted together. Call it what you will
maybe some kind of psychotic symbiosisbut without
the other, it's a good bet neither would have committed
those crimes. Alone, they were nothing, nobodies living

in fantasy worlds, but together they progressed from
Hitler-worship and pornography to murder. Hindley
acted as a catalyst to turn Brady's fantasies into reality,
and he acted them out to impress her and exercise his
power over her. Christ, Alan, if a couple like that's got
hold of little Gemma Scupham, God have mercy on her
soul." Again, Gristhorpe remembered the tape, Lesley
Ann begging, "Please don't undress me!" Brady telling
her, "If you don't keep that hand down I'll slit your
neck." And that other gruesome touch, the children's
choir singing carols in the background.

"We don't know," said Banks. "We know bugger-all
so far."

Gristhorpe rubbed his brow. "Aye, you're right. No
sense jumping to conclusions. On the bright side, let's
hope it was some poor young childless couple who just
went too far to get themselves a kiddie." He shook his
head. "It doesn't make sense, though, does it? If they
took the child out of love, how could they reconcile
themselves to the mother's pain? There'd be too much
guilt to allow them any happiness. And I doubt they'd be
able to keep a secret like that for very long."

"I've asked Phil if he can tie in with HOLMES on
this," Banks said. "Remember that course he went on?"

Gristhorpe nodded. HOLMES stood for Home Office
Large Major Enquiry System. Developed during the hunt
for the Yorkshire Ripper, HOLMES basically allows all
reports coming out of an investigation to be entered and
organized into a relational database. That way, a key
word or phrase can be tracked more accurately through
previously unrelated data than before.

And that was as far as Gristhorpe could follow. The
rest, like most computer talk, was gobbledegook to
him. In fact, the mere mention of megabytes and DOS
brought out the latent Luddite in him. Still, he didn't

underestimate their value. An enquiry like this would
generate a lot of paperwork, and every statement, every
report, no matter how minor or negative, would be entered,
and cross-checks would be made. He wanted no
cock-ups along the lines of the Yorkshire Ripper investigation,
where the left hand hadn't seemed to know what
the right hand was doing.

"Phil says he'd like computers in the mobile unit,"
Banks added. "That way the officers can put everything
on disk and pass it on to him without any retyping."

"I'll see what I can do. Any more ideas?"

"Just a couple. I'd like a chat with the girl's teacher,
see what I can find out about her. I'm damn sure there's
been some abuse involved. Both Poole and Brenda
Scupham deny it, but not convincingly enough."

Gristhorpe nodded. "Go on."

"And I think we should consider bringing Jenny Fuller
in. She might at least be able to give us some idea of
what kind of people we're looking for."

"I couldn't agree more," Gristhorpe said. He liked
Jenny Fuller. Not only was she a competent psychologist
who had helped them before in unusual cases, but she
was a pleasure to have around. A right bonny lass, as
Gristhorpe's father would have said.

"Should we bring Jim Hatchley back from the seaside?"
Banks asked.

Gristhorpe scowled. "I suppose there might come a
time we'll need him. Leave it for now, though."
Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley had been transferred to
a CID outpost on the Yorkshire coast, largely to make
way for Philip Richmond's promotion. Gristhorpe had
never much liked Hatchley, but grudgingly admitted he
had his uses. As far as Gristhorpe was concerned, he was
an idle, foul-mouthed, prejudic* d slob, but his brain
worked well enough when he took the trouble to use it,

and he had a list of dirty tricks as long as your arm that
often got results without compromising procedure.

Banks drained his glass. "Anything else?"

"Not tonight. We'll have a meeting first thing in the
morning, see what's turned up. You'd better get home
and get some sleep."

Banks grunted. "I might as well have another pint
first. There never seems to be anyone in these days."

"Where's Sandra?"

"Community Centre, still organizing that local artists'
exhibition. I'll swear she spends more time there than
she does at home. And Tracy's out at the pictures with
that boyfriend of hers."

Gristhorpe caught the anxiety in Banks's tone. "Don't
worry about her, Alan," he said. "Tracy's a sensible lass.
She can take care of herself."

Banks sighed. "I hope so." He gestured towards
Gristhorpe's empty glass. "What about you?"

"Aye, why not? It might help me sleep."

While Banks went to the bar, Gristhorpe considered
the night ahead. He knew he wouldn't be going home.
For years, he had kept a camp-bed in the station storeroom
for emergencies like this. Tonight, and perhaps for
the next two or three nights, he would stay in his office.
But he doubted that he would get much sleep. Not until
he found out what had happened to Gemma Scupham,
one way or the other.

I


Early the next morning, Banks stood on his doorstep

holding the milk bottles and breathed in the clear air. It

was a magnificent day: not a cloud in the light blue sky,

and hardly any wind. He could smell peat-smoke in the

air, and it seemed to accentuate the chill autumn edge,

the advancing touch of winter. More than anything, it

was a day for walking out in the dale, and it would bring

dozens of tourists to the Eastvale area.


He went inside and put the milk in the fridge. He
could hear Tracy taking her morning shower and Sandra
moving about in the bedroom, getting dressed. It had
been a good night when he got back from the Queen's
Arms. Sandra had got home before him, and before bed
they enjoyed a nightcap and some Ella Fitzgerald on the
CD player she had bought him for his fortieth birthday.
Tracy came home on time, cheerful enough, and Banks
couldn't detect any change for the worse in her that he
could attribute to her boyfriend, Keith Harrison. Still, he
thought as he poured himself a cup of coffee, domestic
life had changed a lot over the summer.

For one thing, Brian had left home for Portsmouth
Polytechnic, where he intended to study architecture.


28



Much as they had locked horns the past few years--especially
over music and staying out too late--Banks
missed him. He was left with Tracy, now so grown-up he
hardly knew her: blonde hair chopped short and layered
raggedly, mad about boys, make-up, clothes, pop music.

They never seemed to talk any more, and he missed
those chats about history--her former passion--especially
when he had been able to educate her on a point or
two. Banks had always felt insecure about his lack of a
good formal education, so Tracy's questions had often
made him feel useful. But he knew nothing about the latest
pop groups, fashion or cosmetics.

And Sandra had become absorbed in her work. He told
himself, as he buttered his toast, not to be so damned
selfish and to stop feeling sorry for himself. She was doing
what she wanted--getting involved in the arts--after
so many years of sacrifice for the sake of the family and
for his career. And if he hadn't wanted an independent,
spirited, creative woman, then he shouldn't have married
her. Still, he worried. She was late so often, and some of
these local artists were handsome young devils with the
reputation of being ladies' men. They were more free- spirited
than he was, too, with Bohemian attitudes about
sex, no doubt.

Perhaps Sandra found him boring now and was looking
for excitement elsewhere. At thirty-eight, she was a
fine-looking woman, with an unusual mix of long blonde
hair and dark eyebrows over intelligent blue eyes. The
slim, shapely figure she had worked hard to maintain always
turned heads. Again he told himself not to be such
a fool. It was the work that was taking up her time, not
another man.

Sandra and Tracy were still upstairs when he had finished
his coffee and toast. He called out goodbye, put on
his charcoal sports jacket, patting the side pocket for



cigarettes and lighter, and set off. It was such a fine
morningand he knew how quickly the day could turn
to miserythat he decided to walk the mile or so to
Eastvale Regional Headquarters rather than drive. He
could always sign a car out of the pool if he needed one.

He stuck the Walkman in his pocket and turned it on.
Ivor Gurney's setting of "In Flanders" started: "I'm
homesick for my hills againMy hills again!" Banks
had come to Gurney first through some of his poems in
an anthology of First World War poetry, then, learning he
had been a composer too, went in search of the music.
There wasn't much available, just a handful of songs
settings of other people's poemsand some piano music,
but Banks found the spareness and simplicity
intensely moving.

As he walked along Market Street, he said hello to the
shopkeepers winding out their awnings and called in at
the newsagent's for his copy of The Independent.
Glancing at the front page as he walked, he spotted
Gemma Scupham's photograph and a brief request for
information. Good, they'd been quick off the mark.

When he got to the market square, the first car was
disgorging its family of tourists, dad with a camera slung
around his neck, and the children in orange and yellow
cagoules. It was hard to believe on such a day that a
seven-year-old girl probably lay dead somewhere in the
dale.

Banks went straight to the conference room upstairs in
the station. It was their largest room, with a well-polished
oval table at its centre, around which stood ten
stiff-backed chairs. It was rare that ten people actually
sat there, though, and this morning, in addition to Banks,
only Superintendent Gristhorpe, Susan Gay and Phil
Richmond occupied chairs. Banks helped himself to a
black coffee from the urn by the window and sat down.

He was a few minutes early, and the others were chatting
informally, pads and pencils in front of them.

First, Gristhorpe tossed a pile of newspapers onto the
table and bade everyone have a look. Gemma Scupham's
disappearance had made it in all the national dailies as
well as in the Yorkshire Post, In some of the tabloids, she
even made the headline: the photo of the melancholy- looking
little girl with the straggly blonde hair appeared
under captions such as HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?
in "Jesus type." The stories gave few details, which
hardly surprised Banks as there were scant few to give.
A couple of pieces implied criticism of Brenda Scupham,
but nothing libellous. Most were sympathetic to the
mother.

"That might help us a bit," Gristhorpe said. "But I
wouldn't count on it. And remember, the press boys will
be around here in droves as soon as the London trains
come in this morning. Let's be careful what we say, eh,
or before we know it we'll be up to our necks in tales of
satanic rituals." Gristhorpe stood up, grimaced and put
his hand to the small of his back. "Anyway, let's get on.
We've circulated Gemma's picture, and Susan managed
to lift a set of her prints from a paint-box, so we've got
them on file for comparison. Nothing new came up during
the night. We did about as well as can be expected on
the house-to-house. Four people say they remembered
seeing a car parked outside Brenda Scupham's house on
Tuesday afternoon. Of these, two say it was black, one
dark brown and one dark blue." Gristhorpe paused. "I
think, therefore, that we can be certain it was a dark car."
He refilled his coffee cup and sat down again. "As far as
the make is concerned we got even less. They all agreed
it was a pretty small car, but not as small as a Mini, and
it looked quite new. It wasn't an estate car or a van of
any kind, so we're looking at a compact. One said it

reminded him of those Japanese jobbies he's seen advertised
on television, so it may be an import. Needless to
say, no one got the number."

"Did anyone see the couple?" Banks asked.

"Yes." Gristhorpe looked at the file in front of him.
"The woman at number eleven said she was washing her
windows and she saw a well-dressed couple going up the
path. Said they looked official, that's all. She thought
maybe Mrs Scupham or her friend had got in trouble
with DHSS."

"Hmm," said Banks. "Hardly surprising. 1 don't suppose
anybody saw them leaving with the child?"

Gristhorpe shook his head.

"Well," Banks said, "at least it helps confirm Brenda
Scupham's story."

"Aye." Gristhorpe looked over at Susan Gay, who had
done most of the questioning. "Who would you say was
our most reliable witness?"

"Mr Carter at number sixteen, sir. It wasn't so much
that he'd seen more than the others, but he seemed to be
thinking very seriously about what he had seen, and he
told me he had a strong visual memorynot quite photographic,
but he could close his eyes and picture scenes.
He seemed careful not to make anything up. You know,
sir, how a lot of them embroider on the truth."

"What colour did he say the car was?" Banks asked.

"Dark blue, and he thought it was a Japanese design,
too. But he didn't see this Peterson and Brown couple,
just the car."

"Shame," said Gristhorpe. "Had he seen it around before?"

"No, sir."

"Think it would do any good talking to him again?"

"It might," said Susan. "I'll drop by sometime today.
He's a pensioner and I get the impression he's lonely. He

seemed pleased to have a bit of company. It took me a
while to get him round to what he'd seen."

Gristhorpe smiled. "Let him ramble a while, if it helps.
Indulge him. And we'd better organize a house-to-house
of the entire estate. I want to know if anything like this
has happened there before, people posing as social workers
after children. No one's likely to admit to it, but if
you get the feeling that anyone's being particularly evasive,
for whatever reason, make a note and we'll get back
to them. Can you handle that, Susan?"

Susan Gay nodded.

"Take as many PCs as you can find, and make sure
you give them a damn good briefing first. Most of the
lads are out on the search, but we've been promised extra
manpower on this." He turned to Richmond. "We've got
to check with all the garages in the area and see if they
remember anyone matching the description stopping for
petrol. And I want to see all the police traffic reports
parking or speeding ticketsfor Tuesday. In fact, make
it for the past week. I want to know if anyone remembers
a smartly dressed couple with a little girl in a dark blue
compact. Better check with the car-rental agencies, too.
Phil, can you handle all that?"

Richmond nodded. "Yes, sir. I've already got a computer
print-out of locals with any kind of history of child
molestation. None of the descriptions match. Do you
want me to start on that too?"

"How many?"

"Six, sirthat's four in the Swainsdale area and two
in Sergeant Hatchley's patch. But we've no way of
telling where our couple started out from."

"I know," said Gristhorpe. "I'll get onto DS Hatchley,
and you just do the best you can. We'll see if we can't
pay a couple of visits ourselves. But I want priority on
tracking down that car. Someone must have noticed it.

By the way, those computers you wanted have been delivered
to the mobile unit. Do you think you can take a
trip out there and give the lads a quick lesson?"

"No problem."

"Any questions?" Gristhorpe asked.

"Did forensics find anything at the house?" Banks
asked.

Gristhorpe shook his head. "Not a sausage. The SOCO
team did a thorough job, and they couldn't find any
traces of a struggleno blood, nothingor any indications
that Gemma had been harmed on the premises. I
think we can assume that Mrs Scupham is telling the
truth and this couple really did abduct the lass."

"Anything new on Les Poole?" Banks asked.

"Nothing," Gristhorpe answered. "According to the
PCs on the night shift, he got back from the pub about
ten o'clock and hasn't been out since. Anything else?"

"What about Gemma's father?" Susan asked.

"As far as we know, he's serving with the army in
Belfast, poor sod. We'll arrange to get the locals to interview
him today, if possible, just to make sure he's got
nothing to do with it." Gristhorpe clapped his hands.
"Right. If there's nothing else, we'd better get cracking."
As they left, he touched Banks on the shoulder. "Alan, a
moment?"

"Of course."

Gristhorpe poured more coffee for himself and Banks.
He didn't look too bad for someone who hadn't had
much sleep, Banks thought. Perhaps the bags under his
eyes were heavier than usual, but he seemed alert and
full of drive.

"I'm getting involved in this one, Alan," he said. "At
every level. I'll not be content just to sit in my office and
co-ordinate, though I'll be doing that, of course. I'll be
spending a fair amount of time at the mobile unit and I'll

be conducting some interviews myself. I want you to
know that, and I want you to know so you don't let it interfere
with your usual way of working. I've always
given you a pretty free hand, and it's usually got results.
I don't want to change that. What I do want is to be present
when we get the breaks. Know what I mean?"

Banks nodded.

"And there's something else," Gristhorpe said.
"Something the ACC made very clear as a priority concern."

Banks thought he could guess what was coming, but
kept silent while Gristhorpe went on.

"Gemma Scupham might be the first," he said, "but
she might not be the last. Let's bear that in mind."

Banks carried his coffee through to his office, where
he lit a cigarette, then stood by the Venetian blind and
looked down on the market square. The faade of the
Norman church and the cobbles of the market square
shone pale gold in the pure light. Two more cars had arrived,
and yet another was just pulling in. Banks watched
the young couple get out and stand hand in hand gazing
around them at the ancient square with its weathered
stone cross. Honeymooners, by the look of them. The
church clock rang nine.

He thought about Brenda Scupham, with her aura of
sexuality, and of the sly, weasly Les Poole, and he tried
to imagine what kind of parents they must have made.
They can't have had much time for Gemma, with Les always
at the pub or the bookie's and Brenda at home doing
God knows what. Watching television, most likely.
Did they talk to her? Play with her? And did they abuse
her?

Then he thought of Gemma herself: that haunted face,
those eyes that had seen much more and much worse
than her young mind could comprehend, possibly lying

dead out there right now in some ditch, or buried in a
makeshift grave. And he thought of what Gristhorpe had
just said. He stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the
telephone, No time for brooding. Time to get to work.


II



A desolate, stunned air pervaded the East Side Estate that

morning, Banks sensed, as he walked from the mobile

unit to the school. Even the dogs seemed to be indoors,

and those people he did see going on errands or pushing

babies in prams had their heads bowed and seemed

drawn in on themselves. He passed the maisonettes with

their obscene messages scrawled on the cracked paintwork,

and the two blocks of flats--each fourteen storeys

high--where he knew the lifts, when they worked,

smelled of urine and glue. Hardly anyone was out on the

street.


The school itself was a square red brick building with
only a few small windows. A high chain-link fence bordered
the asphalt playground. Banks looked at his watch.
Eleven o'clock. Gemma's teacher should be waiting for
him in the staff-room.

He walked through the front doors, noting that one of
the glass panes was cracked in a spider-web pattern, and
asked the first adult he saw the way to the staff-room. As
he walked along the corridor, he was struck by the
brightness of the place, so much in contrast with its ugly
exterior. Most of it, he thought, was due to the children's
paintings tacked along the walls. These weren't skilled,
professional efforts, but the gaudy outbursts of untrained
minds--yellow sunbursts with rays shooting in all directions,
bright golden angels, red and green stick figures of
mummy and daddy and cats and dogs.

There was a funny smell about the place, too, that
transported him back to his own infants' school, but it
took him some moments to identify it. When he did, he
smiled to himself, remembering for the first time in ages
those blissful, carefree days before school became a matter
of learning facts and studying for exams. It was
Plasticine, that coloured putty-like stuff he had tried in
vain to mould into the shapes of hippos and crocodiles.

He walked straight into the staff-room, and a woman,
who looked hardly older than a schoolgirl herself, came
forward to greet him. "Chief Inspector Banks?" she
asked, holding out her hand. "I'm Peggy Graham."

It was a big room with well-spaced tables and chairs, a
notice-board full of mimeographed memos, handwritten
notes and printed flyers for concerts, courses and package
holidays. A couple of other teachers, sitting over
newspapers, glanced up at his entry, then looked down
again. One corner of the room had been converted into a
mini-kitchen, complete with a fridge, microwave and
coffee-maker. Here and there on the rough, orange- painted
walls hung more examples of untrammelled art.

"A bit overwhelming, isn't it?" Peggy Graham asked,
noticing him looking around. "I could do without the orange
walls myself, but it was a playroom before we got
it, so. ... Sit down. Can I get you some coffee or something?"

"If it's no trouble," Banks said.

She went to get it. Peggy Graham, Banks noticed, was
a small, bird-like woman, perhaps fresh out of teachers'
training school. Her grey pleated skirt covered her knees,
and a dark blue cardigan hung over her white cotton
blouse. She wore her mousy hair in a pony tail, and large
glasses made her nose look tiny. Her eyes, behind them,
were big, pale and milky blue, and they seemed charged
with worry and sincerity. Her lips were thin and curved

slightly downwards at the corners. She wore no makeup.

"Well," she said, sitting down beside him with the coffee.
It came in a mug with a picture of Big Bird on it.
"This is just dreadful about Gemma, isn't it? Just dreadful."

She spoke, he thought, as if she were talking to a class
of five-year-olds, and her mouth was so mobile she
looked as if she were miming. Banks nodded.

"What could have happened?" she asked. "Have you
got any idea?"

"I'm afraid not," Banks said.

"I don't suppose you could say anything even if you
did have, could you?"

"We have to be very careful."

"Of course." She sat back in her chair, crossed her legs
and rested her hands on her lap. Banks noticed the thin
gold wedding band. "How can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm not really sure. In cases like this it helps to find
out as much as you can about the child. What was
Gemma like?"

Peggy Graham pursed her lips. "Well, that's a hard
one. Gemma's a very quiet child. She always seems a bit
withdrawn."

"In what way?"

"Just . . . quiet. Oh, she's bright, very bright. She's an
excellent reader, and I think, given the opportunity, she
could be very creative. That's one of hers on the wall."

Banks walked over to the crayon sketch Peggy had
pointed at. It showed a girl with pigtails standing beside
a tree on a carpet of grass under a bright sun. The leaves
were individually defined in bright green, and the grass
was dotted with yellow flowers--buttercups, perhaps, or
dandelions. The girl, a stick-figure, just stood there with
her arms stretched out. Banks found something disturbing
about it, and he realized that the girl's round face had

no features. He went back to his chair.

"Very good," he said. "Did you ever get the feeling
that there was something bothering her?"

"She always seems . . . well, preoccupied." Peggy
gave a nervous laugh. "I call her Wednesday's child. You
know, 'Wednesday's child is full of woe.' She seemed
woeful. Of course, I tried to talk to her, but she never
said much. Mostly she was attentive in class. Once or
twice I noticed she was weeping, just quietly, to herself."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't want to embarrass her in front of the others. I
asked her afterwards what was wrong, but she wouldn't
say. Gemma's always been a very secretive child. What
goes on in that imagination of hers I've no idea. Half the
time she seems to be in another world."

"A better one?"

Peggy Graham twisted her ring. "I don't know. I like
to think so."

"What was your impression?"

"I think she was lonely and she felt unloved."

Her first use of the past tense in reference to Gemma
wasn't lost on Banks. "Lonely? Didn't she have any
friends?"

"Oh yes. She was quite popular here, even though she
was quiet. Don't get the wrong impression. She liked
playing games with the other girls. Sometimes she
seemed quite gay--oops, I shouldn't have said that,
should I, now they've censored it from all the Noddy
books--cheerful, I suppose. It's just that she was moody.
She had these woeful, silent moods when you just
couldn't reach her. Sometimes they'd last for days."

"And you don't know why?"

"I can only guess. And you mustn't tell anyone I said
this. I think it was her home life."

"What about it?"

"I think she was neglected. I don't mean she wasn't
well fed or clothed, or abused in any way. Though she
did look a bit ... well, shabby . . . sometimes. You know,
she was wearing the same dress and socks day after day.
And sometimes I just felt like picking her up and dumping
her in a bath. It wasn't that she smelled or anything.
She was just a bit grubby. 1 don't think her parents spent
enough time with her, encouraging her, that sort of thing.
I think that was the root of her loneliness. It happens a
lot, and there isn't much you can do about it. A supportive
home environment is perhaps even more important
than school for a child's development, but we can't be
parents as well as teachers, can we? And we can't tell
parents how to bring up their children."

"You mentioned abuse," Banks said. "Did you ever
notice any signs of physical abuse?"

"Oh, no. I couldn't ... I mean, if I had I would certainly
have reported it. We did have a case here a year or
so ago. It was dreadful, just dreadful what some parents
can sink to."

"But you saw no signs with Gemma? No bruises, cuts,
anything like that?"

"No. Well, there was one time. About a week or so
ago, I think it was. It was quite warm, like now. Gemma
was wearing a short-sleeved dress and I noticed a bruise
on her upper arm, the left one, I think. Naturally, I asked
her about it, but she said she'd got it playing games."

"Did you believe her?"

"Yes. I had no reason to doubt her word."

"So you didn't report it?"

"No. I mean, one wouldn't want to be alarmist. Not after
that business with the Cleveland social workers and
everything. Look, maybe I should have done something.
Lord knows, if I'm in any way responsible. . . . But if
you brought in the authorities every time a child had a

bruise there'd be no time for anything else, would
there?"

"It's all right," Banks said. "Nobody's blaming you.
Everybody's a bit sensitive about things like that these
days. I picked up plenty of bruises when I was a lad, believe
me, and my mum and dad wouldn't have appreciated
being accused of abusing me. And I got a good
hiding when I deserved it, too."

Peggy smiled at him over her glasses. "As I said," she
went on, "Gemma's explanation seemed perfectly reasonable
to me. Children can play pretty rough sometimes.
They're a lot more resilient than we give them
credit for."

"Was that the only mark you ever saw on her?"

"Oh, yes. I mean, if it had been a regular occurrence
I'd have said something for certain. We do have to keep
an eye open for these things."

"And she never seemed in pain of any kind?"

"Not physical pain, no. She just sometimes seemed
withdrawn, lost in her own world. But children often create
their own imaginary worlds. They can be very complex
beings, Chief Inspector. They're not all the same.
Just because a child is quiet, it doesn't mean there's anything
wrong with her."

"I understand. Please believe me, I'm not criticizing.
I'm just trying to find out something about her."

"How could it help?"

"I honestly don't know."

"You think she's dead, don't you?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"She's been gone nearly two days now. That's what
the papers say. Not in so many words, perhaps, but. . ."

"She could still be alive."

"Then she might be better off dead," Peggy Graham
whispered. She felt up the sleeve of her cardigan for a

tissue, lifted her glasses and wiped her moist eyes. They
looked small and shy without the lenses to magnify
them. "I'm sorry. It's just. . . we're all so upset."

"Did you, or anyone else on staff, notice any strangers
hanging around the school recently?"

"No. And I'm sure anything like that would have been
reported. We have very strict guidelines to follow."

"Nobody saw a dark blue car? Are you sure?"

She shook her head. "I'm sure."

"Did you ever see Gemma talking to any strangers
nearby? Male or female?"

"No. She always came and left with her friends, the
ones from the same street. She didn't live far away."

Banks stood up. "Thank you very much," he said. "If
you do remember anything, here's my card. Please call."

Peggy Graham took the card. "Of course. But I don't
see how there could be anything else."

"Just in case."

"All right." She got to her feet. "I'll walk to the door
with you."

As they walked, a host of children came out of one of
the classrooms. Some were laughing and scrapping, but
many of them seemed subdued. Perhaps they were too
young to understand the enormity of what had happened,
Banks thought, but they were old enough to sense the
mood of tension and fear. One little girl with glossy dark
curls and brown spaniel eyes tugged at Banks's sleeve.

"Are you the policeman?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, wondering how on earth she
knew.

"Are you looking for Gemma?"

"Yes, I am."

"Please find her," the little girl said, clutching his
sleeve tighter. "Bring her back. She's my friend."

"I'll do my best," said Banks. He turned to Peggy

Graham. She blushed.

"I'm afraid I told them a policeman was coming," she
said. "Sorry."

"It's all right. Look, can I talk to this girl?"

"Elizabeth? Well ... I suppose so. Though I don't
know what. . . . Come this way." And she led both Banks
and Elizabeth into the empty classroom.

"Now, Elizabeth," she said. "The nice policeman
wants to talk to you about Gemma, to help him to find
her. Just answer his questions. I'll stay here with you."
She glanced at Banks to ask if he minded, and he nodded
his agreement. Elizabeth took hold of Peggy Graham's
hand and stood beside her.

Banks crouched, hearing his knees crack as he did so,
and rested his elbows on his thighs. "You know we're
trying to find Gemma," he said. "Did she ever say anything
to you about going away?"

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Or about anyone wanting to take her away?"

Another shake.

"Did she have any older friends, big girls or big
boys?"

"No."

"Did she ever talk about her mummy and daddy?"

"It wasn't her daddy."

"Mr Poole?"

Elizabeth nodded. "She wouldn't call him Daddy."

"What did she say about him?"

"I don't know."

"Did she like him?"

"No."

"Did he ever hurt Gemma?"

"She cried."

"Why did she cry?"

"Don't know."

"Did he ever hurt her, Elizabeth?"

"I don't know. She didn't like him. She said he
smelled and he always told her to go away."

"When did he tell her to go away?"

"He said she was a sp . . . sp . . . a spilled cat."

"A spilled cat? Do you mean 'spoiled brat'?"

"Yes."

"When did he say this?"

"He wouldn't let her have the book."

"What book?"

"She wanted a book and he wouldn't let her have it.
He threw her other books away."

"Why?"

"She spilled some paint on his newspaper. It too dirty.
He was angry. He threw her books away and he wouldn't
let her have any more."

"What was too dirty, Elizabeth?"

"No. It too dirty."

Banks looked at Peggy Graham. "I think she's trying
to say 'at two-thirty,'" she said, frowning.

"Is that right?" Banks asked Elizabeth. "She spilled
paint on his newspaper at two-thirty, so he threw her
books away?"

She nodded.

"What were the books?"

"Story books. With pictures. Gemma likes reading.
She reads to me. I'm not very good. Please find her."
Elizabeth started crying. Peggy Graham put an arm
around her. "It's all right, dear. The nice policeman will
find Gemma. Don't cry."

Elizabeth sniffled a few moments longer, then wiped
her nose on her sleeve and left the room. Banks sighed.

"What was all that about?" Peggy asked.

"I wish I knew. Thanks for letting me talk to her anyway.
I hope she doesn't stay upset."

"Don't worry. Elizabeth's tough enough."
Banks walked through the playground full of children.
They were skipping, playing hopscotch, running around
as usual, but like the ones coming out of the classroom
they seemed much quieter, more subdued than children
usually are.

He looked at his watch. Close to noon. Time to write
up his notes before lunch with Jenny. Not that he had
learned much from the teacher that he hadn't known or
suspected already. Gemma kept herself to herself, perhaps
suffered neglect at home, but was probably not
physically abused. Still, there was the business of the
bruise. How had she got it? And what had Elizabeth
meant about "at two-thirty" and Gemma's books? Banks
walked past the tower block with JESUS SAVES written
in red on the wall and back to the unmarked car he had
parked by the mobile unit.


Ill



Damn it, cursed Jenny Fuller. She had pulled up at the

lights just in time and all the essays on the back seat had

slid off onto the floor. So few of the students bothered

with paper-clips or staples; it would a hell of a job

reshuffling them. If she hadn't been in such a hurry to

meet Banks it would never have happened. She was on

the south-eastern edge of Eastvale, coming up to the

roundabout by the Red Lion, and she only had five minutes

to park and get to Le Bistro. Still, Alan would wait.


The lights changed and the car lurched off again. To
hell with the papers. She shouldn't be teaching until
October anyway, and if it hadn't been for those
American students--those American students with odd
ideas of academic timetables and thousands of dollars to

spend on an English education--then she could have
been relaxing on a beach somewhere.

She smiled to herself, imagining Alan Banks sitting at
one of Le Bistro's wobbly little tables, no doubt feeling
out of place among the yuppie lunch crowd with their
Perriers and portable telephones. He would be far more
comfortable in the Queen's Arms with a pie and a pint in
front of him, not at a table covered in a coral cloth with a
long-stemmed rose in a vase at its centre. But Jenny had
been lecturing to the Americans all morning, and she was
damned if she was going to be done out of the shrimp
provenale and the glass of white wine she had promised
to treat herself.

Jenny remembered her surprise the first time the
Eastvale CID had brought her into a case, involving a
peeping Tom, three years ago. She had guessed (correctly)
that they wanted a visible female presence as a
sop to Dorothy Wycombe and the Eastvale feminist contingent,
WEEF, Women of Eastvale for Emancipation
and Freedom. Still, she had done a good job, and since
then her professional field of interests had broadened to
include a certain amount of criminal and deviant psychology.
She had even attended a series of fascinating
lectures on the psychological profiling of serial killers,
given by a visiting American from the FBI Behavioral
Sciences section.

She had also had a brief fling with the visitor, but she
didn't care to remember that too clearly. Like most of her
affairs, it was best forgotten. Still, that was eighteen
months ago, when she had been still hurting over her
split with Dennis Osmond. Since then she had not been
involved with anyone. Instead, she had done a lot of
thinking about her lousy relationships, and the reasons
for them. She hadn't come up with any answers yet.
Most often she ended up wondering why the hell her pro
fessional insights seemed to shed no light at all on her
personal life.

The tires screeched as she turned right at the market
square and drove down by Castle Hill between the terraced
river gardens and the formal gardens. People sat on
the terraces and ate packed lunches on one side of the
road, while on the other, mothers dragged bored children
around the displays of fading flowers.

At last, she crossed the small bridge over the River
Swain, turned right and pulled up outside the caf.

Le Bistro was one of Eastvale's newest cafs.
Tourism, the dale's main industry, had increased, and the
many Americans drawn to do the "James Herriot" tour
wanted a little more than fish and chips and warm beer,
quaint as they found such things. In addition, a more sophisticated,
cosmopolitan crowd had moved up from
London while property in the north was still a good deal
cheaper than down south. Many of them commuted from
Eastvale to York, Darlington, and even as far as
Tyneside, Leeds and Bradford, and they naturally demanded
a little more diversity in matters of dining.

Best of all, as far as Jenny was concerned, was that Le
Bistro was actually situated in a converted Georgian
semi only four houses south of her own. The new owners
had, somehow, received planning permission to knock
down the wall between the two houses and turn them
into a caf. For Jenny it was a godsend, as she often
couldn't be bothered to cook after a hard day. The food
was good and the prices were relatively reasonable.

She dashed through the door. The place was fairly
busy, but she saw Banks immediately. There he was in a
dark grey sports jacket, white shirt and tie. As usual, his
top button was open and the tie loose and askew. Under
close-cropped black hair, his dark blue eyes sparkled as
he looked over at her. He was working on a crossword

and holding what looked like a glass of mineral water.
Jenny couldn't suppress a giggle as she sat down in a
flurry of apologies. Le Bistro didn't serve pints.

"It's all right," said Banks rather glumly, putting his
newspaper away in his briefcase. "I'm supposed to be
cutting down on the ale anyway."

"Since when?"

Banks patted his stomach. "Since I turned forty and
noticed this beginning to swell."

"Nonsense. You're as lean as ever. You're just suffering
from male menopause. Next you'll be having an affair
with a twenty-one-year-old rookie policewoman."

Banks laughed. "Chance would be a fine thing. But
don't joke about it. You never know. Anyway, how are
you?"

Jenny shrugged and tossed back the thick mane of red
hair that cascaded over her shoulders. "Okay, I suppose.
I'm not sure I iike teaching summer school though."

"Working in summer?" mocked Banks. "Tut-tut, what
a terrible thing. What is the world coming to?"

Jenny thumped him on the arm. "It's supposed to be
one of the perks of the job, remember? Teachers get
summers off. Not this year, though."

"Never mind. You're looking well for it."

"Why, thank you, kind sir." Jenny inclined her head
graciously. "And you haven't changed. Honestly, Alan.
You still don't look a day over thirty-nine. How's
Sandra?"

"Busy."

"Oh-oh. Feeling all neglected, are we?"

Banks grinned. "Something like that. But we're not
here to talk about me."

"And how's Susan Gay?" Jenny had spent some time
helping Susan adjust to her CID posting, on a semiprofessional
basis, and the two had become fairly close.

They were different personalities, but Jenny saw something
in Susan--a sense of determination, a single-mind edness--that
both appealed to her and disturbed her. If
she could persuade Susan to relax a little, she felt, then a
more balanced and attractive personality might be permitted
to emerge.

Banks told her Susan was doing well, though she still
seemed a little tense and prickly, and the two chatted
about family and mutual friends. "Have you studied the
menu yet?" Jenny asked him after a short silence.

"Mm. No sausage and chips, I noticed. How's the
croque monsieur?"

"Good."

"Then I'll have that. And by the way, I like the music."

Jenny cocked an ear. Singing quietly in the background
was the unmistakable voice of Edith Piaf. Typical
of him to notice that, she thought. Left to herself she
would have ignored it as wallpaper music.

"Wine?" she asked.

"Not for me. It makes me sleepy and I've a lot of paperwork
to do this afternoon."

"So, it's about little Gemma Scupharn, is it?" Jenny
said, unfolding a coral napkin and spreading it over her
lap. "That's why you've called me in?"

Banks nodded. "Superintendent Gristhorpe thought
you might be able to help."

"At least I'm not the token feminist this time."

"No. Seriously, Jenny, can you help?"

"Maybe. What do you want from me?"

"For the moment I'd just like grounding in a few basics.
I can understand a lot about things most people
don't even want to think about--robbery, murder, even
rape--but I can't seem to grasp the motivation for something
like this."

Jenny took a deep breath and held it a moment. "All
right. I'll do what I can. Shall we order first, though?"
She called over the waitress and gave their orders, asking
for a glass of white wine for herself right now, and a coffee
for Banks, then she sat back in her chair. "First you'd
better tell me the details so far," she said.

Banks told her. Before he finished, the food arrived,
and they both tucked in.

Jenny pushed her plate away and set the half-full
wineglass in front of her. Banks ordered another coffee.

"I don't really know where to start," she said. "I mean,
it's not really my field."

"You do know something about sexual deviance,
though."

"Honestly, Alan, you make me sound like a real pervert.
Basically, nobody really knows what causes someone
to be a paedophile or a rapist or a sadist. They don't
necessarily realize they're doing anything wrong."

"Are you telling me that a man who sexually assaults
little children doesn't think he's doing anything wrong?"

"Depends what you mean by wrong. He would know
he's breaking the law, of course, but. . . . He's only satisfying
desires he can't help feeling. He never asked to feel
them in the first place. And many also feel tremendous
guilt and remorse."

"For doing something they don't even think is wrong?
You make it sound almost legitimate."

"You asked. I'm just telling you what little I know."

"I'm sorry. Go on."

"Look, you might think a person is simply born the
way he or she is, but sexual behaviour isn't fixed from
the start. There are theories that almost everything is biologically
based, caused by chemicals, or by genes. For
what it's worth, most studies indicate that sexual behaviour
is mostly a matter of learning. At first, every
thing is diffuse, in a kind of flux--polymorphous perverse,
I believe Freud called infant sexuality. It depends
on a number of factors what preferences come to the
fore."

"Like what?"

"Experience. Learning. Family. They're probably the
most important. You try something, and if you like it,
you do it again. That's experience. Many people are
given no information about sex, or such wrongheaded
information that they become very confused. That's
learning, or lack of it. Even what we call normal sexuality
is a dark, murky thing at best. Look at the extremes of
sexual jealousy, of how sex and desire can so easily turn
to violence. There's loss of control. Then there's the association
of orgasm with death. Did you know it used to
be called the 'little death'?"

"You don't make it sound like much fun."

"That's the point," Jenny said. "For a lot of people, it
isn't. Desire is a ball and chain they can't get rid of, or a
ringmaster they don't dare disobey. Sexuality has lots of
possible outcomes other than what we label 'normal' or
socially acceptable. It's learned behaviour. When you're
prepubescent or adolescent, any object or situation could
become stimulating. Remember the thrill you used to get
looking at pictures of naked women? It's easy as an adolescent
to get fixated on things like underwear, big
breasts, the image rather than the real thing. Remember
our peeping Tom? That was his particular fixation, a visual
stimulation.

"It doesn't take long before most of us start to prefer
certain stimuli to others. Pretty soon sexual excitement
and satisfaction become limited to a certain, fairly narrow
range. That's what we call normal. Your good old,
socially approved, heterosexual sex. The problem with
most sexual deviants, though, is that they can't handle

what we regard as normal personal relationships. Many
try, but they fail. It's a lot more complicated than that, of
course. It may not be apparent on the surface that they've
failed, for example. They may become very good at faking
it in order to cover up their real needs and actions."

"So what kind of person are we talking about? You
said it's someone who can't handle ordinary relation-

"I'll
have to do some research and see what I can

come up with, but your basic deviant is probably pretty

much the chap-next-door type, with some very notable

exceptions, of course. By the way, you don't have to look

around so nervously, you can smoke if you want. Giselle

will fetch an ashtray. Remember, it's a French restaurant.

Everyone smokes over there."


Banks lit up and Giselle duly brought the ashtray
along with their bill. "Go on," he said. "You were telling
me about the chap next door."

"It's just that most sex offenders become skilled at
leading quite normal lives on the surface. They learn to
play the game. They can hold down a job, keep a marriage
going, even raise children--"

"Paedophiles?"

"Yes."

"I must admit that's a surprise," said Banks. "I've
come across psychopaths and deviants of various kinds
before--I mean, I'm not entirely ignorant on the subject
--and it has often amazed me how they keep their secrets.
Look at Dennis Nilsen, for Christ's sake, chopping
up kids and putting their heads on the ring to boil while
he takes his dog for a walk, saying hello to the neighbours.
Such a nice, quiet man." Banks shook his head. "I
know the Boston Strangler was married, and Sutcliffe,
the Yorkshire Ripper. But how the hell can a paedophile
keep a thing like that hidden from his wife and kids?"

"People can become very adept at keeping secrets if
they have to, Alan. You don't spend all your life in
someone else's company, under someone's scrutiny, do
you? Surely you managed to find time alone to masturbate
when you were a kid? And you probably thought
about it a fair bit, too, anticipated the picture you'd look
at or the girl you'd imagine undressing. The whole thing
takes on a kind of magical intensity, a ritualistic element,
if you like. A sex offender will simply spend all his free
time anticipating and planning his deviant acts."

Banks loosened his tie a little more. Jenny noticed him
look around the restaurant and smile at the three businessmen
at the next table, who seemed to have been listening
with growing fascination and horror to the
conversation. "You seem to know a lot about adolescent
male behaviour," he said.

Jenny laughed. "Alan, I've embarrassed you. Oh,
don't look so uncomfortable. It is part of my field, after
all. The things little boys and little girls get up to."

"What's your prognosis?" Banks asked.

Jenny sighed. "For you? I'm afraid there's no hope.
No, really, I honestly haven't done enough research for
anything like that yet." She frowned, the lines crinkling
her smooth forehead. "You know what really puzzles me,
though? Again, it's probably something you've already
considered from your point of view, but psychologically
it's interesting, too."

"What's that?"

"The woman."

"You mean why she was there?"

"Yes. What's her part in the whole business?"

"Well, her presence would certainly give credibility to
the social worker story. I doubt that even someone as
thick as Brenda Scupham would have trusted a man
alone."

"No. I realize that. But think about it, Alan." Jenny
leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table. "She's a
woman. Surely you're not telling me she didn't know
what they were doing, taking the child?"

"They acted together, yes. But he may have conned
her into it somehow, for the sake of credibility. She
might not have known what his motives were, especially
if, as you say, paedophiles are good at keeping secrets."

"Except from themselves. But I still think it's a strange
thing for a woman to do--help abduct another woman's
child. It's an even stranger thing for a couple to do. What
on earth would she want with Gemma?"

"Now don't tell me you're going to give me all that
sisterhood crap, because I just don't accept it. Women
are just as--"

Jenny held her hand up. "All right. I won't. But there's
no need to start getting all shirty. It's not sisterhood I'm
talking about, it's a very practical thing. As far as I know,
sexual deviants can be fat or thin, big or little, young or
old, rich or poor, but they almost always act alone. To
put it technically, we're talking about people who exhibit
primary characteristics of social aversion."

"Hmm. I'm not saying we haven't considered they
might have simply wanted a child so badly that they took
someone else's, that they're not paedophiles. We just
don't know. But think of the risk involved."

Jenny ran her fingers around the stem of her wineglass.
"Maybe it does seem far-fetched. But women have
snatched babies from prams. It's not my job to evaluate
that kind of information. All I'm saying is that the couple
element is curious, in psychological terms. And the
method is unusual. As you say, think of the risk involved.
Maybe the risk was part of the thrill."

A short silence followed. Banks lit another cigarette.
Jenny pulled a face and waved the smoke away. She no
ticed that Edith Piaf had finished now, replaced by some
innocuous accordion music meant to evoke the Gauloise
atmosphere of Parisian cafs.

"The superintendent mentioned the Moors Murderers,
Brady and Hindley," said Banks. "I know he's got a bee
in his bonnet about that case, but you have to admit there
are parallels."

"Hmm."

"What I'm saying," Banks went on, "is it may be one
way of explaining the couple aspect. Brady thought human
beings were contemptible creatures and pleasure the
only end worth pursuing. And Hindley was besotted with
him. She was witnessing it all as a demonstration of
some form of love for him. I know it sounds weird, but


"I've heard the theory," said Jenny. "It's all to do with

dominance. And I've heard a lot weirder theories, too.

Christ, Alan, you know as well as I do that most psychology

is guesswork. We don't really know anything. But

Superintendent Gristhorpe may be right. It could be

something like that. I'll look into it."


"So you'11 help?"

"Of course I'll help, idiot. Did you think I'd say no?"

"Quickly, Jenny," said Banks, taking money from his
wallet and placing it on the bill. "Especially if there's
even the slightest chance that Gemma Scupham might
still be alive."


IV



"Have you found her yet?"


Nothing much had changed in Brenda Scupham's
front room by Thursday afternoon. The doll still lay in
the same position on the floor, and the peculiar smell

remained. But Brenda looked more tired. Her eyes were
red-rimmed and her hair hung limp and lifeless beside
her pale cheeks. She was wearing a grubby pink track suit
bottom and a loose green sweatshirt. Les Poole
slouched in the armchair, feet up, smoking.

"What's wrong, Les?" Banks asked. "Is The
Barleycorn not on all-day opening?"

"Very funny. I don't live there, you know."

Brenda Scupham shot him a mean look, then turned to
Banks. "Leave him alone. He's not done anything. He
might not be much, but he's all I've got. I asked you,
have you found my Gemma yet?"

"No," said Banks, turning from Poole. "No, we
haven't."

"Well, what do you want? More questions?"

"I'm afraid so."

Brenda Scupham sighed and sat down. "I don't know
where this is going to get us."

"I need to know more about Gemma's habits, for a
start."

"What do you mean, habits?"

"Her routines. How did she get to school?"

"She walked. It's not far."

"Alone?"

"No, she met up with the Ferris girl from over the
street and the Bramhope kid from two houses down."

"Did she come home with them, too?"

"Yes."

Banks made a note of the names. "What about lunchtime?"

"School dinners."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"The school's not far away. Surely it'd have saved you
a penny or two if she came home for lunch?"

Brenda Scupham shrugged. "She said she liked school
dinners."

"Did she ever say anything about anyone following
her or stopping her in the street?"

"Never."

"And she wasn't out on her own?"

"No. She was always with her friends, whether she
was off to school or playing out. Why are you asking all
these questions?"

"Brenda, I'm trying to figure out why Gemma's abductors
came to the house rather than snatching her in
the street. Surely she must have been alone out there at
some time?"

"I dare say. She'd nip to the shop now and then. You
can't keep your eyes on them every minute of the day.
She is seven, you know. She knows to look right before
left when she's crossing the street, and not to take sweets
from strangers." When she realized what she'd said, she
put her hand to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm sorry if this is painful for you," Banks said, "but
it is important."

"I know."

"Was Gemma a happy child, would you say?"

"I suppose so. They live in their own worlds, don't
they?"

"Would she be given to exaggeration, to lying?"

"Not that I know of, no."

"It's just that I heard a story about Les here throwing
some of Gemma's books out. Does that mean anything to
you?"

Les Poole sat up and turned to Banks. "What?"

"You heard, Les. What's so important about her
spilling paint on your paper at two-thirty?"

Poole looked puzzled for a few seconds, then he
laughed out loud. "Who told you that?"

"Never mind. What's it all about?"

He laughed again. "It was the two-thirty. The two-thirty
from Cheltenham. Silly little bugger spilled
coloured water all over my racing form. You know, the
jar she'd been dipping her bloody paintbrush in."

"And for that you threw her books out?"

"Don't be daft. They were just some old colouring
books. She was painting in them on the other side of the
table and she knocked her paint jar over and ruined my
bloody paper. So I grabbed the books and tore them up."

"How did she react?"

"Oh, she whined and sulked for a while."

"Did you ever grab her hard by the arm?"

"No, I never touched her. Just the books. Look, what's
all this--"

"Why wouldn't you get her the new book she
wanted?"

Poole sat back in the chair and crossed his legs.
"Couldn't afford it, could we? You can't give kids everything
they ask for. You ought to know that if you've got
kids of your own. Look, get to the point, Mr Banks. I
might not have had much time for the little beggar but /
didn't run off with her, did I? We're the victims, not the
criminals. I think it's about time you realized that."

Banks looked at him, and Poole quickly averted his
gaze. It made Banks think of his first lesson in police
thinking. He had been involved in interviewing a petty
thief about a burglary in Belsize Park, and he came away
convinced that the man hadn't committed it. Surprised to
see the charges being laid and the evidence gathered, he
had mentioned his doubts to his commanding officer.
The man, a twenty-year veteran called Bill Carstairs, had
looked at Banks and shaken his head, then he said, "He
might not have done this job, but, 3 sure as hell has done
something he ought to be put away for." Looking at

Poole made Banks feel the same way. The man was
guilty of something. If he had nothing to do with
Gemma's disappearance, or even with the Fletcher's
warehouse job, he was still guilty of something.

Banks turned back to Brenda Scupham.

"You think we abused Gemma, don't you?" she said.

"I don't know."

"You've been listening to gossip. Probably gossip
from kids, at that. Look, I'll admit I didn't want her. I
was twenty-one, the last thing I wanted was to be lumbered
with a kid, but I was brought up Catholic, and I
couldn't get rid of her. I might not be the best mother on
earth. I might be selfish, I might not be up to encouraging
her in school and paying as much attention to her as I
should. I'm not even a very good house-keeper. But all
that... I mean, what I'm saying is I never abused her."

It was an impassioned speech, but Banks got the feeling
that she was protesting too much. "What about Les?"
he asked.

She glanced over at him. "If he ever touched her he
knows he'd be out of here before his feet could touch the
floor."

"So why did you give her up so easily?"

Brenda Scupham chewed on her lip and fought back
the tears. "Do you think I haven't had it on my mind
night and day since? Do you think there's a moment goes
by I don't ask myself the same question?" She shook her
head. "It all happened so fast."

"But if you hadn't abused Gemma in any way, why
didn't you just tell Mr Brown and Miss Peterson that and
send them away?"

"Because they were the authorities. I mean, they
looked like they were and everything. I suppose I
thought if they'd had some information then they had to
look into it, you know, like the police. And then when

they found there was nothing in it, they'd bring Gemma
back."

"Did Gemma go willingly?"

"What?"

"When she left with them, did she cry, struggle?"

"No, she just seemed to accept it. She didn't say anything."

Banks stood up. "That's it for now," he said. "We'll
keep you informed. If you remember anything, you can
report it at the mobile unit at the end of the street."

Brenda folded her arms and nodded. "You make me
feel like a criminal, Mr Banks," she said. "It's not right.
I've tried to be a good mother. I'm not perfect, but who
is?"

Banks paused at the door. "Mrs Scupham," he said,
"I'm not trying to prove any kind of case against you.
Believe it or not, all the questions I ask you are to do
with trying to find Gemma. I know it seems cruel, but I
need to know the answers. And if you think about it for a
while, considering how many other children there are on
this estate, and all over Swainsdale, and how many of
them really are abused, there's a very important question
needs answering."

Brenda Scupham's brow furrowed, and even Poole
glanced over from his fireside seat.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Why Gemma?" Banks said, and left.

I


Marjorie Bingham lingered behind the others on the narrow

track and kicked at small stones as she walked. She

could hear her husband's muffled voice, carried back on

the breeze, as he explained the history of Dales lead mining

to Andrew and Jane.


"Most people think that lead mining here only goes
back as far as Roman times. It doesn't, you know. It goes
back much further than that. It might even go back as far
as the Bronze Age--though there's no hard evidence for
that, of course--but certainly the Brigantes . . ."

God, she thought, what a bloody bore Roger has become.
Only six months up from Coventry after the company
move and here he is, playing the country squire and
rabbiting on about spalling hammers, knockstones, buckers
and notching tubs. And just look at him: pants tucked
into the expensive hiking boots, walking-stick, orange
Gore-Tex anorak. All for a quarter-mile track from the
Range Rover to the old mine.

Knowing Andrew, Marjorie thought, he was probably
thinking about opening time, and Jane was absorbed with
her new baby, which she carried in a kind of makeshift
sack on her back. Little Annette was asleep, one leg


61



poking out each side of the central strap, her head lolling,
oblivious to them all, and especially oblivious to the
bloody lead mines.

"Of course, the Romans used lead in great quantities.
You know how advanced their plumbing systems were
for their time. I know you've been to the Roman Baths in
Bath, Andrew, and I'm sure you'll agree . . ."

Young Megan capered ahead picking flowers, reciting,
"He loves me, he loves me not . . ." as she pulled off the
petals and tossed them in the air. Then she spread her
arms out and pretended to walk a tightrope. She didn't
have a care in the world, either, Marjorie thought. Why
do we lose that sense of wonder in nature? she asked herself.
How does it happen? Where does it go? It wasn't
that she didn't appreciate the countrysidethere was no
denying it was beautiful, not to mention healthy, especially
on a lovely autumn morning like thisbut she
couldn't feel ecstatic about it. To be honest, she loved the
shops and the busy hum of city life much more. Even
Eastvale would have been preferable. But no: Roger said
they had to seize their opportunity for a newer, better
lifestyle when it came along. And so they had ended up
in dull, sleepy Lyndgarth.

A weekend in the country now and again suited
Marjorie perfectlythat was what it was there for, after
all, unless you were a farmer, a painter or a poetbut
this felt more like incarceration. She hadn't been able to
find a job, and the new neighbours weren't particularly
friendly, either. Someone told her you have to winter out
two years before you are accepted, but she didn't think
she could stand it that long. And the fact that Roger was
in his element didn't help much either. She was bored
stiff. She didn't have children to fill her days like Jane.
Still, at least their visit had brought a welcome break to
the routine. She should be grateful for that. She would

have been if it hadn't been for Roger seizing his chance
to pontificate.

"The Pennine mines are the only ones in Yorkshire.
Know why? It's because the lead ore occurs in
Carboniferous rocks--the Yoredale Series and Millstone
Grit. The ores aren't exactly part of the rocks, you understand,
but..."

At last they reached the old smelting mill, not much
more than a pile of stones, really, and not much bigger
than a detached house. Most of the roof had collapsed,
leaving only the weatherworn beams. Inside, sunlight
shone through the roof and through the gaps between the
stones onto the ruined ore hearths and furnaces, and
picked out the motes of dust they kicked up. Marjorie
had never liked the old mill. It was a dry, smelly, spidery
sort of place. Over in one corner, the dusty ground was
darkened, as if some wandering drunk had been sick
there.

"In the earlier mills," Roger went on, "they used to
burn off the sulphur first, changing the lead to oxide. Of
course, for that you need places to roast then reduce the
ore. But by the time this mill was built, they'd invented
vertical furnaces that used bellows . . ."

They all obediently followed his pointing stick and
oohed and aahed. He should have been a bloody tour
guide, Marjorie thought.

Suddenly, Jane looked nervously around the mill.
"Where's Megan?" she asked.

"Probably playing outside," Marjorie said, noting the
anxiety in her voice. "Don't worry, I'll find her. I've
heard this bit before, anyway." Roger glared at her as she
left.

Thankful to be out of the gloomy smelting mill and
away from the droning echo of Roger's voice, Marjorie
shielded her eyes and looked around. Megan was clam
bering over a pile of scree towards the opening of the
flue. Marjorie knew all about the flue, because she'd
heard Roger read her the relevant sections from the book
several times out loud. "Listen to this, darling . . ." But
the only thing she needed to know right now was that it
could be dangerous.

Built originally to extract and condense the fumes of
the smelting process and carry them far away from the
immediate area, the flue was a bricked hump about two
hundred yards long. It looked very much like a tall factory
chimney that had fallen on its side and half buried
itself in the gentle slope of the hillside. Because it was
old, sections of the arched roof had collapsed here and
there, and more were liable to follow suit at any moment.
It had originally ended at a vertical chimney on the hilltop,
designed to carry the lead fumes away, but that had
long since fallen down.

Megan was happily scrambling along over the scree to
the dark entrance. Marjorie set off after her. "Megan!"
she shouted. "Come away!" Behind, she noticed that the
others had come out of the smelting mill and stood
watching a few yards away. "It's all right," Marjorie said
over her shoulder. "I'll catch up with her before she gets
inside. It's quite safe out here."

Maybe she had underestimated the six-yearold's
speed and nimbleness, she thought, as she struggled over
the rocks, trying not to trip up. But she made it. Megan
got to the verge of the flue just as Marjorie managed to
grab her shoulder.

"It's not safe, Megan," she said, sitting down to catch
her breath. "You mustn't go in there." As she looked into
the black hole, she shivered. Far up ahead, she could see
the tiny coin of light where the flue ended. Its floor was
scattered with bits of stone, most likely fallen from the
arched roof. A few yards or so in, she noticed a large,

oddly-shaped hump. It was probably a collapsed section,
but something about it made her curious. It looked somehow
deliberate, not quite as random as the other scatterings.
She packed Megan off down the rise to join her
parents and crawled into the opening.

"Where do you think you're going?" she heard Roger
calling. "Marjorie! Come back!" But she ignored him.
Just for a moment, the sunlight had flashed on something
ahead.

It was dark inside the flue, despite the light from behind
her, and she hurt her knees as she crawled over the
bed of flinty stones. She tried to stand, back bent low.
The place smelled dank and foisty, and she tried to keep
her breathing to an absolute minimum. She remembered
Roger saying that the poisonous fumes of the volatilized
lead condensed on the flue walls, which boys were employed
to scrape at regular intervals. What a job that
would be, she thought, crawling through here day after
day and scraping lead off the stone.

When she arrived about six feet away from the hump,
she could still make out nothing clearly. If she edged to
one side and moulded her back against the curve of the
wall, some light passed her and provided a faint outline.
Then Roger blocked the entrance and yelled for her to
come back.

"Get out of the way," she shouted. "I can't see a
bloody thing!"

Oddly enough, Roger did as she asked. A faint wash
of light picked out some of the details in the heap of
stones, and as soon as Marjorie saw the small hand sticking
out of the pile, she screamed and started to turn. As
she did so, she stumbled and kicked some small stones
near the body. A cloud of flies rose out of the heap and
buzzed angrily up the flue.

II


"We've had three confessions already," said Gristhorpe,

as Banks took the Helmthorpe road out of Eastvale.

Roger Bingham's message had been vague, and both

avoided speculating whether the body of Gemma

Scupham had been discovered. "One of them told us at

great length exactly what he'd done with Gemma and

how much he enjoyed it. I tell you, Alan, sometimes it's

a bloody shame you can't lock a man up for his

thoughts." He ran a hand through his unruly grey hair.

"Good God, did I really say that? Shows how much this

business is getting to me. Anyway, we got him for wasting

police time instead. He'll do six months with any

luck."


"The searchers turn up anything yet?" Banks asked.

Gristhorpe shook his head. "They're doing the area
east of the estate now, past the railway tracks. We've
taken on a few civilian volunteers. And we've interviewed
all the known local child-molesters. Nothing
there."

At Fortford, Banks turned left by the pub and passed
between the Roman fort and the village green.

"Anything on the car?" Gristhorpe asked.

After his visit to Brenda Scupham the previous afternoon,
Banks had caught up with his paperwork on the
case, helped Susan with the house-to-house and
Richmond check the garages and car-rental agencies.

"Not so far. We've got through most of the garages
and agencies. Phil's still at it."

"Well, maybe it was their own car, after all," said
Gristhorpe. "They've vanished into thin air, Alan. How
can they do that?"

"Either very clever or very lucky, I suppose. No one
on the estate was very communicative, either," he went

on. "I only did a couple of streets with Susan, but she
said the others were no different. And she had another
chat with that Mr Carter at number sixteen. Waste of
time, she said. He just wanted to talk about Dunkirk.
People are scared, you know, even when we show them
our warrant cards."

"I don't blame them," said Gristhorpe.

"But I reckon if it had happened to someone else
around there, they'd speak up now."

"You never know with people, Alan. Remember the
old Yorkshire saying, 'There's nowt so queer as folk.' "

Banks laughed. At the junction in Relton, he turned
right. A slow-moving tractor in front pulled over to the
side and gave him just enough space to squeeze by. "I've
been on the phone to Belfast, too," he added. "The lads
over there spent most of yesterday with Terry Garswood,
Gemma's father, and they're certain he had nothing to do
with it. For a start, he was on duty that day and couldn't
have got away without someone noticing, and apparently
he had neither the inclination nor the money to hire
someone else to steal her for him."

"Well, look on the bright side," said Gristhorpe. "At
least that's one less lead to follow. There it is." He
pointed out of the car window. "Pull in here."

They were on Mortsett Lane, about halfway between
Relton and Gratly, below the looming bulk of Tetchley
Fell. Banks pulled up on the gravelled lay-by next to a
Range Rover and looked at the narrow track. There was
no way you could get a car up there, he thought. The
stony path was only about three feet wide, and it was
bordered by small boulders and chips of flint that would
play havoc with tires. Ahead, he could just make out the
partially collapsed roof of the smelting mill over the rise.

He had seen the place before, but from a different perspective.
Looking down from the Roman road that cut

diagonally across the fell, he had been impressed by the
range of colour, from pale yellow to dark green, purple
and grey, and by the flue hugging the hillside like a long
stone tunnel. Now, as they neared the mill, all he could
see was the murky opening to his left and the group of
people huddled together by the mill to his right.

"Which one of you is Mr Bingham?" Gristhorpe
asked, after he had introduced Banks and himself.

"I am," said a countryish type, in gear far too expensive
and inappropriate for the short walk. "My wife,
Marjorie, found the ... er ... Well, I remembered there
was a phonebox back down on the road."

Gristhorpe nodded and turned to the woman. "Did you
disturb anything?"

She shook her head. "No. I never touched ... I ...
When I saw the hand I ran back. And the flies . . . Oh,
my God . . . the flies . . ."

Her husband took her hand and she buried her face in
his shoulder. The other couple looked on sadly, the man
with a grim set to his mouth and the woman stroking her
child's golden hair. Banks noticed a head over her shoulder,
a sleeping baby in a backpack.

Gristhorpe turned to Banks. "Shall we?"

Banks nodded and followed him over the scree. They
had to walk carefully, as many of the stones wobbled under
them. Finally, they managed to scrabble to the
gloomy semi-circle and peer inside. Gristhorpe brought
the torch out of his pocket and shone it ahead. They
could easily see the heap that Marjorie Bingham had
mentioned, but couldn't pick out any details from so far
away. Gristhorpe had to bend almost double to walk,
which made it very difficult to negotiate a path through
the rubble that littered the flue's floor. Banks, being a little
shorter, found it easier. But he felt uncomfortable.

He had never liked caves; they always seemed to bring

out a latent sense of claustrophobia. Once he and Sandra
had visited Ingleton and gone in the caves there. When
he had to stoop and almost crawl on his belly to get under
a low overhang, he had felt the weight of the mountain
pressing on his back and had to struggle to keep his
breathing regular. The flue wasn't as bad as that, but he
could still feel the heavy darkness pushing at him from
all sides.

Gristhorpe walked a few feet behind him with the
torch. Its beam danced over lead-stained stones, which
glistened here and there as if snails had left their slimy
tracks. They went as cautiously as they could in order
not to destroy any forensic evidence, but it was impossible
to pick a narrow path through the rubble of the flue.
Finally, they stood close enough, and Gristhorpe's torch
lit on a small hand raised from a heap of rocks. They
could see nothing else of the body, as it had been entirely
covered by stones.

As they stood and looked at the hand, a gust of wind
blew and made a low moaning sound in the flue like
someone blowing over the lip of a bottle. Gristhorpe
turned off the torch and they headed back for the entrance.
They had probably disturbed too much already,
but they had to verify that there was indeed a body on the
site. So often people simply thought they had found a
corpse, and the truth turned out to be different. Now they
had to follow procedure.

First they would call the police surgeon to ascertain
that the body was indeed dead. No matter how obvious it
might appear, no matter even if the body is decapitated
or chopped into a dozen pieces, it is not dead until a
qualified doctor says it is.

Then the SOCO team would arrive and mark off the
area with their white plastic tape. It might not seem necessary
in such an isolated place, but the searching of a

crime scene was a very serious business, and there were
guidelines to follow. With Vic Manson in charge, they
would take photographs and search the area around the
body, looking for hairs, fibres, anything that the killer
may have left behind. And then, when the photographs
had been taken, the doctor would take a closer look at the
body. In this case, he might move aside a few stones and
look for obvious causes of death. There was nothing
more that Banks and Gristhorpe could do until they at
least had some information on the identity of the victim.

Banks gulped in the fresh, bright air as they emerged
into daylight. He felt as if he had just made an ascent
from the bottom of a deep, dark ocean with only seconds
to spare before his oxygen ran out. Gristhorpe stood beside
him and stretched, rubbing his lower back and grimacing.

"I'll call it in," said Banks.

Gristhorpe nodded. "Aye. And I'll have another word
with this lot over here." He shook his head slowly.
"Looks like we've found her."

There was nothing to do but wait after Banks had
made the call over the police radio. Gristhorpe got
Marjorie Bingham's story, then let the shocked group go
home.

Banks leaned against the rough stone of the smelting
mill and lit a cigarette as Gristhorpe walked carefully
around the flue entrance looking down at the ground. It
was quiet up there except for the occasional mournful
call of a curlew gliding over the moorland, a cry that harmonized
strangely with the deep sigh of the breeze blowing
down the flue and ruffling the blades of grass on the
hillside. The sky was the whitish blue of skim milk, and
it set off the browns, greens and yellows of the desolate
landscape. Beyond the mill, Banks could see the purple- grey
cleft of a dried-up stream-bed cutting across the

moorland.

Gristhorpe, kneeling to peer at the grass a few yards to
the right of the flue entrance, beckoned Banks over.
Banks knelt beside him and looked at the rusty smear on
the grass.

"Blood?" he said.

"Looks like it. If so, maybe she was killed out here
and they dragged her into the flue to hide the body."

Banks looked at the blood again. "It doesn't look like
much, though, does it?" he said. "And I'd say it's
smeared rather than spilled."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe, standing. "Like someone
wiped off a knife or something. We'll leave it to the
SOCOs."

The first to arrive was Peter Darby, the photographer.
He came bounding up the track, fresh-faced, two cameras
slung around his neck and a square metal case at his
side. If it's Gemma Scupham in there, Banks thought, he
won't look so bloody cheerful when he comes out.

Darby went to take some preliminary photographs,
starting with the stained grass, on Gristhorpe's suggestion,
then the flue entrance, then carefully making his
way inside. Banks could see the bulbs flash in the black
hole as Darby took his pictures. When he'd finished in
the flue, he took more photographs in and around the
smelting mill.

About half an hour after Peter Darby, Dr Glendenning
came huffing and puffing up the path.

"At least I didn't need a bloody truss to get here this
time," he said, referring to the occasion when they had
all been winched up the side of Rawley Force to get to a
body in a hanging valley. He pointed towards the flue.
"In there, you said?"

Gristhorpe nodded.

"Hmphh. Why the bloody hell do you keep on finding

bodies in awkward places, eh? I'm not getting any
younger, you know. It's not even my job. You could get a
bloody GP to pronounce the body dead at the scene."

Banks shrugged. "Sorry." Glendenning was a Home
Office pathologist, one of the best in the country, and
both Banks and Gristhorpe knew he would be offended if
they didn't call him to the scene first.

"Aye, well . . ." He turned towards the entrance.

They accompanied Glendenning as he picked his way
over the scree, complaining all the way, and ducked to
enter the flue. Banks held the torch this time. It didn't
provide much light, but the SOCOs had been instructed
to bring bottled-gas lamps as it would be impossible to
get a van with a generator up the narrow track.

Glendenning knelt for a while, sniffing the air and
glancing around the inside of the flue, then he touched
the small hand and moved it, muttering to himself. Next
he took out a mercury thermometer and held it close to
the body, measuring the air temperature.

The entrance of the flue darkened and someone called
out. It was Vic Manson, fingerprint expert and leader of
the SOCO team. He came up the passage with a gas- lamp
and soon the place was full of light. It cast eerie
shadows on the slimy stone walls and gave an unreal
sheen to the heap of the stones on the ground. Manson
called back to one of his assistants and asked him to
bring up some large plastic bags.

Then everyone stood silent, breath held, as the men
started to lift the stones and place them in the bags for
later forensic investigation. A few spiders scurried away
and a couple of obstinate flies buzzed the men angrily
then zigzagged off.

Banks leaned against the wall, his back bent into its
curve. One stone, two, three. . . . Then a whole ami became
visible.

Banks and Gristhorpe moved forward. They crouched
over and looked at the small hand, then both saw the
man's wristwatch and frayed sleeve of a grey bomber- jacket.
"It's not her," Gristhorpe whispered. "Jesus
Christ, it's not Gemma Scupham."

Banks felt the relief, too. He had always clung to a
vague hope that Gemma might still be alive, but the discovery
of the body had seemed to wreck all that. Nobody
else in the dale had been reported missing. And now, as
Manson and his men picked stone after stone away, they
looked down at what was obviously the body of a young
man, complete with moustache. A young man with unusually
small hands. But, Banks asked himself, if it isn't
Gemma Scupham, then who the hell is it?


Ill



Jenny darted into the Eastvale Regional Headquarters at

two o'clock, just in time for her appointment with Banks.

She always seemed to be rushing these days, she

thought, as if she were a watch a few minutes slow always

trying to catch up. She wasn't even really late this

time.


"Miss Fuller?"

Jenny walked over to the front desk. "Yes?"

"Message from Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe,
miss. Says he's on his way. You can wait in his office if
you wish."

Jenny frowned. "But I thought I was to see Alan--
Chief Inspector Banks?"

"He's at the scene."

"What scene?"

"It looks like a murder scene. I'm sorry I can't say any
more, miss. We don't really know anything yet."

"That's all right," Jenny said. "I'll wait."

"Very well. The superintendent's office"

"I know where it is, thanks."

Jenny poured herself some coffee from the machine at
the bottom of the stairs then went up to Gristhorpe's office.
She had been there before, but never alone. It was
larger than Alan's, and much better appointed. She had
heard that rank determines the level of luxury in policemen's
offices, but she also knew that the department itself
was hardly likely to supply such things as the large
teak desk, or the matching bookcases that covered one
wall. The cream and burgundy patterned carpet, perhapsit
was hardly an expensive one, Jenny noticed
but not the shaded desk lamp and the books that lined the
shelves.

She glanced over the titles. They were mostly works
of criminology and lawthe essential Archbold's
Criminal Pleading, Evidence & Practice and Glaister's
Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology in addition to
several other technical and forensic textsbut there
were also books on history, fishing, cricket, a few novels
and Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch's edition of The Oxford
Book of English Verse. What surprised Jenny most was
the number of mystery paperbacks: about four feet
of them, mostly Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh,
Edmund Crispin and Michael Inns.

"That's just the overflow," a voice said behind her,
making her jump. "The rest are at home."

"I didn't hear you come in," Jenny said, putting her
hand to her chest. "You startled me."

"We coppers are a light-footed lot," Gristhorpe said,
with a twinkle in his baby-blue eyes. "Have to be to
catch the villains. Sit down."

Jenny sat. "This murder, I couldn't help thinking . . .
It's not... ?"

"No, it's not, thank God. It's bad enough, though. We
don't know who the victim is yet. I left Alan at the scene.
I decided to stick with the Gemma Scupham case and let
him handle the murder."

Jenny had never felt entirely at ease with Superintendent
Gristhorpe, but she didn't know why. He
seemed very much his own manself-contained, strong,
determinedand he projected a solid, comforting presence.
But something made her feel awkward. Perhaps,
she speculated, it was the underlying sense of isolation
she sensed, the fortress he seemed to have built around
his feelings. She knew about his wife's death from cancer
several years ago, and guessed that perhaps a part of
him had died with her. Susan Gay, she remembered, had
said that she also felt uncomfortable with him, yet he had
a reputation as a kind and compassionate man.

His physical presence was difficult to ignore, too. He
was a big manbulky, but not fatwith bushy eyebrows
and an unruly thatch of grey hair. With his reddish,
pock-marked complexion and the slightly hooked
nose, he was very much the dalesman, she thought, if indeed
there was such a creature, weathered and moulded
by the landscape.

"I did a bit of preliminary research last night," Jenny
began. "I can probably give you a capsule version of the
paedophile types."

Gristhorpe nodded. As she spoke, Jenny somehow felt
that he probably knew more than she did about the subject.
After all, some of his books dealt with criminal psychology
and forensic psychiatry, and he was reputed to
be well read. But she didn't feel he was simply being polite
when he let her speak. No, he was listening all right,
listening for something he might not have come across or
thought of himself. Watching her carefully with those deceptively
innocent eyes.

She balanced her black-rimmed reading-glasses on her
nose and took her notes out of her briefcase. "Basically,
there are four types of paedophile," she began. "And so
far it doesn't seem like your couple fits any. The first
kind is someone who hasn't really been able to establish
satisfactory relationships with his peers. It's the most
common type, and he only feels sexually comfortable
with children. He usually knows his victim, maybe a
family friend, or even a relation."

Gristhorpe nodded. "What about age, roughly?"

"Average age is about forty."

"Hmm. Go on."

"The second type is someone who seems to develop
normally but finds it increasingly difficult to adjust to
adult lifework, marriage, et cetera. Feels inadequate,
often turns to drink. Usually the marriage, if there is one,
breaks down. With this type, something sets things in
motion. He reaches a kind of breaking-point. Maybe his
wife or girlfriend is having an affair, intensifying his
feelings of inadequacy. This kind doesn't usually know
his victim. It may be someone he sees passing by in a car
or something. Again, not much like the situation you described
at Brenda Scupham's."

"No," agreed Gristhorpe. "But we've got to keep an
open mind at this point."

"And I think we can dismiss the third type, too," Jenny
went on. "This is someone who generally had his formative
sexual experiences with young boys in an institution
of some kind."

"Ah," said Gristhorpe. "Public school?"

Jenny looked up at him and smiled. "I suppose that
would qualify." She turned back to her notes. "Anyway,
this type is generally a homosexual paedophile, the type
that cruises the streets for victims or uses male prostitutes."

"And the last?"

"The wild card," Jenny said. "The psychopathic paedophile.
It's hard to pin this type down. He's in search of
new sexual thrills, and pain and fear are generally involved.
He'll hurt his victims, introduce sharp objects
into the sexual organs, that kind of thing. The more aggressive
he gets, the more excited he becomes. A person
like this usually has a history of anti-social behaviour."

Gristhorpe held the bridge of his nose and grunted.

"I'm sorry I can't really be of any more help yet,"
Jenny said, "but I'm working on it. The really odd thing,
as I told Alan, is that there were two of them, a man and
a woman. I want to look a bit further into that aspect."

Gristhorpe nodded. "Go ahead. And please don't underestimate
your usefulness."

Jenny smiled at him and shuffled her notes back into
the briefcase.

"This stuff the newspapers were on about," Gristhorpe
went on, "organized gangs of paedophiles, what do you
think of that?"

Jenny shook her head. "It doesn't figure. Paedophiles
are like other sexual deviants, essentially loners, solo operators.
And most of the allegations of ritual abuse
turned out to be social workers' fantasies. Of course,
when you get abuse in families, people close ranks. They
might look like organized gangs, but they're not really.
Paedophiles simply aren't the types to form clubs, except


"Except what?"


"I was thinking of kiddie porn, child prostitution and
the like. It's around, it happens, there's no denying it, and
that takes a bit of organization."

"Videos, magazines?"

"Yes. Even snuff films."

"We're doing our best," Gristhorpe said. "I've been in

touch with the paedophile squad. Those rings are hard to
penetrate, but if anything concerning Gemma turns up,
believe me, we'll know about it."

Jenny stood up. "I'll do a bit more research."
"Thanks." Gristhorpe walked over to open the door for
her.

Jenny dashed back to her car, got in and turned her
key in the ignition. Suddenly, she paused. She couldn't
remember where she was supposed to go or why she was
in such a hurry. She checked her appointment book and
then racked her brains to see if she had forgotten anything.
No. The truth was, she had nowhere to go and no
reason at all to hurry.


IV



Banks breathed deeply, grateful for the fresh air outside

the flue. Claustrophobia was bad enough, but what he

had just seen made it even worse.


After Gristhorpe had gone to meet Jenny, the SOCOs
had slowly and carefully removed all the stones from the
body of a man in his mid-to
late-twenties. When they
had finished, Dr Glendenning bent forward to see what
he could find out. First, he opened the bomber-jacket and
cursed when he had to stop the tangle of greyish intestines
from spilling out of the man's shirt. A couple
more flies finally gave up the ghost and crawled out from
under the tubing and took off indignantly. The wind
moaned down the flue. Quickly, Banks had searched the
dead man's pockets: all empty.

Banks lit a cigarette; fresh air wasn't enough to get the
taste of the flue and of death out of his mouth. The smell
was difficult to pin down. Sickly, sweet, with a slight
metallic edge, it always seemed to linger around him like

an aura for days after attending the scene of a murder.

Glendenning had been crouched in the flue alone for
over half an hour now, and the SOCOs were still going
over the ground inside the taped-off area: every blade of
glass, every stone.

Banks wandered into the smelting mill and looked at
the ruins of the furnace and the ore hearth while he
waited, trying to put the first shocking glimpse of those
spilled intestines out of his mind. He had seen the same
thing once before, back in London, and it wasn't something
even the most hardened policeman forgot easily.
He stared at the dullish brown patch in the corner,
marked off by the SOCOs as blood. The murder, they
said, had probably taken place in the mill.

At last, Glendenning emerged from the flue, red in the
face. He stood upright and dusted his jacket where it had
come into contact with the stones. A cigarette dangled
from his rnouth.

"I suppose you want to know it all right away, don't
you?" he said to Banks, sitting on a boulder outside the
smelting mill. "Time of death, cause of death, what he
had for breakfast?"

Banks grinned. "As much as you can tell me."

"Aye, well, that might be a bit more than usual in this
case. Given the temperature, I'd say rigor mortis went
basically according to the norm. It was just after two
o'clock when I got the chance to have a really good look
at him. Allowing, say, two to three hours for rigor to
start, then about ten or twelve to spread, I'd say he was
killed sometime after dark last night, but not much later
than ten o'clock. His body temperature confirms it, too.
Is that good enough for you?"

Banks said it was, thank you very much, doctor, and
mentioned the blood in the smelting mill.

"You're probably right about that," Glendenning said.

"I'll check post-mortem lividity later when I get him on
the table, but as far as I could tell there was no blood
around the body, and there would be, given a wound like
that."

"What about cause of death?"

"That's not difficult. Looks like he was gutted. You
saw that for yourself." Glendenning lit a new cigarette
from the stub of his old one. "It's an especially vicious
crime," he went on. "In the first place, to do something
like that you have to get very close."

"Would it take a lot of strength?"

"Aye, a fair bit to drag the knife up when it's stuck so
deeply in. But not a superman. Given a sharp enough
knife. What are you getting at? Man or woman?"

"Something like that."

"You know how I hate guesswork, laddie, but I'd go
for a moderately strong man or an exceptionally strong
woman."

"Thanks. First we'll check all the female bodybuilders
in Yorkshire. Left-handed or right?"

"I should be able to tell you later when I get a good
look at the entry point and the direction of the slit."

"What about the weapon?"

"Again, you'll have to wait. All I can say now is it
looks like a typical upthrust knife wound. Have you
made arrangements for the removal?"

Banks nodded.

"Good. I'll get to it as soon as I can." Glendenning
stood up and headed down the track to his car. Banks
looked at his watch: almost three o'clock and he hadn't
had lunch yet. Maybe an hour or so more up here and
he'd be able to leave the scene for a local constable to
guard. He called Vic Manson over.

"Any sign of the murder weapon?"

"Not so far. I don't think it's around here. The lads

have almost finished the third grid search, and they'd
have found it by now."

Banks walked back over to the smelting mill and
leaned against the wall watching the men examine the
scree outside the flue entrance. "A particularly vicious
crime," Dr Glendenning had said. Indeed it was. It was
hard to believe, thought Banks, that in such beautiful
countryside on such a fine autumn evening, one human
being had got so close to another that he could watch,
and perhaps even savour, the look in his victim's eyes as
he thrust a sharp knife in his groin and slowly dragged it
up through the stomach to the chest.


Brenda Scupham lay alone in bed that night. Les was out

at the pub. Not that she really cared. These days he was

practically worse than useless. He mostly kept out of her

way, and that suited her fine. The only thing was, she

didn't really want to be alone tonight. A nice warm body

to love her and hold her would help take her mind off the

bad things she couldn't seem to stop herself from feeling.


She hadn't wanted Gemma, it was true. But things like
that happened. She had done her best. At first, there always
seemed to be so much to do: changing nappies,
feeding, scraping and saving for new clothes. And the
sleepless nights she had listened to Gemma cry from her
cot, leaving her till she cried herself to sleep because her
own mother had said you shouldn't make a habit of being
at a baby's beck and call. Well, she should know all
about that, Brenda thought.

Even as she got older, Gemma had got in the way, too.
Every time Brenda had a man over, she had to explain
the child. Nobody stayed with her when they found out

she had a kid. One night was the best she could expect
from most, then a hasty exit, usually well before dawn,
and Gemma there wailing away.

Brenda understood women who had beaten or killed
their children. It happened all the time. They could drive
you to that. One night, she remembered with shame, she
had wrapped three-month-old Gemma in blankets and
left her on the steps of the Catholic church. She hadn't
been home five minutes before guilt sent her racing back
to reclaim the bundle. Luckily, nobody else had got there
first.

But no matter what those policemen tried to say, she
had never abused Gemma. Some mothers sat their children
on the elements of electric cookers, poured boiling
water on them, locked them in the cellar without food or
drink until they died of dehydration. Brerida would never
have done anything like that. She put up with Gemma
and took her pleasure when she could. True, she had left
the child alone for visits to the pub. But nothing had ever
happened to her. Also true, she never had much time to
spend with her, what with the odd bit of waitressing she
did on the sly to eke out her social. Meals had occasionally
been forgotten, old clothes left unwashed too long.
Gemma herself, like most kids, was not overfond of
bath-time, and she had never complained about going
without a bath for a couple of weeks.

What upset Brenda most as she lay there alone in the
dark was accepting that she had never really liked her
child. Oh, she had got used to her, all right, but there was
something secretive and isolated about Gemma, something
alien that Brenda felt she could never reach. And
there was something creepy about the way she skulked
around the place. Many a time Brenda had felt Gemma's
accusing, woebegone eyes on her. Even now, alone in the
dark, she could feel Gemma's eyes looking at her in that

way. Still, you didn't choose your child, no more than
she chose to be born. She wasn't made to order.

But now Gemma was gone, Brenda felt guilty for feeling
relieved when Miss Peterson and Mr Brown took her
away. Why did it have to be so complicated? Why
couldn't they have been real social workers like they said
they were? Then she wouldn't have to feel so guilty for
being relieved. Now she couldn't even bear to think
about what they might have done to Gemma. She shivered.
Gemma must be dead. Brenda only hoped it had
happened quickly and painlessly and that soon the police
would find out everything and leave her alone to get her
grieving done.

Again she replayed what she could remember of the
social workers' visit. Maybe she had been a fool for believing
them, but they had looked so real, and they had
been so convincing. She knew she had neglected Gemma
and that she was wrong to do so, however much she
couldn't help herself. She knew she was guilty, especially
after what happened the week before. But they
surely couldn't have known about that? No, they were
right. She had to let them take the child. She found herself
hoping, after the door closed, that they would decide
to keep her or find her a good home. It would be best for
everyone that way.

And then there was Les. She remembered defending
him to the police that morning, saying he wasn't much
but he was better than nothing. She wasn't even sure that
was true any longer. Mostly, she'd been thinking of sex.
He used to do it three, four times a night, if he hadn't had
a skinful of ale, and she couldn't get enough of him. He
had made her laugh, too. But lately all the passion had
gone. It happened, she knew, and you became nothing
more than a maid, your home no more than a hotel room.

She turned on her side and put her hand between her

legs, then began gently stroking herself with her fingers.
It would help her forget, she thought, rubbing harder.
Forget her foolishness, forget her guilt, forget Gemma.
Gemma, precious stone, name stolen from an old school- friend
whose serene beauty she had always envied.

Just before the climax flooded her, an image of
Gemma going out of the door with Mr Brown and Miss
Peterson appeared in her mind's eye. As she came, it receded,
like someone waving goodbye from a train window.

I


At ten past eleven on Saturday morning, Banks stood at

his office window, coffee in hand, and looked down on

the market square. It was another beautiful day--the fifth

in a row--with a pale blue sky and high wispy clouds. It

was also four days since Gemma Scupham's abduction.


Down in the cobbled square, the market was in full
swing. Tourists and locals browsed the stalls, where vendors
dealt in everything from clothes and used books to
car accessories and small electrical gadgets. As Banks
watched them unload new stock from the vans, he speculated
how much of the goods were stolen, fallen off the
back of a lorry. Most of the things for sale were legitimate,
of course--over-production or sub-standard stuff
rejected by a company's quality control and sold at
slightly above cost--but a busy market was an ideal
place for getting rid of hot property.

There would be nothing from the Fletcher's warehouse
job, though; televisions and stereos attracted too
much attention at outdoor markets. Mostly, they would
be sold by word of mouth, through pubs and video retailers.

Banks thought again about how smooth the operation


85



had been. The burglars had cut through a chain-link
fence, drugged a guard dog, and disabled the alarm system.
They had then loaded a van up with electrical
goods, taken off into the night and never been seen since.
It would have taken at least three men, he speculated,
and Les Poole was probably one of them. But there were
far more serious things to think about now. At least
Poole was under surveillance, and any step he made out
of line would soon come to Banks's attention.

The traffic along Market Street slowed almost to a
standstill as yet more tourists poured into town. Because
it was market day, parking was a problem. Drivers would
spend an extra half-hour cruising around the narrow
streets looking for a parking space. It would be a busy
day for the traffic police.

Banks opened the window a couple of inches. He
could hear the honking horns and the babble of voices
down in the square, and the smell of fresh bread drifted
up from the bakery on Market Street, mingled with exhaust
fumes.

At their morning conference, Gristhorpe had assigned
Banks and DC Susan Gay to the lead-mine murder;
Gristhorpe himself, along with DS Richmond, would
pursue the Gemma Scupham investigation, with Jenny
Fuller acting as consultant. With each day that went by,
the pressure increased. Parents were scared; they were
keeping their children home from school. Ever since
Gemma had disappeared, police forces county-wide had
been knocking on doors and conducting searches of
wasteland and out-of-the-way areas. The surprising thing
was that nothing had come to light so far. The way it
seemed, Gemma had disappeared from the face of the
earth. Despite his reassignment, Banks knew he would
have to keep up to date on the case. He couldn't forget
Gemma Scupham that easily.

For a moment, he found himself wondering if the two
cases could be connected in some way. It was rare that
two serious crimes should happen in Swainsdale at about
the same time. Could it be more than mere coincidence?
He didn't see how, but it was something worth bearing in
mind.

His first task was to identify the body they had found.
Certainly a photograph could be published; clothing labels
sometimes helped; then there were medical features
--an operation scar, birthmark--and dental charts.
It would be easy enough to track down such information
if the man were local, but practically impossible if he
were a stranger to the area. Banks had already sent DC
Gay to make enquiries in Gratly and Relton, the nearest
villages to the mine, but he didn't expect much to come
of that. At best, someone might have seen a car heading
towards the mine.

A red van had got itself wedged into the junction
of Market Street and the square, just in front of the
Queen's Arms, and irate motorists started honking. The
van's owner kept on unloading boxes of tights and
women's underwear, oblivious to the angry tourists. One
man got out and headed towards him.

Banks turned away from the window and went over
the lead-mine scene in his mind. The victim had probably
been murdered in the smelting mill, an out-of-the- way
place. His pockets had been emptied and his body
had been hidden in the flue, which few people ever en tered
due to the danger of falling stones. Safe to assume,
Banks thought, that the killer didn't want the body found
for a while. That made sense, as most leads in an investigation
occur in the first twenty-four hours. But the body
had been found much sooner than the killer expected,
and that might just give Banks an edge.

Just as Banks was about to leave his office in search of

more coffee, the phone rang. It was Vic Manson from the
forensic lab near Wetherby.

"You've been quick," Banks said. "What have you
got?"

"Lucky. You want to know who he is?"

"You're sure?"

"Uh-huh. I'd like to claim brilliant deduction, but it
was routine."

"Fingerprints?" Banks guessed. It was the first thing
they would check, and while most people's prints
weren't on file anywhere, a lot were. Another break.

"Got it. Seems he did a stretch in Armley Jail. Tried to
con an old lady out of her life's savings, but she turned
out to be smarter than him. Name's Carl Johnson. He's
from Bradford, but he's been living in your neck of the
woods for a year or so. Flat 6, 59 Calvin Street."

Banks knew the street. It was in the north-eastern part
of Eastvale, where a few of the large old houses had been
converted into cheap flats.

"You can get your man to pull his file from the computer,"
Manson said.

"Thanks, Vic. I'll do that. Keep at it."

"Have I any bloody choice? We're snowed under.
Anyway, I'll get back to you soon as we find out any
more."

Banks hurried over to Richmond's office. Richmond
sat over his keyboard, tapping away, and Banks waited
until he reached a point when he could pause. Then he
explained what Vic Manson had said.

"No problem," said Richmond. "Just let me finish entering
this report in the database and I'll get you a printout."

"Thanks, Phil."

Banks grabbed a coffee and went back to his office to
wait. The market square was teeming with people now,

lingering at stalls, feeling the goods, listening to the vendors'
pitches, watching the man who juggled plates as if
he were a circus performer.

Carl Johnson. The name didn't ring a bell. If he had
been in London, Banks would have got out on the street
to question informers and meet with undercover officers.
Someone would have heard a whisper, a boast, a rumour.
But in Eastvale no real criminal underbelly existed. And
he certainly knew of no one capable of killing in the way
Carl Johnson had been killed. There were low-lifes like
Les Poole, of course, but Poole was a coward at heart,
and whatever he was, he wasn't a murderer. Still, it
might be worth mentioning Johnson's name to him, just
to see the reaction.

Had the killer not known about Johnson's record, that
he would be easy to identify? Certainly whoever it was
had gone to great lengths to hide the body, but he hadn't
tried to destroy the fingerprints, as some killers did.
Perhaps he was squeamish--unlikely, given the way he'd
killed Johnson--or he was careless. Careless or cocky.
Whatever the reason, Banks at least had something to go
on: Flat 6, 59 Calvin Street. That was the place to start.


II



If Gristhorpe had expected inverted crosses, black candles,

pentagrams and ceremonial robes, he couldn't have

been more mistaken. Melville Westman's Helmthorpe

cottage was as ordinary as could be: teal wallpaper with

white curlicue patterns, beige three-piece suite, television,

music centre. Sunlight poured through the windows

past the white lace curtains and gave the place a bright,

airy feel. The only clues to Westman's interests were to

be found in the bookcase: Eliphas Levi's Le Dogme et le



Rituel de la Haute Magie, Mathers's translation of The
Key of Solomon, Crowley's Magick in Theory and
Practice, Malleus Malefic arum and a few other books on
astrology, Cabbala, the tarot, witchcraft and ritual magic.
In addition, a sampler over the fireplace bore the motto,
"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law," in the
same kind of embroidery one would expect to find such
ancient saws as, "A house is built of bricks; a home is
built on love."

Similarly, if Gristhorpe had expected a bedraggled,
wild-eyed Charles Manson look-alike, he would have
been disappointed. Westman was a dapper, middle-aged
man with sparse mousy hair, dressed in a grey V-neck
pullover over a white shirt, wearing equally grey pants
with sharp creases. He was a short, portly man, but he
had presence. It was partly in the slightly flared nostrils
that gave his face a constant expression of arrogant
sneering, and partly in the controlled intensity of his cold
eyes.

"It took you long enough," he said to Gristhorpe, gesturing
towards an armchair.

Gristhorpe sat down. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Superintendent! Let's not play games.
The girl, the missing girl. I read about it in the paper."

"What's that got to do with you?"

Westman sat opposite Gristhorpe and leaned forward
in his chair, linking his hands on his lap. "Nothing, of
course. But you have to ask, don't you?"

"And?"

Westman smiled and shook his head slowly. "And
nothing."

"Mr Westman," Gristhorpe said. "In cases like this we
have to consider every possibility. If you know anything
about the child's disappearance, .'d be best if you told
me."

"I told you. I know nothing. Why should I?"

"We both know about your involvement in witchcraft
and Satanism. Don't be nave."

"Involvement? Witchcraft? Satanism? Superintendent,
just because I practise a different religion from you,
don't assume I'm some kind of monster. I'm not a
Satanist, and I'm not a witch, either. Most people you
would call witches are silly dabblers who appropriate the
old ways and practices as an excuse for sexual excess.
Ex-hippies and New Agers."

"Whatever you call yourself," Gristhorpe said, "there's
a history of people like you being involved in sacrifice."

"Sacrificial virgins? Really! Again, you're confusing
me with the psychopathic Satanists who use the ancient
ways as an excuse. People who read too much Aleister
Crowleyhe did exaggerate, you knowand found he
appealed to their sick fantasies. You find a few bloody
pentagrams daubed on a wall and a bit of gibberish in
Latin and you think you're dealing with the real thing.
You're not."

Gristhorpe pointed towards the bookcase. "I notice
you have a few Aleister Crowley books yourself. Does
that make you a psychopathic Satanist?"

Westinan's lips curled at the edges like an old sandwich.
"Crowley has things to teach to those who understand.
Do you know the purpose of magic, Superintendent?"

"Power," said Gristhorpe.

Westman sniffed. "Typical. It comes from the same
root as 'magi,' wise man. The purpose of the 'Great
Work' is to become God, and you dismiss it as mere human
hunger for power."

Gristhorpe sighed and tried to hold onto his temper.
The man's sanctimonious tone was grating on his nerves.
"Mr Westman, I don't really give a damn what illusions

you cling to. That's not the purpose"

"Illusions! Superintendent, believe me, the work of the
magician is far from an illusion. It's a matter of will,
courage, intense study of"

"I don't want a lecture, Mr Westman. I know enough
about the subject already. I know, for example, that sacrifice
is important because you regard living creatures as
storehouses of energy. When you kill them, when you
spill their blood, you release this energy and concentrate
it. I also know it's as much a matter of blood-lust, of
murderous frenzy, as it is of any practical purpose. The
incense, incantations, and finally the gushing of blood.
It's orgasmic, a sexual kick."

Westman waved his hand. "I can see you know nothing,
Superintendent. Again, you're talking about the deviants,
the charlatans."

"And," Gristhorpe went on, "a human sacrifice is the
most effective of all, gives you the biggest kick. Especially
the sacrifice of a pure child."

Westman pursed his lips and put his forefinger to
them. He stared at Gristhorpe for a few moments, then
shrugged and sat back in the chair. "Human sacrifice is
rare in true magic," he said. "It's difficult enough for
those who practise such arts to simply exist in such a
narrow-minded world as the one we inhabit; we are
hardly likely to make things worse by kidnapping children
and slaughtering them."

"So you know nothing at all about Gemma Scupham?"

"Only what I read in the newspapers. And though I expected
a visit, given my notoriety, as far as I can gather, I
bear no resemblance to either of the suspects."

"True, but that doesn't mean you're not associated
with them in some way. A lot of people don't do their
own dirty work."

"Insults, is it now? Well, maybe you're right. Maybe I

prepared a couple of zombies to do the job. Do you remember
the Rochdale scandal, Superintendent? Ten children
were taken from their parents and put into care by
child-workers who believed a few wild tales about ritualistic,
satanic abuse. And what happened? They were sent
home. There was no evidence. Children have overactive
imaginations. If some six-year-old tells you he's eaten a
cat, the odds are it was a chocolate one, or some kind of
animal-shaped breakfast cereal."

"I know about the Rochdale affair," Gristhorpe said,
"and about what happened in Nottingham. It didn't come
out at the trial, but we found out later there was ritual
abuse involved. These kids were tortured, starved, humiliated
and used as sex objects."

"But they weren't sacrificed to the devil, or any such
nonsense. All these tales about organized satanic abuse
were discredited. Most such abuse takes place in extended
families, between family members."

"That's not the issue." Gristhorpe leaned forward.
"Gemma Scupham was abducted from her home and we
can't find hide nor hair of her. If she'd been killed and
dumped somewhere in the dale, we'd most likely have
found her now. We haven't. What does that imply to
you?"

"I don't know. You're supposed to be the detective.
You tell me."

"One of two things. Either she's dead and her body
has been very well hidden, perhaps somewhere other
than Swainsdale, or someone is keeping her alive somewhere,
maybe for a part she's due to play in some ritual.
That's why I'm here talking to you. And, believe me, I'd
rather be elsewhere."

"I applaud your deductive abilities, Superintendent,
but you'd be making better use of your time if you were
somewhere else. I know nothing."

Gristhorpe looked around the room. "What if I were to
arrange for a search warrant?"

Westman stood up. "You don't need to do that. Be my
guest."

Gristhorpe did. It was a small cottage, and it didn't
take him long. Upstairs was a bedroom and an office,
where a computer hummed on a messy desk and a printer
pushed out sheets of paper.

"I'm a systems consultant," Westman said. "It means I
get to do most of my work at home. It also means I have
to work weekends sometimes, too."

Gristhorpe nodded. They went downstairs and looked
at the kitchen, then into the cellar, a dark, chill place with
whitewashed walls, mostly used for storing coal and the
various bits and pieces of an old Vincent motorcycle.

"A hobby," Westman explained. "Are you satisfied
now?"

They climbed back up to the living-room. "Do you
know of anyone who might be involved?" Gristhorpe
asked. "For any reason?"

Westman raised his eyebrows. "Asking for help now,
are you? I'd be happy to oblige, but I told you, I've no
idea. I do not, have not, and never will sacrifice children,
or any other human beings for that matter. I told you, I'm
not a dabbler. It would take too long to explain to you
about my beliefs, and you'd probably be too prejudiced
to understand anyway. It's certainly not tabloid
Satanism."

"But you must know people who do know about these
things. These dabblers you mentionedthese Satanists,
thrill-seekersany of them around these parts?"

"Not that I know of. There are a couple of witches'
covens, but they're pretty tame, and you probably know
about them, anyway. Amateurs. You'd never find them
sacrificing a fly, let alone a child. Their get-togethers are

a bit like a church social. No, Superintendent, I think
you're on the wrong track."

Gristhorpe stood up. "Maybe, Mr Westman, but I like
to keep an open mind. Don't trouble yourself, I'll see
myself out."

In the street, Gristhorpe breathed in the fresh air. He
didn't know why he felt such distaste for Westman and
his kind. After all, he had read a fair bit about the black
arts and he knew there was nothing necessarily evil about
an interest in magic. Perhaps it was his Methodist background.
He had given up going to chapel years ago, but
there was still an innate sense that such desire for Godlike
power, whether mumbo-jumbo or not, was a sacrilege,
a blasphemy against reason and common sense as
much as against God.

The limestone face of Crow Scar towered over the village
to the north. Today it was bright in the autumn sun,
and the higher pastures were already turning pale brown.
The dry-stone walls that criss-crossed the daleside shone
like the ribs and vertebrae of a giant poking through the
earth.

Gristhorpe walked along High Street, busy with
tourists window-shopping for walking-gear and local
crafts, or ramblers sitting at the wooden picnic-tables
outside The Dog and Gun and The Hare and Hounds,
sipping pints of Theakston's and nibbling at sandwiches.
It was tempting to join them, but Gristhorpe decided to
wait until he got back to Eastvale before eating a late
lunch.

He turned at the fork and headed for the Helmthorpe
station. It was a converted terrace house, built of local
greyish limestone, and was staffed by a sergeant and two
constables. Constable Weaver sat pecking away at an old
manual typewriter when Gristhorpe entered. Gristhorpe
remembered him from the Steadman case, the first

murder they'd had in Helmthorpe in a hundred years.

Weaver looked up, blushed and walked over. "I can't
seem to get used to the computer, sir," he said. "Keep
giving the wrong commands."

Gristhorpe smiled. "I know what you mean. I can't
help but feel like an incompetent idiot when I have to
deal with the things. Still, they have their uses. Look lad,
do you know Melville Westman?"

"Yes."

"Anything on him? I'm not asking for anything that
might be on record, you understand, just rumours, suspicions?"

Weaver shook his head. "Not really, sir. I mean, we
know he's one of those black magicians, but he's not
stepped out of line in any real way. Can't say I believe in
it myself, curses and whatnot."

"What about the sheep?"

"Aye, well we suspected him, all rightstill do, for
that matterbut there was nowt we could prove. Why,
sir?"

"It might be nothing, but I'd like you to keep a discreet
eye on him, if you can. And keep your ears open
for gossip."

"Is this about the young lass, sir?"

"Yes. But for Christ's sake don't spread it around."

Weaver looked hurt. "Of course not, sir."

"Good. Let me know if you see or hear anything out of
the ordinary, and try not to let him know you're watching.
He's a canny bugger, that one is."

"Yes, sir."

Gristhorpe walked outside and headed for his car.
Westman was probably telling the truth, he thought, but
there had been so many revelations about the links between
child abuse and satanic rituals in the past few
years that he had to check out the possibility. It couldn't

happen here, everyone said. But it did. His stomach rumbled.
Definitely time to head back to Eastvale.


Ill



Banks believed you could tell a lot about people from

their homes. It wasn't infallible. For example, a normally

fastidious person might let things go under pressure. On

the whole, though, it had always worked well for him.


When he stood in the tiny living-room of Flat 6, 59
Calvin Road and tried to figure out Carl Johnson, he
found very little to go on. First, he sniffed the air: stale,
dusty, with an underlying hint of rotting vegetables. It
was just what one would expect of a place unoccupied
for a couple of days. Then he listened. He didn't expect
to hear ghosts or echoes of the dead man's thoughts, but
homes had their voices, too, that sometimes whispered of
past evils or remembered laughter. Nothing. His immediate
impression was of a temporary resting-place, somewhere
to eat and sleep. What furniture there was looked
second-hand, OXFAM or jumble-sale stuff. The carpet
was worn so thin he could hardly make out its pattern.
There were no photos or prints on the cream painted
walls; nor was there any evidence of books, not even a
tattered bestseller.

The kitchen was simply a curtained-off portion of the
room, with a hotplate, toaster and a little storage space.
Banks found a couple of dirty pans and plates in the sink.
The cupboards offered nothing more than tea-bags, instant
coffee, sugar, margarine and a few cans of baked
beans. There was no refrigerator, and a curdled bottle of
milk stood by the sink next to some mouldy white bread
and three cans of McEwan's lager.

The bedroom, painted the same drab cream as the

living-room, was furnished with a single bed, the covers
in disarray, pillow greasy and stained with sweat or hair- cream.
Discarded clothes lay in an untidy heap on the
floor. The dresser held socks and underwear, and apart
from a couple of checked shirts, sneakers, one pair of
Hush Puppies, jeans and a blouson jacket, there was little
else in the closet. Banks could spot no evidence of
Johnson having shared his flat or bed with anyone.

Banks had never seen a place that told so little about
its occupier. Of course, that in itself indicated a number
of things: Johnson clearly didn't care about a neat, clean,
permanent home; he wasn't sentimental about possessions
or interested in art and literature. But these were all
negatives. What did he care about? There was no indication.
He didn't even seem to own a television or a radio.
What did a man do, coming home to such surroundings?
What did he think about as he sat in the creaky winged
armchair with the threadbare arms and guzzled his baked
beans on toast? Did he spend every evening out? At the
pub? With a girlfriend?

From what Banks knew of his criminal record, Carl
Johnson was thirty years old and, after a bit of trouble
over "Paki-bashing" and soccer hooliganism in Bradford
as a lad, he had spent three years of his adult life in
prison for attempted fraud. It wasn't a distinguished life,
and it seemed to have left nothing of distinction to posterity.

Banks felt oppressed by the place. He levered open a
window and let some fresh air in. He could hear a baby
crying in a room across the street.

Next, he had to do a more thorough search. He had
found no letters, no passport, no bills, not even a birth
certificate. Surely nobody could live a life so free of bureaucracy
in this day and age? Banks searched under the
sofa cushions, under the mattress, over the tops of the

doors, deep in the back of the kitchen and bedroom cupboards.
Nothing. There aren't many hiding places in a
flat, as he had discovered in his days on the drug squad,
and most of them are well known to the police.

Carl Johnson's flat was no exception. Banks found
the thick legal-sized envelope taped to the underside of
the cistern lida fairly obvious placeand took it into
the front room. He had been careful to handle only the
edges. Now he placed it on the card table by the window
and slit a corner with his penknife to see what was inside.
Twenty-pound notes. A lot of them, by the looks of
it. Using the knife, he tried to peel each one at a time
back and add it up. It was too awkward, and he kept losing
his place. Patience. He took an evidence bag from his
pocket, dropped the money in and took one last look
around the room.

The whole place had a smell of petty greed about it,
but petty criminals of Johnson's kind didn't usually end
up gutted like a fish in old lead mines. What was different
about Johnson? What had he been up to? Blackmail?
Banks could read nothing more from the flat, so he
locked up and left.

Across the hallway, he noticed a head peeping out of
Flat 4 and walked over. The head retreated and its owner
tried to close the door, but Banks got a foot in.

"I didn't see anything, honest, mister," the woman
said. She was about twenty-five, with straight red hair
and a pasty, freckled complexion.

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't see you. You weren't here. I've got nothing.
Please"

Banks took out his warrant card. The woman put her
hand to her heart. "Thank God," she said. "You just
never know what might happen these days, the things
you read in the papers."

"True," Banks agreed. "Why were you watching?"

"I heard you in there, that's all. It's been quiet for a
while."

"How long?"

"I'm not sure. Two or three days, anyway."

"Do you know Carl Johnson?" Johnson's identity
hadn't been revealed in the press yet, so the woman
couldn't know he was dead.

"No, I wouldn't say I knew him. We chatted on the
stairs now and then if we bumped into each other. He
seemed a pleasant enough type, always a smile and a
hello. What are you after, anyway? What were you doing
up there? Has he done a moonlight flit?"

"Something like that."

"He didn't look like a criminal type to me." She
hugged herself and shuddered. "You just can't tell, can
you?"

"What did you talk about, when you met on the
stairs?"

"Oh, this and that. How expensive things are getting,
the weather . . . you know, just ordinary stuff."

"Did you ever meet any of his friends?"

"No. I don't really think he had any. He was a bit of a
loner. I did hear voices a couple of times, but that's all."

"When? Recently?"

"Last couple of weeks, anyway."

"How many people do you think were talking?"

"Only two, I'd say."

"Could you describe the other voice?"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't really listening. I mean, it's muffled
anyway, you couldn't actually hear what anyone was
saying. And I had the telly on. I could only hear them in
the quiet bits."

"Was it a man?"

"Oh, yes, it was another man. I'm certain about that.

At least, he had a sort of deep voice."

"Thank you, Mrs ... ?"

"Gerrard. Miss."

"Thank you, Miss Gerrard. Do you know if Mr
Johnson owned a car?"

"I don't think he did. I never saw him in one, anyway."

"Do you have any idea what he did for a living?"

She looked away. "Well, he . . ."

"Look, Miss Gerrard, I don't care if he was cheating
on the social or the taxman. That's not what I'm interested
in."

She chewed her lower lip a few seconds, then smiled.
"Well, we all do it a bit don't we? I suppose even coppers
cheat on their income tax, don't they?"

Bank smiled back and put a finger to the side of his
nose.

"And an important detective like yourself wouldn't be
interested in something as petty as that, would he?"

Banks shook his head.

"Right," she said. "I only know because he mentioned
the weather once, how nice it was to have outdoor
work."

"Outdoor work?"

"Yes."

"Like what? Road work, construction?"

"Oh, no, he weren't no ditch-digger. He was a gardener,
Mr Johnson was, had real green fingers."

It was amazing the skills one could learn in prison
these days, Banks thought. "Where did he work?"

"Like I say, I only know because we got talking about
it, how some people are so filthy rich and the rest of us
just manage to scrape by. He wasn't no communist, mind
you,he"

"Miss Gerrard, do you know who he worked for?"

"Oh, yes. I do go on a bit, don't I? It was Mr
Harkness, lives in that nice old house out Fortford way.
Paid quite well, Mr Johnson said. But then, he could afford
to, couldn't he?"

The name rang a bell. There had been a feature about
him in the local rag a year or two ago. Adam Harkness,
Banks remembered, had come from a local family that
had emigrated to South Africa and made a fortune in diamonds.
Harkness had followed in his father's footsteps,
and after living for a while in Amsterdam had come back
to Swainsdale in semiretirement.

"Thank you," Banks said. "You've been very helpful."

"Have I?" She shrugged. "Oh well, always a pleasure
to oblige."

Banks walked out into the street and mulled over what
he had learned from Miss Gerrard. Johnson had been
working for Adam Harkness, probably for cash in hand,
no questions asked. That might explain the thousand or
so pounds in the envelope. On the other hand, surely gardening
didn't pay that much? And why did he hide the
money? To guard against thieves, perhaps? Having
sticky fingers himself, Johnson would probably be all too
aware of the danger of leaving large sums of money lying
around the place. Maybe he didn't have a bank account,
was the kind who hid his fortune in a mattress or,
in this case, under the cistern lid. But it still didn't ring
true. Banks looked at his watch. Almost four in the afternoon.
Time to pay Adam Harkness a visit before dinner.


IV



Detective Sergeant Philip Richmond's eyes were beginning

to ache. He saved his data, then stood up and

stretched, rubbing the small of his back. He'd been at it



for four hours, much too long to sit staring at a screen.
Probably get cancer of the eyeballs from all the radiation
it emitted. They were all very well, these computers, he
mused, but you had to be careful not to get carried away
with them. These days, though, the more courses he
took, the more he learned about computers, the better his
chances of promotion were.

He walked over to the window. Luckily, the new computer
room faced the market square, like Banks's office,
but the window was tiny, as the place was nothing but a
converted storage room for cleaners' materials. Anyway,
the doctor had told him to look away from the screen
into the distance occasionally to exercise his eye muscles,
so he did.

Already many of the tourists were walking back to
their carsno doubt jamming up many of Eastvale's
sidestreets and collecting a healthy amount in tickets
and some of the market stalls were closing.

He'd knock off soon, and then get himself ready for
his date with Rachel Pierce. He had met her last
Christmas in Barnard Castle, at the toy shop where she
worked, while checking an alibi on a murder case, and
they had been going steady ever since. There was still no
talk of wedding bells, but if things continued going as
well as they had been for much longer, Richmond knew
he would seriously consider tying the knot. He had never
met anyone quite as warm and as funny as Rachel before.
They even shared a taste for science fiction; they
both loved Philip K. Dick and Roger Zelazny. Tonight
they would go and see that new horror film at the
Crownnew for Eastvale, anyway, which was usually a
eood few months behind the rest of the country. Rachel
loved scary films, and Richmond loved the way they
made her cling to him. He looked at his watch. Barring
rmergencies. he would be with her in a couple of hours.

The phone rang.

Richmond cursed and answered it. The switchboard
operator told him it was someone calling for Superintendent
Gristhorpe, who was out, so she had put the
call through to Richmond.

"Hello?" a woman's voice came on the line.

Richmond introduced himself. "What can I do for
you?"

"Well," she said hesitantly, "I really wanted the man in
charge. I called that temporary number, you know, the
one you mentioned in the paper, and the constable there
told me to call this number if I wanted to talk to
Superintendent Gristhorpe."

Richmond explained the situation. "I'm sure I can help
you," he added. "What's it about?"

"All right," she said. "The reason I'm calling you so
late is that I've only just heard it from the woman who
does the cleaning. She does it once a week, you see, on
Saturday mornings."

"Heard what?"

"They've gone. Lock, stock and barrel. Both of them.
Oh, don't get me wrong, it's not as if they aren't fully
paid up or anything, and I wouldn't say they looked exactly
like the couple the papers described, but it is funny,
isn't it? People don't usually just take off like that without
so much as a by-your-leave, not when they've paid
cash in advance."

Richmond held the receiver away from his ear for a
moment and frowned. Why didn't this make any sense?
Was he going insane? Had the computer radiation finally
eaten its way into his frontal lobes?

"Where are you calling from?" he asked.

She sounded surprised. "Eastvale, of course. My office.
I'm working late."

"Your name?"

"Patricia. Patricia Cummings. But"

"One thing at a time. You said your office. What kind
of office?"

"I'm an estate agent. Randall and Palmer's, just across
the square from the police station. Now"

"All right," Richmond said. "I know the place. What
are you calling about?"

"I thought I'd made myself perfectly clear, but apparently
you need it spelled out."

Richmond grinned. "Yes, please. Spell it out."

"It's about that girl who disappeared, Gemma
Scupham. At least it might be. That's why I wanted to
speak to the man in charge. I think I might know something
about the couple you're looking for, the ones who
did it."

"I'll be right over," Richmond said, and hung up. He
left a message at the front desk for Gristhorpe and
dashed out into the market square.

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


106



quality as the songs, unmistakably Gurney, heartrending
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 river bank,
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 girlfriend, 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 enoughBrenda 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." Gristhoipe 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 as..."

"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.'r

"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, therst 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.


Ill



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 Canning," 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 Anns. 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 Canning 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?"

"Touch"

"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
rne."

"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 of 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 used 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 instinc-
lively 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
thingsthrow 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
nick. 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
bout abuse; it was their timing that seemed uncanny, for
'.hough 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 knowbut 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.


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 Chateauneuf-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 moonscape. 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.

I


That Sunday morning in Eastvale passed as most

Sundays did. The locals read the papers, washed their

cars, put the roast in, went to church, messed about in the

garden. Some took walks in the dale or went to visit

nearby relatives. The fine weather held, and tourists

came, of course, jamming the market square with their

cars, posing by the ancient cross or the faade of the

Norman church for photographs, perhaps enjoying a pub

lunch at the Queen's Arms or tea and sandwiches at the

Golden Grill, then driving on to the craft show at

Helmthorpe, the sheep fair at Relton, or the big car-boot

sale in Hoggett's field near Fortford. And out in the dale,

around massive Witch Fell between Skield and

Swainshead, the search for seven-year-old Gemma

Scupham went into its fourth full day.


Back in Eastvale, at eleven-thirty that morning, a very
nervous and hungover Mark Hudson walked into the police
station carrying a Marks and Spencer's bag. He
quickly placed it on the front desk, mumbling, "You
might be interested in this," then tried to make a casual
exit.

It was not to be. The desk sergeant caught a glimpse of


140



yellow cotton in the bag, and before he knew it Mark
Hudson was whisked politely upstairs to the CID.

Gristhorpe, aware that his office was far too comfortable
for the interrogation of suspects, had Hudson taken
to an interview room with a metal desk and chairs bolted
to the floor and a small window covered by a metal
grille. It smelled of Dettol and stale cigarette smoke.

With Richmond along to take notes, Gristhorpe
planted himself firmly opposite a sweating Mark Hudson
and began.

"Where did you find the clothes?"

"On the moors."

"More precisely?"

"On the road between Rosedale Abbey and Hutton-le-Hole.
I don't remember exactly where."

"When?"

"Last night. Look, I just--"

"What were you doing out there?"

Hudson paused and licked his lips. He looked around
the room and Gristhorpe could tell he didn't like what he
saw. "I ... well, I'd been to a company do at the White
Horse. I was on my way home."

"Where do you live?"

"Helmsley."

"What company do you work for?"

Hudson looked surprised at the question. "Burton's.
You know, the rag trade. I'm a sales rep."

"And this do you were at, what was it in honour of?"

"Well, it wasn't really ... I mean, it was just an informal
affair, some of the lads getting together for a meal
and a chat."

"I see." Gristhorpe eased back in his chair. "And what
made you stop in such a godforsaken place?"

"I needed to ... you know, call of nature."

"Were you by yourself?"

"Yes."

Gristhorpe sniffed a lie, but he left it al .ie.

"Why did you wait so long before coming here? You
must have known what you'd found. It's been in all the
papers."

"I know. I just thought ... It was very late. And I
didn't want to get involved." He leaned forward. "And I
was right, wasn't I? I decide to help, and here I am being
interrogated like a suspect."

"Mr Hudson," said Gristhorpe, "in the first place,
you're not being interrogated, you're simply being questioned,
and in the second place, a child is missing, perhaps
dead. How would you treat someone who walks in
here, drops a bundle of what looks like the child's
clothes and then tries to scarper?"

"I didn't try to scarper. I just wanted you to have the
clothes, in case there was a clue. As I said, I didn't want
to get involved. I thought of putting them in the post, but
I knew that would take too long. I know how important
time is in things like this, so I finally decided to come
forward."

"Well, thank you very much, Mr Hudson."

"Look, if I really had done anything to that child, I'd
hardly have come in here at all, would I?"

Gristhorpe fixed Hudson with his baby-blue eyes.
"Psychopaths are unpredictable, Mark," he said. "We
never know what they'll do next, or why they do it."

"For God's sake!"

"Where's the girl, Mark?"

Hudson hesitated, looked away. "What girl?"

"Come on, Mark. You know who 1 mean. The girl who
was with you. Your accomplice."

"Accomplice?"

"Miss Peterson. Where is she?"

"I've never heard of anyone called Peterson."

Gristhorpe gave that one a "maybe." "Where's
Gemma Scupham?"

"Please, you've got to believe me. I don't know anything.
I had nothing to do with it. I'm just trying to do
my civic duty."

Gristhorpe let the staring match continue until Hudson
looked down at the stained metal desk, then he asked,
"Can you remember exactly where you found the bundle
of clothing?"

Hudson rubbed his damp forehead. "I was thinking
about that on my way here," he said. "That you might
want to know."

"It could be useful. We still haven't found the girl's
body."

"Yes, well ... I could try. I mean, I think I might remember
if I saw the spot again. But it was dark and it's
pretty bleak up there. I must admit after I found the
clothes I didn't want to hang around."

"And you were no doubt under the influence of
Bacchus?"

"What?"

"You'd been drinking."

"I'd had a little wine, yes. But I wasn't over the limit,
if that's what you mean."

"I don't care how much you had to drink," said
Gristhorpe, standing up. "Although judging by your eyes
this morning I'd say you're a bloody liar. It's your memory
I'm concerned about. What I want you to do is to
take me to the spot where you found the clothes. I'll go
with you in your car and DS Richmond here will follow.
All right?"

"I don't have much choice, do I?"

"No," said Gristhorpe. "No, you don't."

II


Gristhorpe said nothing during the journey. They crawled

up Sutton Bank into the Hambleton Hills, passed through

Helmsley, then turned off the main road into Hutton-le
Hole.
On the broad village green, split by Button Beck,

the sides connected by a small white bridge, tourists ate

picnics. Several sheep also picnicked from the grass itself,

keeping their distance from the humans. It was a

marvel of work-saving, Gristhorpe thought, letting the

sheep wander the village and keep the green well

cropped.


Beyond Button, they turned north onto a narrow, unfenced
road over the desolate moors.

"I'd have more chance if we were going the other
way," Hudson said. "I mean, that was the way I was driving,
and it was very dark."

"Don't worry," said Gristhorpe, "you'll get your
chance."

They had no luck on the way to Rosedale, so
Gristhorpe turned in the car park and set off back again,
up the one-in-three hill, with Richmond still behind. The
moorland stretched for miles on all sides, a dark sea of
purple heather, just past its prime. Hudson seemed to be
concentrating as they drove, screwing up his eyes and
looking into the distance, trying to remember how long
he had been driving before he stopped. Finally, he
pointed to a small outcrop of rocks among the heather
about fifty yards from the roadside. "This is it!" he
shouted. "This is the place."

Gristhorpe turned into the lay-by and waited for
Richmond to pull in behind. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Well, I can't be a hundred percent, but I'd been driving
about this long, and I remember those rocks over
there. There aren't many spots like that around here."

Gristhorpe opened the door. "By the roadside here,
then? Let's take a look."

"Well, actually," Hudson said, "it was further from the
road, closer to the rocks."

Richmond had joined them, and Gristhorpe gave him a
puzzled look before he said, "Phil. If you stopped for a
piss on this road at half past twelve at night, would you
walk fifty yards or so away from your car to do it?"

Richmond shook his head. "No way, sir."

"I thought not." He fixed Hudson with his innocent
gaze again. "But you did, right?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I wasn't really thinking about it. I suppose
I didn't want to be seen."

Gristhorpe looked around the desolate landscape in
disbelief. "Didn't want to be seen?"

"That's right."

"You had a torch, I assume?"

"Yes."

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows and shook his
head. "Come on, then, show us where."

Hudson led them over the rough, springy heather towards
the outcrop, a natural shelter, and pointed.
Gristhorpe didn't want to ruin any more evidence there
might be, so he stood at the entrance and looked. It was a
small area, maybe three or four yards square, surrounded
on all sides but one with rocks, some as high as
Gristhorpe's chest, but most of them no more than knee- high
stones. In the centre, a small area of heather looked
as if it had been flattened recently. There had been some
blood on the yellow dungarees, he recalled. In all likelihood,
there would be more blood around here, and perhaps
other valuable trace evidence.

"Where exactly did you find the bundle of clothes?"

Gristhorpe asked.

Hudson thought for a moment, then pointed towards
one of the smaller rocks near a corner of the flattened
heather. "There. Stuffed under there. I think."

"What made you look there?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I saw something
out the corner of my eye."

Gristhorpe stood for a few moments taking in the
scene, then turned to go back to the car.

"Can I go home now?" Hudson asked when they arrived.
"My wife. She'll be wondering where I am."

"You can phone her when we get back to the station."

"Station?"

"Yes. Phil?" Gristhorpe ignored Hudson's protests.
"Radio in and get the SOCO team, if you can raise any
of them on a Sunday afternoon."

"Will do, sir." Richmond went to his car.

"But I don't understand," Hudson went on as
Gristhorpe took him by the arm and gently guided him
into the passenger seat.

"Don't you? It's simple really. I don't believe you.
First off, I don't believe anyone would walk this far for a
piss on a dark night in a place like this, and second I
don't like the fact that you didn't show up at the station
till nearly noon and then tried to leave as soon as you'd
dumped the bag."

"But I've explained all that."

Gristhorpe started the car. "Not to my satisfaction, you
haven't. Not by a long chalk. I don't like it at all.
Besides, there's another thing."

"What?"

"I don't like you."

Ill


When Jenny Fuller pulled up outside Superintendent

Gristhorpe's house above Lyndgarth at about seven

o'clock that evening, lights shone a welcome from the

lower windows. She hadn't phoned to say she was coming,

but Phil Richmond had told her at the station that the

superintendent had finally abandoned his camp-bed and

gone home.


She knocked at the heavy door and waited. When
Gristhorpe opened it, he was clearly surprised to see her
there but didn't hesitate to invite her in.

"I've just finished doing a bit of work on the wall," he
said as they stood in the hall. "Until it got too dark.
Fancy a cup of tea?"

"Mm, yes please," Jenny said.

"I can offer you something stronger if you'd like?"

"No. No, tea will be fine. I was just on my way to visit
a colleague in Lyndgarth and I thought I'd drop by. I
don't have much, I'm afraid, but I can give you a sketch
of what I've dug up so far. It might be some help."

Gristhorpe directed her to the study while he went to
the kitchen. Jenny stood and gazed at the books, the
clearly divided sections on military and naval history,
general history, Yorkshire, then the novels, philosophy,
poetry. On the small table by the armchair lay a paperback
copy of The Way of All Flesh. Jenny had always
loved the title but had never read it. Her background in
English was distinctly weak, she realized.

Somehow the house and this room in particular spoke
of a solitary, meditative, serious man, perhaps ill at ease
in company. All that was missing was a pipe lying in an
ashtray on the table, and perhaps a pipe-rack over the
hearth. But Gristhorpe had a gregarious side to his character,
too, she knew. He enjoyed telling tales with his

mates and colleagues over a pint; he wasn't at all uneasy
in groups. A man's man, perhaps?

Gristhorpe came back bearing a tray with a teapot and
two mugs, a little jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. Jenny
moved the book from the table and he set the tray down.
He bade her sit in the leather armchair that she knew instinctively
was "his" and pulled up a smaller chair for
himself.

"That camp-bed was beginning to make me feel like
an old man," he said. "Besides, they know where I am if
anything breaks."

"No progress?"

"I wouldn't say that. We've talked to the neighbours
again, and to Gemma's schoolfriends, the kids she played
with, and none them saw anyone hanging about or heard
Gemma mention anyone they didn't know. So that's a
blank. But . . ." Gristhorpe went on to tell her about the
Manleys' deserted cottage and his outing to the moors
with Mark Hudson.

"What's happened to him?" she asked.

"I sent him home when I finally got the truth out of
him. He led us on a merry dance, but he's got nothing to
do with Gemma. He was out for a bit of extramarital activity.
He'd settled on the spot in advance because it was
some distance from the road and the rocks offered protection.
He just stumbled across the clothing. We've got
the woman's name. Of course, we'll talk to her and have
another chat with him, just for procedure's sake."

"So the clothing is Gemma Scupham's?"

"Yes. The mother identified it. And there's a bit of
blood on itat least, it looks like blood. But we won't
know much more till tomorrow, when the forensic team
gets its job done."

"Still. . . ." Jenny shivered.

"Cold?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine, really." Jenny was wearing jeans
and a fuzzy russet jumper that matched the colour of her
hair, a warm enough outfit for a mild night. "Someone
walked over my grave, that's all." She sipped some
soothing tea. "I've been looking at instances of pairs of
sexual deviants, and quite frankly there's hardly any.
Often you'll find a couple who might commit crimes for
gain, like Bonnie and Clyde, I suppose, but deviants usually
act solo."

"What about the ones who don't?" Gristhorpe asked.

"There are some case studies. Usually you get a dominant
leader and an accomplice, and usually they're both
male. Leopold and Loeb, for example."

Gristhorpe nodded.

"Have you read Compulsion!" Jenny asked.

"Yes. It was one of Ian Brady's favourite books, you
know."

"There are some parallels. The way your couple seem
to have coldly planned and executed the crime, for a
start," Jenny said. "But there's another thing: mixed pairs
are very rare. Brady and Hindley come to mind, of
course."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe. "Maybe Alan's told you I've
got what you might call an unhealthy preoccupation with
that case. But I was involved in the search. And I heard
the tape of young Lesley Ann Downey pleading for her
life." He shook his head and let the silence hang.

"Is that why you're getting so actively involved in this
case? I mean, you don't usually."

Gristhorpe smiled. "Partly, I suppose. And maybe I'm
trying to prove there's life in the old dog yet. I'm getting
near retiring age, you know. But mostly I want to stop
them before they do it again. We spend most of our time
making cases against people we think have broken the
law. Oh, we talk about preventionwe have coppers on

the beat, keeping their eyes open--but mostly we come
on the scene after the fact. That's also true this time, I realize.
Gemma Scupham may be lost to us, but I'm
damned if I'm going to let it happen to another child on
my patch. Make sense?"

Jenny nodded.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

"From what little I know so far," Jenny said, "I'd say
it's certainly possible we could be dealing with a Brady Hindley
pair. And they may not be paedophiles, as such.
Paedophiles have a genuine sexual attraction to children,
and they don't usually go in for murder unless they
panic, but children also make good victims just because
they're very vulnerable, like women. Brady's last victim
was a seventeen-year-old male homosexual, I gather.
Hardly a child."

"You've obviously done your research," Gristhorpe
said. "Owt else?"

"I'd look more closely at why they did it the way they
did, and why they chose Gemma Scupham. It's also
come out from a few studies lately that more women are
involved in paedophilia than we'd ever thought before,
so I wouldn't discount that possibility altogether. Maybe
she wasn't along just for the ride."

"Could he have been the one along for the ride?"
Gristhorpe asked.

"I doubt it. Not according to the statistics, at least."

"Any good news?"

Jenny shook her head. "What it comes down to," she
said, leaning forward, "is that in my opinion--and remember
it's still all basically guesswork--you're probably
dealing with a psychopath, most likely the male, and
a woman who's become fixated on him, who'll do
anything he says. There's something odd about them,
though, something odd about the whole business. The

psychology doesn't quite add up." She frowned. "Anyway,
I'd concentrate on him. He might not be a paedophile
in particular, so I wouldn't depend on criminal
records. I think it's more likely that he just likes to act
out sadistic fantasies in front of an adoring audience. I
Oh, God, what am I saying? That poor damn kid." Jenny
flopped back in the chair and put her hand to her forehead.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm behaving like a silly
girl."

"Nay, lass," said Gristhorpe. "When they played that
tape there wasn't a dry eye in the courtroomand they
were hardened coppers all."

"Still," said Jenny, "if I'm to be any help I have to try
to remain calm and objective."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe, sitting down again. "Aye, you
can try. But I don't imagine it's easy for any of us with a
possible psychopath on the loose, is it? Another cup of
tea?"

Jenny looked at her watch. No, she didn't have to
hurry; she had plenty of time. "Yes," she said. "That'd be
very nice. I think I will."

I


"Don't tell me you've been burning the midnight oil?"

Gristhorpe said, when Vic Manson phoned at nine

o'clock Monday morning.


Manson laughed. "Afraid so."

"Anything?"

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Start with the search of the moorland."

"The lads haven't finished yet. They're still out there.
No sign of a body so far."

"What about the clothes?"

"I've got Frank's report in front of me. He's our blood
expert. It was a dry stain, so we can't tell as much as
we'd like--the presence of certain drugs, for example--
but it is blood, it's human, and it's group A, one of the
most common, unfortunately, and the same as Gemma's,
according to our files. We're doing more tests."

"Anything else?"

"Well, we can tell a fair bit about how it came to be
there and--this is the interesting part--first, there wasn't
very much, nowhere near enough to cause loss of life. It
was restricted to the bib area of the T-shirt and the dungarees,
which might make you think on first sight that


152



someone cut her throat, but no way, according to Frank.
At least not while she was wearing them."

"Then how did it get to be there?"

"It didn't drip. It was smeared, as if you cut your finger
and wiped it on your shirt."

"But you surely wouldn't wipe it on a white T-shirt
and yellow dungarees?"

"I wouldn't, no. That'd be grounds for divorce. But
Gemma was only seven, remember. How careful were
you about getting your clothes dirty when you were
seven? Someone else washed them for you."

"Still . . . And less of your cheek, Vic. What kind of
injury could have caused it?"

"We can't say for certain, but most likely a scratch, a
small cut, something like that."

"Any idea how long the clothes had been out there?"

"Sorry."

"Anything else at all?"

"Yes. In addition to the items I've mentioned, we received
a pair of white cotton socks and child's sneakers.
There was no underwear. You might care to consider
that."

"I will."

"And there was some whitish powder or dust on the
dungarees. It's being analyzed."

"What about the cottage?"

"Very interesting. Whoever cleaned that place up really
did a good job. They even took the vacuum bag with
them and combed out all the fibres from the brushes."

"As if they had something to hide?"

"Either that or they were a right pair of oddballs.
Maybe house-cleaning in the nude got them all excited."

"Aye, and maybe pigs can fly. But we've got nothing
to tie them in to the missing lass?"

"No prints, no bloodstains, no bodily fluids. Just hair.

It's practically impossible to get rid of every hair from a
scene."

"And it's also practically impossible to pin it down to
any one person," said Gristhorpe.

"There's still the DNA typing. It takes a bloody long
time, though, and it's not as reliable as people think."

"Was there anything that might have indicated the
child's presence?"

"No. The hairs were definitely adult. Some sandy
coloured, fairly short, probably a man's, and the others
we found were long and blonde. A woman's, I'd say. A
child's hairs are usually finer in pigment, with a much
more rudimentary character. We found some fibres, too,
mostly from clothes you can buy anywhere--lambs- wool,
rayon, that kind of thing. No white or yellow cotton.
There was something else, though, and I think this
will interest you."

"Yes."

"Well, you know we took the drains apart?"

"Will Patricia Cummings ever let me forget?"

"There's a fair bit of dark sludge in there."

"Could it be blood?"

"Let me finish. No, it's not blood. We haven't run the
final tests yet, but we think it's hair-dye, the kind you
can wash out easily."

"Well, well, well," said Gristhorpe. "That is interesting.
Just one more thing, Vic."

"Yes."

"I think you'd better get the lads digging up the cottage
gardens, front and back. I know it's a long shot--
most likely somebody would have seen them burying
anything out there--but we can't overlook it."

"I suppose not," Manson sighed. "Your estate agent's
going to love us for this."

"Can't be helped, Vic."

"Okay. I'll be in touch later."

Gristhorpe sat at his desk for a moment running his
palm over his chin and frowning. This was the first positive
link between Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, who had
abducted Gemma Scupham on Tuesday afternoon, and
Chris and Connie Manley, who had abandoned a prepaid
holiday cottage in spotless condition on the Thursday of
that same week. Coincidence wasn't enough; nor was the
fact that Manson's men had found traces of hair-dye in
the drains, but it was a bloody good start. His phone
buzzed.

"Gristhorpe," he grunted.

"Sir," said Sergeant Rowe, "I think there's someone
here you'd better see."

"Yes? Who is it?"

"A Mr Bruce Parkinson, sir. From what he tells me, I
think he might know something about the car. You know,
the one they used to take that young lass away."

Christ, it was coming in thick and fast now, the way it
usually did after days of hard slog leading nowhere.
"Hang onto him, Geoff," said Gristhorpe. "I'll be right
down."


II



Dark satanic mills, indeed, thought DC Susan Gay as she

approached Bradford. Even on a fine autumn day like

this, even with most of the mills closed down or turned

into craft shops or business centres, the tall, dark chimneys

down in the valley still had a gloomy aspect.


Bradford had been cleaned up. It now advertised itself
as the gateway to Bronte country and boasted such
tourist attractions as Boiling Hall, the National Museum
of Photography and even Undercliffe Cemetery. But as

Susan navigated her way through the one-way streets of
the city centre, past the gothic Victorian Wool Exchange
and the Town Hall, with its huge campanile tower,
Bradford still felt to her like a nineteenth-century city in
fancy dress.

After driving around in circles for what seemed like
ages, she finally turned past St George's Hall and drove
by the enormous Metro Travel Interchange onto
Wakefield Road. The next time she had to stop for a red
light, she consulted her street map again and found
Hawthorne Terrace. It didn't seem too far away: a right,
a left and a right again. Soon she found herself in an area
of terrace back-to-backs, with washing hanging across
rundown tarmac streets. The car bumped in potholes as
she looked for the street name. There it was.

An old man in a turban and a long white beard hobbled
across the street on his walking-stick. Despite the
chill that had crept into the air that morning, people sat
out on their doorsteps. Children played hand-cricket
against wickets chalked on walls and she had to drive
very slowly in case one of the less cautious players ran
out in front of her chasing a catch. Some of the corner
shops had posters in Hindi in their windows. One
showed a golden-skinned woman apparently swooning in
a rajah's armsa new video release, by the look of it.
She noticed the smells in the air, too: cumin, coriander,
cardamom.

At last she bumped to a halt outside number six,
watched by a group of children over the street. There
were no gardens, just a cracked pavement beyond the
kerb, then the houses themselves in an unbroken row.
The red bricks had darkened over the years, and these
places hadn't been sandblasted clean like the Town Hall.
Like any other northern city, Bradford had its share of
new housing, both council and private, but the Johnsons'

part of town was pre-war, and here, old didn't mean
charming, as it often did out in the country. Still, it was
no real slum, no indication of abject poverty. As she
locked her car door and looked around, Susan noticed the
individualizing touches to some of the houses: an ornate
brass door-knocker on one bright red door; a dormer
window atop one house; double-glazing in another.

Taking a deep breath, Susan knocked. She knew that,
even though the Johnsons had agreed to her coming, she
would be intruding on their grief. No matter what the late
Carl's police record said, to them he was a son who had
been brutally murdered. At least she wasn't the one to
break the news. The Bradford police had already done
that. The upstairs curtains, she noticed, were drawn, a
sign that there had been a death in the family.

A woman opened the door. In her late fifties, Susan
guessed, she looked well preserved, with a trim figure,
dyed red hair nicely permed and just the right amount of
make-up to hide a few wrinkles. She was wearing a
black skirt and a white blouse tucked in the waistband. A
pair of glasses dangled on a cord around her neck.

"Come in, dearie," she said, after Susan had introduced
herself. "Make yourself at home."

The front door led straight into a small living-room.
The furniture was old and worn, but everything was
clean and well cared for. A framed print of a white
flower in a jar standing in front of a range of mountains
in varying shades of blue brightened the wall opposite
the window, which admitted enough sunlight to make the
wooden surfaces of the sideboard gleam. Mrs Johnson
noticed Susan looking at it.

"It's a Hockney print," she said proudly. "We bought it
at the photography museum when we went to see his exhibition.
It brightens up the place a bit, doesn't it? He's a
local lad, you know, Hockney." Her accent sounded

vaguely posh and wholly put-on.

"Yes," said Susan. She remembered Sandra Banks
telling her about David Hockney once. A local lad he
might be, but he lived near the sea now in southern
California, a far cry from Bradford. "It's very nice," she
added.

"I think so," said Mrs Johnson. "I've always had an
eye for a good painting, you know. Sometimes I think if
I'd stuck at it and not. . . ." She looked around. "Well . . .
it's too late for that now, isn't it? Cup of tea?"

"Yes, please."

"Sit down, dearie, there you go. Won't be a minute.
Mr Johnson's just gone to the corner shop. He won't be
long."

Susan sat in one of the dark blue armchairs. It was upholstered
in some velvety kind of material, and she
didn't like the feel of it against her fingertips, so she
folded her hands in her lap. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece.
Beside it stood a couple of postcards from
sunny beaches, and three cards of condolence, from
neighbours no doubt. Below was a brown tiled hearth
and fireplace, its grate covered by a gas-fire with fake
glowing coals. Even though it was still warm enough indoors,
Susan could make out a faint glow and hear the
hiss of the gas supply. The Johnsons obviously didn't
want her to think they were stingy.

Before Mrs Johnson returned with the tea, the front
door opened and a tall, thin man in baggy jeans and a red
short-sleeved jumper over a white shirt walked in. When
he saw Susan, he smiled and held out his hand. He had a
narrow, lined face, a long nose, and a few fluffy grey
hairs around the edges of his predominantly bald head.
The corners of his thin lips were perpetually upturned as
if on the verge of a conspiratorial smile.

"You must be from the police?" he said. "Pleased to

see you.

It was an odd greeting, certainly not the kind Susan
was used to, but she shook his hand and mumbled her
condolences.

"Fox's Custard Creams," he said.

"Pardon?"

"That's what Mother sent me out for. Fox's Custard
Creams." He shook his head. "She thought they'd go
nice with a cup of tea." Unlike his wife's, Mr Johnson's
accent was clearly and unashamedly West Riding. "You
think I could get any, though? Could I hell-as-like."

At that moment, Mrs Johnson came in with a tray
bearing cups and saucers, her best china, by the look of
it, delicate pieces with rose patterns and gold around the
rims, and a teapot covered by a quilted pink cosy. She set
this down on the low polished-wood table in front of the
settee.

"What's wrong?" she asked her husband.

He glanced at Susan. "Everything's changed, that's
what. Oh, it's been going on for years, I know, but I just
can't seem to get used to it, especially as I'm home most
of the time now."

"He got made redundant," said Mrs Johnson, whispering
as if she were telling someone a neighbour had cancer.
"Had a good job as a clerk in the accounts
department at British Home Stores, but they had staff
cutbacks. I ask you, after nearly thirty years' loyal service.
And how's a man to get a job at his age? It's young
'uns they want these days." Her accent slipped as she expressed
her disgust.

"Now that's enough of that, Edie," he said, then
looked at Susan again. "I'm as tolerant as the next
manI don't want you to think I'm notbut I'd say
things have come to a pretty pass when you can buy all
the poppadoms and samosas you want at the corner shop

but you can't get a packet of Fox's blooming Custard
Creams. What'll it be next? that's what I ask myself.
Baked beans? Milk? Butter? Teal"

"Well, you'll have to go to Taylor's in future won't
you?"

"Taylor's! Taylor's was bought out by Gandhi's or
some such lot months back, woman. Shows how much
shopping you do."

"I go to the supermarket down on the main road." She
looked at Susan. "It's a Sainsbury's, you know, very
nice."

"Anyway," said Mr Johnson, "the lass doesn't want to
hear about our problems, does she? She's got a job to
do." He sat down and they all waited quietly as Mrs
Johnson poured the tea.

"We do have some ginger biscuits," she said to Susan,
"if you'd like one."

"No thanks. Tea'll be fine, Mrs Johnson, honest."

"Where do you come from, lass?" asked Mr Johnson.

"Sheffield."

"I thought it were Yorkshire, but I couldn't quite place
it. Sheffield, eh." He nodded, and kept on nodding, as if
he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I'm sorry to be calling at a time like this," Susan said,
accepting her cup and saucer from Mrs Johnson, "but it's
important we get as much information as we can as soon
as possible." She placed the tea carefully at the edge of
the low table and took out her notebook. In a crucial interrogation,
either she would have someone along to do
that, or she would be taking the notes while Banks asked
the questions, but the Johnsons were hardly suspects, and
all she hoped to get was a few names of their son's
friends and acquaintances. "When did you last see Carl?"
she asked first.

"Now then, when was it, love?" Mr Johnson asked his

wife. "Seven years? Eight?"

"More like nine or ten, I'd say."

"Nine years?" Susan grasped at a number. "You hadn't
seen him in all that time?"

"Broke his mother's heart, Carl did," said Mr Johnson,
with the incongruous smile hovering as he spoke. "He
never had no time for us."

"Now that's not true," said Mrs Johnson. "He fell in
with bad company, that's what happened. He was always
too easily led, our Carl."

"Aye, and look where it got him."

"Stop it, Bert, don't talk like that. You know I don't
like it when you talk like that."

Susan coughed and they both looked at her shamefacedly.
"Sorry," said Mrs Johnson. "I know we weren't
close, but he was our son."

"Yes," said Susan. "What I was wondering was if you
could tell me anything about him, his friends, what he
liked to do."

"We don't really know," said Mrs Johnson, "do we,
Bert?" Her husband shook his head. "It was nine years
ago, I remember now. His twenty-first birthday. That was
the last time we saw him."

"What happened?"

"There was a local lass," Mr Johnson explained. "Our
Carl got her . . . well, you know. Anyway, instead of doing
the honourable thing, he said it was her problem. She
came round, right at his birthday party, and told us. We
had a barney and Carl stormed out. We never saw him
again. He sent us a postcard about a year later, just to let
us know he was all right."

"Where was it from?"

"London. It was a picture of Tower Bridge."

"Always did have a temper, did Carl," Mrs Johnson
said.

"What was the girl's name?" Susan asked.

Mr Johnson frowned. "Beryl, if I remember correctly,"
he said. "I think she moved away years back, though."

"Her mum and dad still live round the corner," said
Mrs Johnson. Susan got their address and made a note to
call on them later.

"Did Carl keep in touch at all?"

"No. He wasn't even in much after he turned sixteen,
but there's not been a dicky-bird since that postcard.
He'd be thirty when he ... when he ... wouldn't he?"

"Yes," Susan said.

"It's awful young to die," Mrs Johnson muttered. "I
blame bad company. Even when he was at school, whenever
he got in trouble it was because somebody put him
up to it, got him to do the dirty work. When he got
caught shoplifting that time, it was that what's-his-name,
you know, Bert, the lad with the spotty face."

"They all had spotty faces," said Mr Johnson, grinning
at Susan.

"You know who I mean. Robert Naylor, that's the one.
He was behind it all. He always looked up to the wrong
people did our Carl. Always trusted the wrong ones. I'm
sure he wasn't bad in himself, just too easily led. He always
seemed to have this . . . this fascination for bad
'uns. He liked to watch those old James Cagney films on
telly. Just loved them, he did. What was his favourite,
Bert? You know, that one where James Cagney keeps
getting these headaches, the one where he loves his
mother."

"White Heat." Mr Johnson looked at Susan. "You
know the one. 'Top of the world, Ma!'"

Susan didn't, but she nodded anyway.

"That's the one," said Mrs Johnson. "Loved that film,
our Carl did. I blame the telly myself for a lot of the violence
that goes on these days, I really do. They can get

away with anything now."

"Did you know any of his other friends?" Susan asked
her.

"Only when he was at school. He just wasn't home
much after he left school."

"You don't know the names of anyone else he went
around with?"

"Sorry, dearie, no. It's so long ago I just can't remember.
It's a miracle Robert Naylor came back to me, and
that's only because of the shoplifting. Had the police
round then, we did."

"What about this Robert Naylor? Where does he
live?"

Mrs Johnson shook her head. Susan made a note of the
name anyway. It might be worth trying to track him
down. If he was such a "bad 'un" he might even have a
record by now. There didn't seem anything else to be
gained from talking to the Johnsons, Susan thought. Best
nip round the corner and find out about the girl Carl got
pregnant, then head back to Eastvale. She finished her
tea and stood up to leave.

"Nay, lass," said Mr Johnson. "Have another cup."

"No, I really must be going. Thank you very much."

"Well," he said, "I suppose you've got your job to do."

"Thank you for your time," Susan said, and opened
the door.

"You can be sure of one thing, you mark my words,"
said Mrs Johnson.

Susan paused in the doorway. "Yes?"

"There'll be someone behind this had an influence on
our Carl. Put him up to things. A bad 'un. A real bad
'un, with no conscience." And she nodded, as if to emphasize
her words.

"I'll remember that," said Susan, then walked out into
the cobbled street where bed-sheets, shirts and under
clothes flapped on a breeze that carried the fragrances of
the east.


Ill



The man sitting under a graphic poster about the perils of

drunken driving had the irritated, pursed-lipped look of

an accountant whose figures won't add up right. When

he saw Gristhorpe coming, he got to his feet sharply.


"What are you going to do about it, then?" he asked.

Gristhorpe looked over to Sergeant Rowe, who raised
his eyebrows and shook his head, then he led the man to
one of the downstairs interview rooms. He was in his
mid-thirties, Gristhorpe guessed, dressed neatly in a grey
suit, white shirt and blue and red striped tie, fair hair
combed back, wire-framed glasses, and his chin thrust
out. His complexion had a scrubbed and faintly ruddy
complexion that Gristhorpe always, rightly or wrongly,
associated with the churchy crowd, and he smelled of
Pears soap. When they sat down, Gristhorpe asked him
what the problem was.

"My car's been stolen, that's what. Didn't the sergeant
tell you?"

"You're here about a stolen car?"

"That's right. It's outside."

Gristhorpe rubbed his brow. "I'm afraid I don't understand.
Can you explain it from the beginning?"

The man sighed and looked at his watch. "Look," he
said, "I've been here twenty-two minutes already, first
waiting to see the sergeant back there, then explaining
everything to him. Are you telling me I have to go
through it all again? Because if you are, you've got a
nerve. I had trouble enough getting this time off from the
office in the first place. Why don't you ask the other po-
liceman what happened?"

Gristhorpe kept his silence throughout the tirade. He
was used to impatient, precise and fastidious people like
Mr Parkinson and found it best to let them carry on until
they ran out of steam. "I'd rather hear it from you, sir,"
he replied.

"Oh, very well. I've been away for a while. When
I--"

"Since when?"

"When what?"

"When did you go away?"

"Last Monday morning, a week ago. As I was saying,
I left my car in the garage as usual, then I--"

"What do you mean, 'as usual'?"

"Exactly what I say. Now if--"

"You mean you were in the habit of doing this?"

"I think that's what 'as usual' means, don't you,
Inspector?"

"Carry on." Gristhorpe didn't bother to correct him
over rank. If the car turned out to be a useful lead, it
would be important to find out how many people knew
about Parkinson's habit of leaving his car for days at a
time, and why he did so, but for now it was best to let
him finish.

"When I returned this morning, it was exactly as I had
left it, except for one thing."

"Yes?"

"The mileage. I always keep a careful record of how
many miles I've done on each journey. I find it's important
these days, with the price of petrol the way it is.
Anyway, when I left, the mileometer stood at 7655. I
know this for a fact because I wrote it down in the log I
keep. When I got back it read 7782. Now, that's a difference
of one hundred and twenty-seven miles, Inspector.
Someone has driven my car one hundred and twenty
seven miles in my absence. How do you explain that?"

Gristhorpe scratched his bristly chin. "It certainly
sounds as if someone borrowed it. If you--"

"Borrowed!" echoed Parkinson. "That implies I gave
someone permission. I did no such thing. Someone stole
my car, Inspector. Stole it. The fact that they returned it
is irrelevant."

"Mm, you've got a point," said Gristhorpe. "Were
there any signs of forced entry? Scratches around the
door, that kind of thing?"

"There were scratches at the bottom of the chassis I'm
positive weren't there before, but none at all around the
door or windows. I imagine that today's criminal has
more sophisticated means of entry than the wire coat- hanger
some fools are reduced to when they lock themselves
out of their cars?"

"You imagine right," said Gristhorpe. "Keys aren't
hard to come by. And garages are easy to get into. What
make is the car?"

"Make. I don't see--"

"For our records."

"Very well. It's a Toyota. I find the Japanese perfectly
reliable when it comes to cars."

"Of course. And what colour?"

"Dark blue. Look, you can save us both a lot of time if
you come and have a look yourself. It's parked right outside."

"Fine." Gristhorpe stood up. "Let's go."

Parkinson led. As he walked, he stuck his hands in his
pockets and jingled keys and loose change. Outside the
station, opposite the market square, Gristhorpe sniffed
the air. His experienced dalesman's nose smelled rain.
Already, clouds were blowing in from the north-west. He
also smelled pub grub from the Queen's Arms, steak- and-kidney
pie if he was right, and he realized he was

getting hungry.

Parkinson's car was, indeed, a dark blue Toyota, illegally
parked right in front of the police station.

"Look at that," Parkinson said, pointing to scratched
paintwork on the bottom of the chassis, just behind the
left front wheel. "Careless driving that is. Must have
caught against a stone or something. Well? Aren't you
going to have a look inside?"

"The fewer people do that, the better, sir," said
Gristhorpe, looking to see what stones and dirt were
trapped in the tread of the tires.

Parkinson frowned. "What on earth do you mean by
that?"

Gristhorpe turned to face him. "You say you left last
Monday?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"I took the eight-thirty flight from Leeds and
Bradford."

"To where?"

"I don't see as it's any of your business, but Brussels.
EEC business."

Gristhorpe nodded. They were standing in the middle
of the pavement and passers-by had to get around them
somehow. A woman with a pram asked Parkinson to step
out of the way so she could get by. A teenager with
cropped hair and a tattoo on his cheek swore at him.
Parkinson was clearly uncomfortable talking in the
street. A mark of his middle-class background,
Gristhorpe thought. The working classesboth urban
and ruralhad always felt quite comfortable standing
and chatting in the street. But Parkinson hopped from
foot to foot, glancing irritably from the corners of his
eyes as people brushed and jostled past them to get by.
His glasses had slipped down his nose, and a stray lock

of hair fell over his right eye.

"How did you get to the airport?" Gristhorpe pressed
on.

"A friend drove me. A business colleague. It's no
mystery, Inspector, believe me. Long-term parking at the
airport is expensive. My colleague drives a company car,
and the company pays. It's as simple as that." He pushed
his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "It's not
that I'm overly concerned about saving money, of
course. But why pay when you don't have to?"

"Indeed. Do you always do it that way?"

"What way?"

"Don't you ever take it in turns?"

"I told you. He has a company car. Look, I don't see--"

"Please bear with me. Did nobody notice the car was
gone?"

"How could they? It was in the garage, and the garage
door was locked."

"Have you asked if anyone heard anything?"

"That's your job. That's why--"

"Where do you live, sir?"

"Bartlett Drive. Just off the Helmthorpe road."

"I know it." If Gristhorpe remembered correctly,
Bartlett Drive was close to the holiday cottage the
Manleys had so suddenly deserted. "And the car was replaced
as if it had never been gone?"

"That's right. Only they didn't bargain for my record-keeping."

"Quite. Look, I'll get someone to drive you home and
take a full statement, then--"

"What? You'll do what?" A couple walking by
stopped and stared. Parkinson blushed and lowered his
voice. "I've already told you I've given up enough time
already. Now why don't you--"

Gristhorpe held his hand up, palm out, and his inno-
cent gaze silenced Parkinson just as it had put the fear of
God into many a villain. "I can understand your feelings,"
Gristhorpe said, "but please listen to me for a
minute. There's a chance, a very good chance, that your
car was used to abduct a little girl from her home last
Tuesday afternoon. If that's the case, it's essential that
we get a forensic team to go over the car thoroughly. Do
you understand?"

Parkinson nodded, mouth open.

"Now, this may mean some inconvenience to you.
You'll get your car back in the same condition it's in
now, but I can't say exactly when. Of course, we'll try to
help you in any way we can, but basically, you're acting
like the true public-spirited citizen that you are. You're
generously helping us try to get to the bottom of a particularly
nasty bit of business, right?"

"Well," said Parkinson. "Seeing as you put it that
way." And the first drops of rain fell on their heads.


IV



Banks and Susan stood at the bar in the Queen's Arms

that Monday lunch-time, wedged between two farmers

and a family of tourists, and munched cheese-and-onion

sandwiches with their drinks. Banks had a pint of

Theakston's bitter, Susan a Slimline Tonic Water. A song

about a broken love affair was playing on the jukebox in

the background, and somewhere by the door to the toilets,

a video game beeped as aliens went down in flames.

From what he could overhear, Banks gathered that the

farmers were talking about money and the tourists were

arguing about whether to go home because of the rain or

carry on to the Bowes Museum.


"So you found the girl's parents?" Banks asked.

"Uh-uh." Susan put her hand to her mouth and wiped
away some crumbs, then swallowed. "Sorry, sir. Yes,
they were home. Seems like everyone except the
Pakistanis around there is unemployed or retired."

"Get anything?"

Susan shook her head. Tight blonde curls danced over
her ears. Banks noticed the dangling earrings, stylized,
elongated Egyptian cats in light gold. Susan had certainly
brightened up her appearance a bit lately. "Dead
end," she said. "Oh, it happened all right. Right charmer
Carl Johnson was, from what I can gather. But the girl,
Beryl's her name, she's been living in America for the
past five years."

"What happened?"

"Just what his folks said. He got her in the family way,
then dumped her. She came around to make a fuss, embarrass
him like, at his twenty-first birthday party. He
was still living at home then, off and on, and his parents
invited a few close relatives over. There was a big row
and he stormed out. Didn't even take any of his clothes
with him. They never saw him again."

Banks sipped at his pint and thought for a moment.
"So they've no idea who he hung around with, or where
he went?"

"No." Susan frowned. "They know he went to
London, but that's all. There was a chap called Robert
Naylor. Mrs Johnson saw him as bad influence."

"Has he got form?"

"Yes, sir. I checked. Just minor vandalism, drunk and
disorderly. But he's dead. Nothing suspicious. He was
riding his motorbike too fast. He lost control and skidded
into a lorry on the Ml."

"So that's that."

"I'm afraid so, sir. From what I can gather, Johnson
was the type to fall in with bad company."

"That's obvious enough."

"What I mean, sir, is that both his parents and Beryl's
mother said he looked up to tough guys. He wasn't much
in himself, they said, but he liked to be around dangerous
people."

Banks took another sip of beer. One of the tourists
bumped his elbow and he spilled a little on the bar. The
woman apologized. "Sounds like the kind that hero-worships
psychos and terrorists," Banks said. "He'd probably
have been happy working for the Krays or someone
like that back in the old days."

"That's it, sir. He was a weakling himself, but he liked
to boast about the rough company he kept."

"It fits. Small-time con-man, wants to be in with the
big boys. So you're thinking that might give us somewhere
to look for his killer?"

"Well, there could be a connection, couldn't there?"
Susan said, pushing her empty plate away.

Banks lit a cigarette, taking care that the smoke didn't
drift directly into Susan's face. "You mean he might have
been playing out of his league, tried a double-cross or
something?"

"It's possible," said Susan.

"True. At least it's an angle to work on, and there
don't seem very many. I dropped by The Barleycorn last
night and found Les Poole. I just thought I'd mention
Johnson to him, seeing as they're both in the same business,
so to speak."

"And?"

"Nothing. Poole denied knowing himwell, of course
he wouldand he's not a bad liar. No signs in his voice
or his body language that he wasn't telling the truth. But
. . ." Banks shook his head. "I don't know. There was
something there. The only way I can describe it is as a
whiff of fear. It came and went in a second, and I'm not

sure even Les was aware of it, but it was there. Anyway,
no good chasing wl-o'-the-wisps. Adam Harkness's
Golf Club alibi checks out. I still think we might bring
South Africa up whenever we question someone, though.
Johnson could have been blackmailing Harkness, and
Harkness could afford to pay someone to get rid of him.
Have you had time to ask around the other flats?"

"Last night, sir. I meant to tell you, but I set off for
Bradford so early. There's a student on the ground floor
called Edwina Whixley. She heard male voices occasionally
from Johnson's room. And she saw someone coming
down the stairs one day she thought might have been visiting
him."

"Did you get a description?"

"Yes." Susan fished for her notebook and found the
page. "About five foot five, mid-thirties, cropped black
hair and squarish head. He was wearing a suede zip-up
jacket and jeans."

"That's all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ring a bell?"

Susan shook her head.

"Me, neither. Maybe you can get her to come and look
at some mug-shots. And you might as well check into
Johnson's form, his prison mates, that kind of thing. See
if you can come up with any local names, anyone fitting
the description."

"Yes, sir." Susan picked up her bag and left.

She had a very purposeful, no-nonsense walk, Banks
noticed. He remembered the trouble she had had not so
long ago and decided it had actually done her good.
Susan Gay wasn't the kind to throw her hands up in the
air and surrender. Adversity strengthened her; she
learned from her mistakes. Maybe that hardened her a
bit, made her more cynical and less trusting, but perhaps

they weren't such bad qualities for a detective. It was
hard not to be cynical when you saw so much villainy
and human misery, but in many cases the cynicism was
just a shell, as the sick jokes at crime scenes and postmortems
were ways of coping with the horror and the
gruesomeness of death, and perhaps, too, with the fact
that it comes to us all at one time. The best coppers,
Banks thought, are the ones who hang onto their humanity
against all odds. He hoped he had managed to do that;
he knew Gristhorpe had; and he hoped that Susan would.
She was young yet.

The tourists decided to go home, partly because their
youngest child was making a fearful racket, and the
farmers had moved on to discuss the prospects for the
three-forty at Newmarket. Banks drained his pint, then
headed back to the office. There was paperwork to be
done. And he would make an appointment to meet with
Linda Fish, from the Writers' Circle, tomorrow, much as
the thought made him wince, and see what light she
could shed on Mr Adam Harkness.


The strange woman called on Brenda Scupham shortly

after Les had left for the pub that Monday evening. She

was washing the dishes and lip-synching to a Patsy Cline

record when the doorbell rang. Drying her hands with the

lea towel, she walked through and opened the door.


"Mrs Scupham? Brenda Scupham?"

The woman stood there in the rain, a navy-blue raincoat
buttoned up to her neck and a dark scarf fastened
over her head. Wind tugged at the black umbrella she
held. Beyond her, Brenda could see the nosy woman
from number eleven across the street peeking through

her curtains.

Brenda hugged herself against the cold and frowned.
"Yes. What do you want?"

"I'm Lenora Carlyle," the woman said. "You might
have heard of me?"

"Are you a reporter?"

"No. Can I come in?"

Brenda stood back, and the woman let down her umbrella
and entered. Brenda noticed immediately in the
hall light her intense dark eyes and Romany complexion.
She unfastened her scarf and shook out her head of luxuriant,
coal-black hair.

"I don't want anything," Brenda went on, suddenly
nervous.

"I'm not a reporter, Brenda, and I'm not selling anything,"
the woman said in soft, hypnotic tones. "I'm a
psychic. I'm here because of your daughter, Gemma. I
want to help you."

Brenda just gaped and stood back as the woman unbuttoned
her raincoat. Numbly, she took the umbrella
and stood it on the rubber mat with the shoes, then she
took the woman's coat and hung it up.

Lenora Carlyle was heavy-set, wearing a chunky-knit
black cardigan covered with red and yellow roses, black
slacks, and a religious symbol of some kind on a chain
around her neck. Or so the odd-looking cross with the
loop at the top seemed to Brenda. Lenora straightened
her cardigan and smiled, revealing stained and crooked
teeth.

Brenda led her into the living-room and turned off the
music. She still felt a little frightened. The supernatural
always made her feel that way. She wasn't sure if she believed
in it or not, but she'd heard of enough strange
things happening to people to make her wonder--like the
time her old friend Laurie Burton dreamed about her fa-
ther for the first time in years the very night he died.

After they had sat down, Brenda lit a cigarette and
asked, "What do you mean, help? How can you help?"

"I don't know yet," Lenora said, "but I'm sure I can. If
you'll let me."

"How much do you want?"

"I don't want anything."

Brenda felt suspicious, but you couldn't argue with
that. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

Lenora put a friendly hand on her knee. "Nothing,
dear, except relax and be open. Are you a believer?"

"I... I don't know."

"It's all right. The Lord knows His own. Do you have
something of Gemma's? Something personal."

"Like what?"

"Well, hair would be best, but perhaps an article of
clothing, a favourite toy. Something she felt strongly
about, touched a lot."

Brenda thought of the teddy bear one of her ex-boyfriends--Bob?
Ken?--had bought Gemma some
years ago. Even now she was older, Gemma never slept
without it. Brenda felt a pang of guilt as she thought
about it. If there were any chance that Gemma was alive,
she would miss her teddy bear terribly. Being without it
would make her so miserable. But no. Gemma was dead;
she had to be.

She went upstairs to Gemma's room and Lenora
Carlyle followed her. While Brenda walked to the tiny
bed to pick up the bear, Lenora stood on the threshold
and seemed to take several deep breaths.

"What is it?" Brenda asked.

Lenora didn't answer. Instead, she walked forward,
reached out for the bear, and sat down on the bed with it.
The bedspread had Walt Disney characters printed all
over it: Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Bambi, Dumbo.

How Gemma loved cartoons. They were the only things
that made her smile, Brenda remembered. But it was an
odd, inward smile, not one to be shared.

Lenora clutched the bear to her breast and rocked
slowly, eyes closed. Brenda felt a shiver go up her spine.
It was as if the atmosphere of the room had subtly
changed, somehow become thicker, deeper and colder.
For what seemed like ages, Lenora hung onto the bear
and rocked silently. Brenda clutched her blouse at her
throat. Then finally, Lenora opened her eyes. They were
glazed and unfocused. She began to speak.

"Gemma is alive," she said. "Alive. But, oh, she's so
alone, so frightened. So much suffering. She wants you.
She wants her mother. She needs you Brenda. You must
find her."

Brenda felt light-headed. "She can't be," she whispered.
"They've found her clothes .... I've seen them."

"She's alive, Brenda." Lenora turned and grasped
Brenda's wrist. Her grip was tight.

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?"

g


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


177



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 rne 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 1 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, OK?"

"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."


Ill



Gristhorpe and Richmond stood in the rain outside

Parkinson's house. Semi-detached, with a frosted-glass

door and a pebble-dash faade, 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 drystone

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 w.: 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 ofthing."

"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 screenthe way Marilyn
Monroe's clothes always seemed to want to slip off her
body, for examplebut 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 mugshots

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 openmouthed.

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.

I


Gristhorpe was indeed furious when he heard about

Brenda Scupham's television appearance. As he had no

TV set of his own, though, he didn't find out until

Wednesday morning.


"It's been over a week now since Gemma Scupham
disappeared," he said, shaking his head over coffee and
toasted teacakes with Banks at the Golden Grill. "I can't
say I hold out much hope. Especially since we found the
clothes."

"I can't, either," Banks agreed. "But Brenda Scupham's
got some bloody psychic to convince her that Gemma's
alive. Who would you rather listen to, if you were her?"

"I suppose you're right. Anyway, it all connects: the
abandoned cottage, the borrowed car, the hair-dye.
We've got descriptions of the Manleys out--both as
themselves and as Peterson and Brown. Somebody,
somewhere must know them. How about you?"

Banks sipped some hot black coffee. "Not much. The
lab finally came through with the scene analysis. The
blood in the mill matched Johnson's, so we can be pretty
certain that's where he was killed. Glendenning says it
was a right-handed upthrust wound. Six-inch blade,


194



single-edged. Probably some kind of sheath-knife, and
you know how common those are. No handy footprints
or tire tracks, and no sign of the weapon. I'm off to see
Harkness again, though I don't suppose it'll do much
good."

"You think he did it?"

"Apart from the mysterious stranger seen leaving
Johnson's building, he's the only lead I've got. I keep
telling myself that just because I didn't take to the man it
doesn't mean he's a killer. But nobody gets that rich
without making a few enemies. And Johnson was a
crook. He could have been involved somewhere along
the line."

"Aye, maybe you're right. Be careful, though, the last
thing I need right now is the ACC on my back."

Banks laughed. "You know me. Diplomacy personified."

"Aye, well ... I'd better be off to see Mrs Scupham.
See if I can't talk some sense into her. I want a word with
that bloody psychic, too. I've got Phil out looking for
her." He looked outside. A fine mist nuzzled the window.

"Hang on a minute, sir," Banks said. "You know,
Brenda Scupham might be right."

"What?"

"If Gemma is alive, a television appeal won't do any
harm. It might even do some good."

"I realize that. We can't have any idea what the
woman's going through. All I want to do is reassure her
that we are doing the best we can. If Gemma is alive,
we've more chance of finding her than some bloody tea- leaf
reader. There's a trail to follow somewhere in all
this, and I think we're picking it up. But these people, the
Manleys or whatever they call themselves now, they
talked to enough people, got on well enough with the locals,
but they gave nothing away. We don't even know

where they come from, and we can't be sure what they
look like, either. They're still two-dimensional."

"What about the notes they used to pay for the cottage?"

"Patricia Cummings, the estate agent, said she paid the
cash directly into the bank. Right now it's mixed up with
all the rest of the money they've got in their vaults."

"How did they hear about the cottage? Did they say?"

"Told her they'd read about it in The Dalesman."

"You could get"

"I know, I knowthe list of subscribers. We're checking
on it. But you can buy The Dalesman at almost any
newsagent's, in this part of the country, anyway."

"Just a thought."

Gristhorpe finished his teacake and wiped his mouth
with the paper serviette. "At the moment it looks like our
best bet lies with the descriptionsif that's what they really
look like. Christ knows, maybe they're Hollywood
special-effects people underneath it all. We've got the
artist working with Parkinson and the crowd in The
Drayman's Rest. Should be ready for tomorrow's papers.
And I was thinking about the whitewash they found on
Gemma's clothes, too. I've seen it in two places recently:
Melville Westman's, the Satanist, or whatever he calls
himself, and the holiday cottage."

"I suppose the Manleys could have kept Gemma
there," Banks said. "Perhaps they drugged her. She's not
very big. It wouldn't be difficult to get her out of the cottage
after dark."

"Aye, that's true enough. Still, I'm getting a warrant
and sending a few lads to give Westman's place a good
going-over."

"You don't like him any better than 1 like Harkness, do
you?"

Gristhorpe grinned. "No," he said. "No, I don't." He

pushed his chair back. "Must be off. See you later,
Alan." And he walked out into Market Street.


II



Adam Harkness's house clearly hadn't been vacuumed or

tidied since Banks's last visit. At least a crackling fire

took the chill out of the damp air in the library. The

french windows were firmly closed. Beyond the streaked

glass, drops of rain pitted the river's surface. Lyndgarth

and Aldington Edge were shrouded in a veil of low grey

cloud.


"Please, sit down," Harkness said. "Now what can I do
for you, Chief Inspector? Have you found Carl's killer?"

Banks rubbed his hands in front of the fire, then sat.
"Not yet," he said. "There's a couple of points you might
be able to help me clear up, though."

Harkness raised a challenging eyebrow and sat in the
chair opposite Banks. "Yes?"

"We've learned that Johnson might have met with a
certain individual on a couple of occasions shortly before
his murder. Did he talk to you about any of his friends?"

"I've already told you. He was my gardener. He came
a couple of times a week and kept the garden in trim.
That's all."

"Is it? Please think about it, Mr Harkness. Even if
Johnson was only the hired help, it would be perfectly
natural to have a bit of a chat now and then about innocuous
stuff, wouldn't it?" He felt that he was giving
Harkness a fair chance to come up with something he
may have forgotten or chosen not to admit earlier, but it
did no good.

Harkness folded his hands in his lap. "I knew nothing
whatsoever about Carl Johnson's private life. The mo-
ment he left my property, his life was his own, and I neither
know nor care what he did."

"Even if it was of a criminal nature?"

"You might believe he was irredeemably branded as a
criminal. I do not. Besides, as I keep telling you, I have
no knowledge of his activities, criminal or otherwise."

Banks described the man Edwina Whixley had seen
coming down the stairs of Johnson's building: thickset,
medium height, short dark hair, squarish head. "Ever see
or hear about him?"

Harkness shook his head. "Carl always came here
alone. He never introduced me to any of his colleagues."

"So you never saw this man?"

"No."

"How did Johnson get here?"

"What?"

"Carl Johnson? How did he get here? He didn't have a
car."

"There are still buses, Chief Inspector, including a
fairly regular service from Eastvale to Lyndgarth.
There's a bus-stop just by the bridge."

"Of course. Did Johnson ever mention any of his old
prison friends?"

"What? Not to me. It would hardly have been appropriate,
would it?" Harkness picked up the poker and
jabbed at the fire. "Look, why don't you save us both a
lot of wasted time and energy and accept that I'm telling
the truth when I say I knew nothing about Carl's private
life?"

"I don't know what gives you the impression I don't
believe you."

"Your attitude, for a start, and the questions you keep
on asking over and over again."

"Sir," said Banks, "you have to understand that this is
a murder investigation. People forget things. Sometimes

they don't realize the importance of what they know. All
I'm doing is trying to jog your memory into giving up
something that Johnson might have let slip in a moment
of idle chatter. Anything. It might mean nothing at all to
youa name, a date, an opinion, whateverbut it might
be vital to us."

Harkness paused. "Well ... of course, yes ... I suppose
I see what you mean. The thing is, though, there really
is nothing. I'm sure if he'd said anything I would
have remembered it by now. The fact is we just didn't
talk beyond discussing the garden and the weather.
Basically, we had nothing else in common. He seemed a
reticent sort of fellow, anyway, kept himself to himself,
and that suited me fine. Also, remember, I'm often away
on business."

"Was there ever any evidence that Johnson had used
the house in your absence?"

"What do you mean, 'used the house'? For what purpose?"

"I don't know. I assume he had a key?"

"Yes. But. . ."

"Nothing was ever out of place?"

"No. Are you suggesting he might have been stealing
things?"

"No. I don't think even Carl Johnson would have been
that stupid. To be honest, I don't know what I'm getting
at." Banks scratched his head and glanced at the river
and the copper beech, leaves dripping, beyond the french
windows. "This is a fairly out-of-the-way place. It could
be suitable for criminal activities in any number of
ways."

"I noticed nothing," Harkness said, with a thin smile.
"Not even a muddy footprint on my carpet."

"You see," Banks went on, "Johnson's life is a bit of a
mystery to us. We've got his record, the bald facts. But

how did he think? We don't seem to be able to find anyone
who was close to him. And there are years missing.
He may have been to Europe, Amsterdam perhaps. He
may even have had friends from South Africa."

Harkness sat bolt upright and gripped the arms of the
chair. "What are you insinuating?"

"I've heard rumours of some sort of a scandal.
Something involving you back in South Africa. There
was some sort of cover-up. Do you know what I'm talking
about?"

Harkness snorted. "There are always scandals surrounding
the wealthy, Chief Inspector. You ought to
know that. Usually they derive from envy. No, I can't say
I do know what you're talking about."

"But was there any such scandal involving you or your
family out there?"

"No, nothing that stands out."

Banks got that almost-infallible tingle that told him
Harkness was holding back. He gave his man-of-the- world
shrug. "Of course, I'm not suggesting there was
any truth in it, but we have to investigate everything that
comes up."

Harkness stood up. "It seems to me that you are
spending an unusual amount of time investigating me
when you should be looking for Carl Johnson's killer. I
suggest you look among his criminal cronies for your
killer."

"You've got a point, there. And, believe me, we're trying
to track them down. Just out of interest, did Johnson
ever mention South Africa to you?"

"No, he did not. And don't think I don't know what
you're getting at. You're suggesting he was blackmailing
me over some secret or other, aren't you, and that I killed
him to silence him? Come on, is that what you're getting
at?"

Banks stood up and spoke slowly. "But you couldn't
have killed him, could you, sir? You were dining at the
Golf Club at the time of the murder. A number of very
influential people saw you there." He regarded Harkness,
who maintained an expression of outraged dignity, then
said, "Thank you very much for your time," and left.

As he drove down to the main road with the windscreen-wipers
tapping time to Gurney's "Sleep," he
smiled to himself. He had got at least some of what he
had wanted: a sure sense that Harkness was holding
something back; and the satisfying knowledge that the
man, rich, confident and powerful notwithstanding,
could be rattled. Time now to make a few overseas
phone calls, then perhaps have another chat with Mr
Adam Harkness.


Ill



"You think I acted dishonestly, is that what you're saying?"


"Irresponsibly is the word I had in mind," Gristhorpe
replied. He was sitting opposite Lenora Carlyle in a
small interview room at the station. A WPC sat by the
window to take notes. With her wild black hair, her high,
prominent cheekbones and blazing dark eyes, Lenora
certainly looked dramatic. She seemed composed as she
sat there, he noticed, arms folded across her jumper, a
slightly superior smile revealing stained teeth. It was the
kind of smile, Gristhorpe thought, that she probably reserved
for the poor, lost disbelievers with whom she no
doubt had to deal now and then.

"I do my job, Superintendent," she said, "and you do
yours."

"And just what is your job? In this case it seems to

consist of giving a poor woman false hope." Gristhorpe
had just been to see Brenda Scupham, and he had noticed
the fervour in her eyes when she spoke of what Lenora
had told her.

"I can tell there's no convincing you, but I don't happen
to believe it's false. Look, are you upset because
Brenda criticized you on television? Is that why you've
got me in here?"

"What was the source of your information about
Gemma Scupham?"

"I'm a psychic. You know that already."

"So the 'other side' is the source?"

"If you want to put it like that, yes."

"Are you sure?"

"What are you getting at?"

Gristhorpe leaned back and rested his forearms on the
table. "Ms Carlyle, we're investigating the abduction of a
child, a very serious crime, and one that happens to be
especially odious to me. All of a sudden, you walk into
Brenda Scupham's house and tell her you know the child
is still alive. I'd be a bloody idiot if I didn't ask you how
you know."

"I've told you."

"Aye. And, as you well know, I don't happen to believe
in convenient messages from the other side."

She smiled. "It's stalemate, isn't it, then?"

"No, it isn't. Are you aware that I could hold you if I
wanted?"

"What do you mean?"

"You profess to have information about a missing
child, but you won't reveal your source. As far as I
know, you could have something to do with Gemma
Scupham's disappearance."

"Now look here"

"No. You look here. If that child is alive and you know

something that could help us find her, you'd better tell
me, because I'm getting tired of this."

"I only know what I told Brendathat Gemma is
alive, she's scared and she wants her mother. You know,
you'd do much better with an open mind. The police
have used psychics to help them in the past."

And a fat lot of good it's done, thought Gristhorpe,
feeling himself being manipulated into the position of
doing exactly that. The woman might know something,
after all, and he couldn't dismiss that possibility, even if
it meant playing her game. "All right," he sighed. "Did
you get any impressions about where she is?"

Lenora shook her head.

"Any images, sounds, smells?"

"Nothing like that. Just an overwhelming emotional
sense of her presence somewhere. Alive. And her fear."

"Near or far?"

"I can't say."

Gristhorpe scratched his chin. "Not much to go on, is
it?"

"I can't help that. I'm merely a medium for the messages.
Do you want to consult me professionally? Do
you want me to try and help you?"

Gristhorpe noticed the smile of triumph. "Ms Carlyle,"
he shot back, "if you fail to help us, I'll make sure you're
thrown in jail. Do you know Melville Westman?"

It was only fleeting, but he saw it, a split-second sign
of recognition. It was second nature for him to notice the
signs, the body language, the way eye-contact broke off.
He could see her trying to decide how much to admit.
"Well?" he prodded.

"The name sounds vaguely familiar," she said with a
toss of her head. "I might have come across him."

"Let me fill you in. Melville Westman calls himself a
magician. There have been incidents in the past few

years of such groups using children in their rituals. Now,
I don't know what you're up to, but if you and Westman
have any involvement in Gemma's disappearance, direct
or indirect, I'll find out about it."

"This is ridiculous!" Lenora said. "I've had enough of
your accusations and insinuations." She tried to push the
chair back to get to her feet, but forgot it was bolted to
the floor and she got stuck, half-standing, between it and
the table.

"Sit down." Gristhorpe waved his hand. "I haven't finished
yet. What's your connection with Westman?"

She sat down, chewed on her lower lip for a moment,
and answered, "I know him, that's all. We're acquaintances."

"Met at the magician's circle, did you?"

"You don't have to be sarcastic. It's a small community
for anyone interested in the occult. We've had discussions,
loaned one another books, that's all."

"I'm asking you if Westman has told you anything
about Gemma Scupham's whereabouts. Are you some
kind of messenger, some salve to the conscience come to
spare the mother a little pain until you've finished with
the child? Or are you just tormenting her?"

"Don't be absurd. What would Melville want with the
child?"

"You tell me."

"He wouldn't. He's not that kind."

"What kind?"

"The kind that performs elaborate rituals, sacrifices
animals and . . ."

"Children?"

"Look, I'm not denying there are lunatic fringes
around, but Melville Westman doesn't belong to one."

"Is there anyone in the area you would associate with
a lunatic fringe?"

"No."

"Ever heard of the Manleys? Chris and Connie. Or
Miss Peterson and Mr Brown?"

"No."

"Did Melville Westman send you?"

"No, he bloody well didn't. I came forward to help the
mother of my own free will," Lenora said through
clenched teeth. "And this is how you treat me. I thought
the police would"

"You know nothing about the way we work, or you'd
hardly have had Brenda Scupham shooting her mouth off
on television."
 "That wasn't my doing."

"It doesn't matter whose doing it was. It happened.
And if that child is dead, I want you to think of how
much harm you've done her mother."

Lenora put her fist to her heart. "The child is alive,
Superintendent. I'm convinced of it."

For a moment, Gristhorpe was taken aback by the passion
in her voice. After everything he had accused her of,
she was still clinging to her original story. He let the silence
stretch for a while longer, holding her intense gaze.
He could feel something pass across the air between
them. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, a tingling
sensation, the hackles on his neck rising, and he
certainly had no idea whether or not she was right about
Gemma. He did know, though, that she was telling the
truth as far as she knew it. The damn woman was genuine
in her beliefs. He could see, now, how Brenda
Scupham had been convinced.

"I want you to know," he said slowly, "that I'll check
and double-check on everything you've told me." Then
he broke off the staring match and looked towards the
bare wall. "Now get out. Go on, get out before I change
my mind." And he didn't even turn to watch her go. He

knew exactly the kind of smile he would see on her face.


IV



Armley Jail was built in 1847 by Perkin and Backhouse.

Standing on a low hill to the west of the city centre, it

looks like a structure from the Middle Ages, with its

keep and battlements all in dark, solid stone--especially

in the iron-grey sky and the rain that swept across the

scene. Eastvale Castle seemed welcoming in comparison,

Susan thought. Even the modern addition to the prison

couldn't quite overcome the sense of dank medieval dungeons

she felt as she approached the gates. The architects

could hardly have come up with a place more likely to

terrify the criminals and reassure the good citizens, she

thought, giving a shiver as she got out of the car and felt

the rain sting her cheek.


She showed her warrant card, and at four-thirty on that
dreary September afternoon, the prison gates admitted
her, and a uniformed attendant led her to a small office in
the administrative block to meet Gerald Mackenzie. She
had found herself wondering on her way what kind of
person felt drawn to prison work. It must be a strange
world, she thought, locked in with the malcontents. Like
the police, the prison service probably attracted its share
of bullies, but it also had an appeal, she guessed, for the
reformers, for people who believed in rehabilitation. For
many, perhaps, it was just a job, a source of income to
pay the mortgage and help feed the wife and kids.

Mackenzie turned out to be a surprisingly young man
with thin brown hair, matching suit, a crisp white shirt
and what she took to be a regimental or club tie of some
kind. The black-framed glasses he wore gave him the
look of a middle-management man. He was polite, of
fered coffee, and seemed happy enough to give her the
time and information she wanted.

"From what I can remember," he said, placing a finger
at the corner of his small mouth, "Johnson was a fairly
unassuming sort of fellow. Never caused any trouble.
Never drew attention to himself." He shook his head. "In
fact, I find it very hard to believe he ended up the way he
did. Unless he was the victim of some random crime?"

"We don't think so," Susan said. "How did he spend
his time?"

"He was a keen gardener, I remember. Never went in
much for the more intellectual pursuits or the team
games."

"Was he much of a socializer in any way?"

"No. As I said, I got the impression he kept very much
to himself. I must confess, it's hard to keep abreast of everyone
we have in hereunless they're troublemakers of
course. The well-behaved ones you tend to leave to
themselves. It's like teaching, I suppose. I've done a bit
of that, you know. You spend most of your energy on the
difficult students and leave the good ones to fend for
themselves. I mean, there's always far more to say about
a wrong answer than a right one, isn't there?"

"I suppose so," said Susan. The memory of an essay
she wrote at police college came to mind. When the professor
had handed it back to her, it had been covered in
red ink. "So Johnson was an exemplary prisoner?"

"Inmate. Well, yes. Yes, he was."

"And you don't know a lot more about him, his routine,
his contacts here?"

"No. I don't actually spend much time on the shop
floor, so to speak. Administration, paperwork ... it all
seems to take up so much time these days. But look, I'll
see if I can get Ollie Watson to come in. He worked
Johnson's wing."

"Would you?"

"No trouble."

Mackenzie ducked out of the office for a moment and
Susan examined a framed picture of a pretty dark- skinned
woman, Indian perhaps, with three small children.
Mackenzie's family, she assumed, judging by the
way the children shared both his and the woman's features:
a certain slant to the nose here, a dimple there.

A few minutes later, Mackenzie returned with Ollie
Watson. As soon as she saw the fat, uniformed man with
the small black moustache, Susan wondered if the
"Ollie" was a nickname because the man looked so much
like Oliver Hardy. He pulled at the creases of his pants
and sat down on a chair, which creaked under him.

"Mr Watson," Susan said after the introductions, "Mr
Mackenzie tells me you're in the best position to give me
some information about Carl Johnson's time in here."

Watson nodded. "Yes ma'm." He shifted in his seat. It
creaked again. "No trouble, Carl wasn't. But you never
felt you ever got to know him, like you do with some.
Never seemed much interested in anything, 'cept the garden,
I suppose."

"Did he have friends?"

"Not close ones, no. He didn't mix much. And people
left him alone. Not because they were scared of him or
anything. Just . . . there was something remote about
him. It was as if they hardly even noticed him most of
the time."

"What about his cell-mates? Did he share?"

"Most of the time, yes." He smiled. "As you probably
know, it gets a bit overcrowded in here. Must be because
you lot are doing such a good job."

Susan laughed. "Us or the courts. Was there anyone in
particular?"

"Let me see . . ." Watson held out his hand and

counted them off on his fingers. "There was Addison,
that's one. Basically harmless, I'd say. Business fraud.
Then there was Rodgers. No real problems there, either.
Just possession . . ."

"Johnson was brutally murdered," Susan butted in on
Watson's leisurely thought process. "Did he meet anyone
you think capable of doing that?"

"Good lord, no. Not in here," said Watson, as if prison
were the last place on earth where one would expect to
find real evil-doers. "He was never in with any of the really
hard, serious lags. We keep them separate as best we
can."

"But someone could have involved him in a criminal
scheme, something that went wrong? Drugs, perhaps?"

"I suppose it's possible. But Rodgers was only in for
possession of marijuana. He wasn't a dealer."

"What about the business fraud?"

"Like I said, he was harmless enough. Just the old purchasing
scam."

Susan nodded. She had come across that before. A
purchasing officer for a large company simply rents
some office space, a phone and headed stationery, then
he "supplies" his company with goods or services that
don't exist and pockets the payment. He has to be careful
to charge only small amounts, so the purchase orders
don't have to go to higher management for signing. If it
can be worked carefully and slowly over a number of
years, the purchasing scam can prove extremely lucrative,
but most practitioners get greedy and make mistakes.

"Could he have got Johnson involved in something
more ambitious? After all, Johnson was a bit of a con- man
himself."

Watson shook his head. "Prison took the life out of
Addison. It does that to some people. You're on the job

long enough you get to recognize the signs, who'll be
back and who won't. Addison won't. He'll be straight as
a die from now on. He was just a mild-mannered clerk
fancied a crack at the high life."

Susan nodded, but she had already noted Addison's
name in her book. "What about the others?"

"Aye." Watson lifted his hand again. "Who did we say
. . . Addison, then the possession fellow, Rodgers. Then
there was Poole. I wouldn't worry about him, either."

"Poole?" said Susan, suddenly alert. "What was his
first name?"

"Leslie. But everyone called him Les. Funny-looking
bloke, too. One of those old-fashioned Elvis Presley haircuts."
Watson laughed. "Until the prison barber got to
him, that is. From what he said, though, the women
seemed"

But Susan was no longer listening. She couldn't help
but feel a sudden surge of joy. She had one-upped
Richmond. With all his courses, caches and megabytes,
he hadn't discovered what she had by sheer old-fashioned
legwork. He was working on the Gemma Scupham
case, of course, not the Johnson murder, but still . . .

"Sorry for interrupting," she apologized to Watson,
then looked at Mackenzie. "May I use your phone, sir?"

10


I



In the evening beyond the Venetian blinds in Banks's office,

puddles gleamed between the cobbles, and water

dripped from the crossbars of lamp-posts, from eaves

and awnings. Muted light glowed behind the red and amber

windows of the Queen's Arms, and he could hear the

buzz of laughter and conversation from inside. The

square itself was quiet except for the occasional click of

high-heels on cobbles as someone walked home from

work late or went out on a date. An occasional gust of

cool evening air wafted through his partly open window,

bringing with it that peculiar fresh and sharp after-the
rain
smell. It made him think of an old John Coltrane

tune that captured in music just such a sense of an

evening after rain. He could make out the gold hands

against the blue face of the church clock: almost eight.

He lit a cigarette. The gaslights around the square--an

affectation for tourists--came on, dim at first, then

brighter, reflecting in twisted sheets of incandescent light

among the puddles. It was the time of day Banks loved

most, not being much of a morning-person, but his

epiphany was interrupted by a knock at the office door,

shortly followed by PC Tolliver and DC Susan Gay



211



leading in an agitated Les Poole.

"Found him at the Crown and Anchor, sir," explained
Tolliver. "Sorry it took so long. It's not one of his usual
haunts."

"Bit up-market for you, isn't it, Les?" Banks said.
"Come into some money lately?"

Poole just grunted and worked at his Elvis Presley
sneer. Tolliver left and Susan Gay sat down in the chair
beside the door, getting out her notebook and pen. Banks
gestured for Poole to sit opposite him at the desk. Poole
was wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a turquoise
T-shirt, taut over his bulging stomach. Even from across
the desk, Banks could smell the beer on his breath.

"Now then, Les," he said, "you might be wondering
why we've dragged you away from the pub this evening?"

Les Poole shifted in his chair and said nothing; his features
settled in a sullen and hard-done-by expression.

"Well, Les?"

"Dunno."

"Have a guess."

"You found out something about Gemma?"

"Wrong. I'm working on another case now, Les. The
super's taken that one over."

Poole shrugged. "Dunno then. Look, shouldn't I have
a brief?"

"Up to you. We haven't charged you with anything
yet. You're just helping us with our enquiries."

"Still . . . what do you want?"

"Information."

"About what?"

"Can you read, Les?"

"Course I can."

"Read the papers?"

"Now and then. Sporting pages mostly. I mean, most

of your actual news is bad, isn't it? Why bother depressing
yourself, I always say."

Banks scratched the thin scar beside his right eye.
"Quite. How about the telly? That nice new one you've
got."

Poole half rose. "Now look, if this is about that"

"Relax, Les. Sit down. It's not about the Fletcher's
warehouse job, the one you were going to tell me you
know nothing about. Though we might get back to that a
bit later. No, this is much more serious."

Poole sat down and folded his arms. "I don't know
what you're on about."

"Then let me make it clear. I can do it in two words,
Les: Carl Johnson. Remember, the bloke I asked you
about a couple of days ago, the one you said you'd never
heard of?"

"Who?"

"You heard."

"So what. I still don't know no Ben Johnson."

"It's Carl, Les. As in Carl Lewis. Better pay more attention
to those sporting pages, hadn't you? And I think
it was a bit too much of a slip to be convincing. Don't
you, Susan?"

Banks looked over Poole's shoulder at Susan Gay,
who sat by the door. She nodded. Poole glanced around
and glared at her, then turned back, tilted his head to one
side and pretended to examine the calendar on the office
wall, a scene of the waterfalls at Aysgarth in full spate.

"According to the governor of Armley Jail," Susan
said, reading from her notes to give the statement authority,
"a Mr Leslie Poole shared a cell with a Mr Carl
Johnson for six months about four years ago."

"Bit of a coincidence, isn't it, Les?" Banks said.

Poole looked up defiantly. "What if it is? I can't be expected
to remember everyone I meet, can I?"

"Have we refreshed your memory?"

"Yeah, well . . . now you mention it. But it was a different
bloke. Same name, all right, but a different bloke."

"Different from whom?"

"The one you mean."

"How do you know which one I mean?"

"Stands to reason, dunnit? The bloke who got killed."

"Ah. That's better, Les. And here was me thinking you
weren't up on current affairs. How did you hear about
it?"

"Saw it on the telly, didn't I? On the news. Someone
gets croaked around these parts you can't help but hear
about it somewhere."

"Good. Now seeing as this Carl Johnson you heard
about on the news is the same Carl Johnson you shared a
cell with in Armley Jail"

"I told you, it was a different bloke!"

Banks sighed. "Les, don't give me this crap. I'm tired
and I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since elevenses, and here
I am sticking around out of the goodness of my heart just
to talk to you. I'm trying to be very civilized about this.
That's why we're in my nice comfortable office just having
a friendly chat instead of in some smelly interview
room. Listen, Les, we've got prison records, we've got
fingerprints, we've got warders who remember. Believe
me, it was the same person."

"Well, bugger me!" Les said, sitting up sharply. "What
a turn-up for the book. Poor old Carl, eh? And here was
me hoping it must have been someone else."

Banks sighed. "Very touching, Les. When did you last
see him?"

"Oh, years ago. How long was it you said? Four
years."

"You haven't seen him since you came out?"

"No. Why should I?"

"No reason, I suppose. Except maybe that you both
live in the same town?"

"Eastvale ain't that small."

"Still," said Banks, "it's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?
He's been in Eastvale a few months now. It strikes me
that, given your records, the two of you might have got
together to do a little creative thievery. Like the
Fletcher's warehouse job, for example. I'm sure Carl was
versatile enough for that."

"Now there you go again, accusing me of that. I ain't
done nothing."

"Les, we could drive down to your house right now,
pick up the television and the compact music centre,
maybe even the video, too, and likely as not prove they
came from that job."

"Brenda bought those in good faith!"

"Bollocks, Les. What's it to be?"

Poole licked his lips. "You wouldn't," he said. "You
wouldn't dare go and take them away, not after what's
happened to poor Brenda." A sly smile came to his face.
"Think how bad it would look in the papers."

"Don't push me, Les." Banks spoke quietly, but the
menace in his voice came through clearly. "What we're
dealing with here is a man who was gutted. Ever been
fishing, Les? Ever cleaned a fish? You take one of those
sharp knives and slit its gullet open to empty the entrails.
Well, someone took a knife like that, someone who must
have known Carl Johnson pretty well to get so close to
him in such a remote spot, and stuck the knife in just
above his balls and dragged it slowly up his guts, sliced
his belly button in two, until it got stuck on the chest
bone. And Carl's insides opened up and spilled like a bag
of offal, Les. If his jacket hadn't been zipped up afterwards
they'd have spilled all over the bloody dale." He
pointed at Poole's beer-belly. "Do you know how many

yards of intestine you've got in there? Are you seriously
telling me that I'll let a few stolen electrical goods get in
the way of my finding out who did that?"

Poole held his stomach and paled. "It wasn't me, Mr
Banks. Honest, it wasn't. I've got to go to the toilet. I
need a piss."

Banks turned away. "Go."

Poole opened the door, and Banks asked the uniformed
PC standing there to escort him to the gents.

Banks turned to Susan. "What do you think?"

"I think he's close, sir," she said.

"To what?"

"To telling us what he knows."

"Mm," said Banks. "Some of it, maybe. He's a slippery
bugger is Les."

He lit a cigarette. A short while later, Poole returned
and resumed his seat.

"You were saying, Les?"

"That I'd nothing to do with it."

"No," said Banks. "I don't believe you had. For one
thing, you haven't got the bottle. Just for the record,
though, where were you last Thursday evening?"

"Thursday? . . . Let me see. I was helping my mate in
his shop on Rampart Street."

"You seem to spend a lot of time at this place, Les. I
never took you for a hard worker before, maybe I was
wrong. What do you do there?"

"This and that."

"Be more specific, Les."

"I help out, don't I? Make deliveries, serve customers,
lug stuff around."

"What's your mate's name again?"

"John."

"John what."

"John Fairley. It's just a junk shop. You know, old 78s,

second-hand furniture, the odd antique. Nothing really
valuable. We empty out old people's houses, when they
snuff it, like."

"Nothing new? No televisions, stereos, videos?"

"You're at it again. I told you I had nothing to do with
that. Let it drop."

"What's he look like, this John Fairley?"

"Pretty ordinary."

"You can do better than that."

"I'm not very good at this sort of thing. He's strong,
you know, stocky, muscular. He's a nice bloke, John, decent
as they come."

"What colour's his hair?"

"Black. Like yours."

But Banks could see the guilt and anxiety in Poole's
eyes. John's shop was where they fenced the stuff, all
right, and John Fairley's description matched that of the
man Edwina Whixley had seen coming down from Carl
Johnson's flat, vague as it was.

"Do we know him, Les?"

"Shouldn't think so. I told you, he's straight."

"If I went to see this mate of yours, this John, he'd tell
me you were in the shop all evening Thursday, would
he?"

"Well, not all evening. We worked a bit late, unloading
a van full of stuff from some old codger from the
Leaview Estate who croaked a few weeks back."

"What time did you finish?"

"About seven o'clock."

"And where did you go after that?"

"Pub."

"Of course. Which one?"

"Well, first we went to The Oak. That's the nearest to
Rampart Street. Had a couple there, just to rinse the dust
out of my mouth, like, then later we went down the local,

The Barleycorn."

"I assume you were seen at these places?"
"I suppose so. That's what I did. Cross my heart and
hope to die."

"I wouldn't do that, Les."
"What?"

"Hope to die. Look what happened to Carl Johnson."
Poole swallowed. "That's got nothing to do with me."
"But we don't know why he was killed, do we? Let's
just take a hypothetical scenario, all right? A sort of
falling out among thieves. Say Carl was involved in the
Fletcher's warehouse job, and say there were two or
three others in on it as well. Now, maybe Carl got too
greedy, or maybe he tried to stick away a few pieces of
merchandise for himselflike one of his accomplices
might have done, tooyou know, a nice new telly, and
maybe a stereo. Follow my drift so far?"
Poole nodded.

"Good. So let's say one of these thieves doesn't have
much regard for human life. He gets mad at Carl, arranges
to meet him to discuss the problem, persuades
him to go for a ride, then guts him. Now, what do you
think this bloke, who's already killed once, might do if
he gets wind there's a problem with another of his accomplices?"

Poole's jaw dropped.

"What's wrong, Les? Cat got your tongue?"
Poole shook his head. "Nothing. I ain't done nothing."
"So you keep saying. Say it often enough and you
might believe it, but I won't. Are you sure there's nothing
you want to tell me, Les? Maybe you met this bloke,
or maybe Carl talked about him. I'd hate to have to hang
around some filthy old lead mine while the doc tried to
stuff you into a body sack withoi. spilling your guts all
over the dirt."

Poole put his hands over his ears. "Stop it!" he yelled.
"It's not bloody fair. You can't do this to me!"

Banks slammed the desk. "Yes, I bloody well can," he
said. "And I'll go on doing it until I find out the truth. If I
have to, I'll lock you up. More likely I'll just let you go
and tell the press you were kind enough to give us a few
tips on the warehouse job. What's it to be, Les? Your
choice."

Poole looked around the office like a caged animal.
Seeing no way out, he sagged in his chair and muttered,
"All right. You're a bastard, you know."

Banks glanced over at Susan Gay. She turned a page
in her notebook.

"Look, about this 'ypo-whatsit story of yours," Poole
said.

"Hypothetical."

"That's right. I mean, you can't pin owt on anyone for
just telling an 'ypothetical story, can you?"

Banks grabbed his coffee mug, pushed his chair back,
put his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette. "Maybe,
maybe not," he said. "Just tell us about the bloke, Les.
Talk to me. I'm listening."

"Yeah, well, I did bump into Carl a couple of times,
accidental like. We had a jar or two now and then, talked
about old times. There was this mate he mentioned. I
didn't want to say before because I didn't want to get involved,
not now that I'm going straight and allWhat's
up with you?"

"Sorry, Les," Banks said. "Just a bit of coffee went
down the wrong way. Carry on. Tell me about this mate
of Carl's."

Poole scowled. "Anyway, I remembered from the time
inside, like, this bloke he used to talk about sometimes,
like it was his hero or something. I never met him myself,
but just hearing about him gave me the creeps.

Funny that, like Carl seemed to get some kind of kick out
of telling me about this bloke and what he did and all
that, but to me it was a bit over the top. I mean, I'm no
fucking angel, I'll admit that, but I've got my limits. I
never hurt anyone. Remember, this is all 'ypothetical."

"The man, Les."

"Hold on, I'm getting to him. Anyways, as I was saying,
Carl said he was here in Eastvale. Well, that's when
I cut out. I didn't want nothing to do with them. I didn't
want to get mixed up in anything."

"What didn't you want to get mixed up in, Les?"

"You know, anything, like, criminal."

"I see. Were they in on the Fletcher's warehouse job?
Johnson and this other bloke."

"I think so. But like I said, I stayed well away after I
heard this bloke was in town."

"Tell me about him."

"Not much to tell. Like I said, I never met him.
According to Carl, he's never been inside, yet he's been
up to more evil than many as have."

"What kind of evil?"

"You name it. If what Carl says is right, this bloke
worked with some of the London mobs, you know, peddling
porn and hurting people who wouldn't pay up, but
now he's gone freelance. Bit of a rover. Never stays in
one place very long. Got lots of contacts."

"And he's never been inside?"

"Not as anyone knows of." Poole leaned forward.
"Look, Mr Banks," he said, licking his lips. "This
bloke's really nasty, know what I mean? Carl told me he
was in a fish-and-chip shop once and got arguing with
the woman in front. She was carrying a dog with her,
like, one of those little Pekinese things, and this bloke
just plucked it out of her arms and flung it in the frier
then walked out cool as a cucumber. He's a nutter. I

didn't want nothing to do with him."

"Can't say I blame you," said Banks. "What's his
name?"

"Dunno. Carl never said."

"Les!"

"Look, I don't want anyone knowing I"

"Just between you and me, Les. Off the record."

"You promise?"

"I'm in the business of preventing crime, remember?
It'd hardly be in my interests to have another murder on
my patch, would it? And you've no idea how much I'd
miss you."

"Huh. Even so . . ."

"Les."

Poole paused. "All right, all right. I'll trust youstill
'ypothetical, like. All I know is his name is Olivers. It's
pronounced with a 'sh', like in shivers. I don't know if
it's his real name or a nickname."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know. I told you, I never met him."

Banks wasn't convinced. For a start, he was certain
that Poole had been connected with the Fletcher's warehouse
job, and now it seemed a good bet that Johnson
and this Chivers person had been involved, too, along
with John Fairley, the junk-shop owner. He could understand
Poole's not wishing to implicate himself, of course,
especially as it was now a matter of murder.

The thing to remember about Les Poole was that he
had spent time inside; he knew the value of information
and of silence. He knew how to get as much slack as he
could while giving as little as possible in return. Maybe
he was a small-time crook, a coward and a bully, not too
bright, but he knew the ropes; he knew how to duck and
dodge to save his own neck, how to measure out exactly
enough co-operation to get himself out of trouble. Banks

sensed that he was holding back, that he had met this
Chivers, but there was no percentage in pushing him yet.
They needed more leverage, and Poole was right about
one thing: impounding Brenda Scupham's television
would look very bad indeed.

"Is he still in Eastvale?"

"Dunno. Don't think so."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about him?"

"No. 'Cept I'd stay out of his way if I were you. Carl
said he had this bird and--"

"What bird's this, Les?"

"This bird Chivers had with him. Some blonde hint.
Apparently, he always has a bit of spare with him. The
lasses like him. Must be his unpredictable, violent nature."

They liked Les, too, Banks remembered, and wondered
if there had been a spot of bother about this
blonde. Maybe Les had made a pass and Chivers put a
scare in him. Or maybe Carl Johnson had. It wasn't so
difficult, he thought, to fill in the rest from the scraps
Poole dished out.

"What did Carl say about Chivers's girlfriend?" he
asked.

"Just that Chivers knifed a bloke once for looking at
her the wrong way. Didn't kill him, like, just cut him up
a bit. Anyway, like I said, he never had any shortage of
birds. Not scrubbers either, according to Carl. Quality
goods. Maybe it was his smile," Les added.

"What smile?"

"Nothing. Just that Carl said he had this really nice
smile, like. Said his mates called him 'Smiler' Chivers."

When Banks heard Poole's last comment, the warning
bells began to ring. "Susan," he said, looking over
Poole's shoulder. "Do you know if the super's still
here?"

II


Brenda Scupham couldn't concentrate on the television

programme. For a moment she thought of going out,

maybe to the pub, but decided she couldn't stand the

questions and the looks people would give her. She

hadn't enjoyed going out much at all since Gemma had

gone. For one thing, people had given her dirty looks

when they saw her, as if they blamed her or she wasn't

obeying the proper rules of mourning or something.

Instead, she took another tranquillizer and poured herself

a small measure of gin. Again she wondered what the

hell was going on.


All she knew was that the police had called at her
house earlier that evening looking for Les. He'd been out
of course, and she hadn't known where, though she was
sure the policeman hadn't believed her. When she asked
what they wanted, they wouldn't tell her anything.
Surely, she thought, if it had anything to do with
Gemma, they should tell her?

She looked over at the television and video. Maybe
that's what it was all about? She knew they were stolen.
She wasn't that stupid. Les hadn't said so, of course, but
then he wouldn't; he never gave away anything. He
had dropped them off in John's van one afternoon and
said they were bankrupt stock. All the time the police
had been coming and going because of Gemma, Brenda
had been worried they would spot the stolen goods and
arrest her. But they hadn't. Perhaps now they had some
more evidence and had decided to arrest Les after all.

How her life could have changed so much in just one
week was beyond her. But it had, and even the tranquillizers
did no real good. She had enjoyed going on television
with Lenora Carlyle--that had been the high spot of
her week--but nothing had come of it. Just as nothing

had come of the police search, the "Crimewatch" reconstruction,
or her appeals through the newspapers. And
now, as she sat and thought about the police visit, she
wondered if Les might have been involved in some way
with Gemma's disappearance. She couldn't imagine how
or whyexcept he hadn't got on very well with
Gemmabut he had been acting strangely of late.

And the more she thought about it, the more she lost
faith in Lenora's conviction that Gemma was still alive.
She couldn't be. Not after all this time, not after the
bloodstained clothing they had brought for her to identify.
And apart from that one statement, Lenora had come
up with nothing else, had she? Surely she ought to be
able to picture where Gemma was if she was any good as
a psychic? But no, nothing. And what if Gemma was
alive somewhere? It didn't bear thinking about. She felt
closer to her daughter now she was gone than she ever
had while Gemma had been around.

Time after time her thoughts circled back to Mr Brown
and Miss Peterson. Should she have known they weren't
who they said they were? And if she hadn't felt so guilty
about not loving Gemma the way a good mother should
and about shaking her the week before, would she have
let her go so easily? They had been so convincing, kind
and understanding rather than accusing in their approach.
They had looked so young, so official, so competent, but
how was she to know what child-care workers were supposed
to look like?

Again she thought of the police officers who had come
to her house earlier. Maybe they had found Gemma and
some clue had led them to Les. But still she couldn't
imagine what he could possibly have to do with it. He
had been out when the child care workers called. Still,
there was no denying the police were after him. If he had
anything to do with Gemma's abduction, Brenda thought,

she would kill him. Damn the consequences. It was all
his fault anyway. Yes, she thought, reaching for the gin
bottle again. She would kill the bastard. For now, though,
she was sick of thinking and worrying.

The only thing that worked, that took away the pain,
even though it lasted such a short time, was the video.
Slowly, she got up and went over to the player. The cassette
was still in. All she had to do was rewind and watch
herself on television again. She had been nervous, but
she was surprised when she watched the playback that it
didn't show so much. And she had looked so pretty.

Brenda poured herself another generous measure,
turned on one element of the fire and reclined on the sofa
with her dressing-gown wrapped around her. She had
watched the video once and was rewinding for a second
viewing when she heard Les's key in the door.


I'll



"You don't believe for a moment he told you everything,

do you?" Gristhorpe asked Banks later in the Queen's

Arms. It was a quiet Wednesday evening, a week since

the first news of Gemma Scupham's disappearance--and

despite the helicopters and search tactics learned from

the North American Association of Search and Rescue,

she still hadn't been found. Banks and Gristhorpe sat at a

table near the window eating the roast beef sandwiches

that they had persuaded Cyril, the landlord, to make for

them.


Banks chewed and swallowed his mouthful, then said,
"No. For a start, I'm sure he's seen this Chivers bloke,
but he couldn't really admit to it without implicating
himself in the warehouse job. We let him walk. For now.
Les won't stray far. He's got nowhere to go."

"And then?"

Banks grinned. "Just an idea, but I'd like to find out if
Les really does know anything about Gemma's abduction.
I had a phone call just after I'd finished with Poole.
Jim Hatchley's coming into town. Seems his mother-in- law's
commissioned him to install a shower--"

Gristhorpe slapped the table. One of the customers at
the bar turned and looked. "No, Alan. I'm not having any
of Hatchley's interrogation methods in this one. If
Gemma's abductors get off because we've bent the rules
I'd never bloody forgive myself. Or Sergeant Hatchley,
for that matter."

"No," said Banks, "that's not what I had in mind." He
outlined his plan and both of them ended up laughing.

"Aye," said Gristhorpe, nodding slowly. "Aye, he'd be
the best man for that job, all right. And it might work, at
that. Either way, we've nothing to lose."

Banks washed his sandwich down with a swig of
Theakston's bitter and lit a cigarette. "So where do we go
now?" he asked.

Gristhorpe leaned back in his chair and folded his
hands in his lap. "Let's start with a summary. I find it
helps to get everything as clear as possible. In the first
place, we know that a couple who called themselves
Chris and Connie Manley rented a cottage and changed
their appearance. Then they 'borrowed' a dark blue
Toyota from Bruce Parkinson, passed themselves off as
social workers called Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, and
conned Brenda Scupham into handing over her daughter
on Tuesday afternoon. After that, they drove a hundred
and twenty-seven miles before returning the car to its
owner.

"As far as we know, they left the cottage on Thursday
in a white Fiesta. We don't have the number, and Phil's
already checked and re-checked with the rental outlets.

Nothing. And it hasn't been reported stolen. We could
check the ownership of every white Fiesta in the country,
and we bloody well will if we have to, but that'll take
us till doomsday. They might not be registered as owners,
anyway. Nobody saw them with the child in
Eastvale, and there was no evidence of a child's presence
in the cottage, but she could have been there--the whitewash
supports that--and we found her prints in
Parkinson's car. Why they took her, we don't know. Or
where. All we know is they most likely didn't bring her
back, which to me indicates that she could well be lying
dead and buried somewhere in a hundred-and-twenty- mile
radius. And that includes the area of the North York
Moors where we found the bloodstained clothes. Vic
says there wasn't enough blood on them to cause death,
but that doesn't mean the rest didn't spill elsewhere, or
that she might not have died in some other way. Poole
told you that this Chivers person was involved in the
porn trade in London, so that's another ugly possibility to
consider. I've been onto the paedophile squad again, but
they've got nothing on anyone of that name or description.

"Anyway. Next we find Carl Johnson's body in the old
lead mine on Friday morning. Dr Glendenning says he
was probably killed sometime after dark on Thursday.
You follow all the leads you can think of in the Johnson
murder, and we arrive at this same man called Chivers
with a smile that people notice, a blonde girlfriend and a
nasty disposition. You think Poole knows a bit more.
Maybe he does. There are too many coincidences for my
liking. Chivers and the girl are the ones who took
Gemma. Maybe one or both of them also killed Carl
Johnson. Chivers, most likely, as it took a fair bit of
strength to rip his guts open. But why? What's the connection?"

"Johnson could have double-crossed them on the
warehouse job, or maybe he knew about Gemma and
threatened to tell. Whatever Johnson was, he wasn't a
paedophile."

"Assuming he found out they'd taken her?"

"Yes."

"That's probably our best bet. Makes more sense than
killing over a bloody TV set, though stranger things have
happened."

"Or it could have been over the girlfriend," Banks
added. "Especially after what Poole told me about the
knifing."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe. "That's another strong possibility.
But let's imagine that Carl Johnson found out
Chivers and his girlfriend had taken Gemma and . . .
well, done whatever they did to her. Now Johnson's no
angel, and he seems to have an unhealthy fascination
with bad 'uns, from what you tell me, but somehow,
they've gone too far for him. He doesn't like child-mo lesters.
He becomes a threat. They lure him out to the
mine. Maybe the girl does it with promises of sex, or
Chivers with money, I don't know. But somehow they
get him there and . . ." Gristhorpe paused. "The mine
might be a connection. I know the area's been thoroughly
searched already, but I think we should go over it again
tomorrow. There's plenty of spots around there a body
could be hidden away. Maybe the clothes on the moors
were just a decoy. What do you think, Alan?"

Banks frowned. "It's all possible, but there are still too
many uncertainties for my liking. I'd like to know more
about the girl's part in all this, for a start. Who is she?
What's in it for her? And we've no evidence that Chivers
killed Johnson."

"You're right, we don't have enough information to
come to conclusions yet. But we're getting there. I

thought you fancied Adam Harkness for the Johnson
murder?"

"I did, though I'd no real reason to. Looks like I might
have been wrong, doesn't it?"

Gristhorpe smiled. "Happens to us all, Alan. You always
did have a chip on your shoulder when it came to
the rich and influential, didn't you?"

"What?"

"Nay, Alan, I'm not criticizing. You're a working-class
lad. You got where you are through brains, ability
and sheer hard slog. I'm not much different myself, just a
poor farm-boy at heart. I've no great love for them as
were born with silver spoons in their mouths. And I
don't mind sticking up for you when Harkness complains
to the ACC about police harassment. All I'm saying is be
careful it doesn't blur your objectivity."

Banks grinned. "Fair enough," he said. "But I haven't
finished with Mr Harkness yet. I called the Johannesburg
police and set a few enquiries in motion. You never
know, there might be something to that scandal yet. And
I called Piet in Amsterdam to see if he can track down
Harkness's ex-wife. There's still a chance Harkness
might have been involved somewhere along the line.
What about your black magician, Melville Westman?"

"Nothing," said Gristhorpe. "The lads did a thorough
job. He looks clean. It's my bet that Gemma was in the
Manleys' cottage at some point, and that's where the
whitewash on her clothes came from. That's not to say I
won't be having another word with Mr Westman,
though." Gristhorpe smiled. His own feelings about people
like Melville Westman and Lenora Carlyle were not
so different from Banks's feelings about the rich and
powerful, he realized: different chip, different shoulder,
but a prejudice, nonetheless.

"I'm going to call my old mate Barney Merritt at the

Yard first thing in the morning," Banks said. "He ought
to be able to get something out of Criminal Intelligence
about Chivers a damn sight quicker than the formal
channels. The more we know about him, the more likely
we are to be able to guess at the way he thinks. The bastard
might never have been nicked but I'll bet a pound to
a penny he's on the books somewhere."

Gristhorpe nodded. "Oh, aye. No doubt about it. And
it looks as if we're all working on the same case now.
You'd better get up to date on the Gemma files, and we'd
better let Phil know so he can access his databases or
whatever he does. I want this bloke, Alan. I want him
bad. I mean I want him in front of me. I want to see him
sweat. Do you know what I mean?"

Banks nodded and finished his drink. From the bar,
they heard Cyril call time. "It's late," he said quietly.
"Time we were off home."

"Aye. Everything all right?"

"Fine," said Banks. "Just think yourself lucky you
don't have daughters."

Banks walked in the rain, coat buttoned tight, and listened
to his Walkman. It was after eleven-thirty when he
got home, and the house was in darkness. Sandra was already
in bed, he assumed; Tracy, too. He knew he
wouldn't be able to sleep just yet, after the conversation
with Gristhorpe had got his mind working, and as he had
drunk only two pints in the pub, he felt he could allow
himself a small Scotch. What was it the medics said,
three drinks a day is moderate? Some kind soul had
brought him a bottle of Glen Garioch from a holiday in
Scotland, so he poured himself a finger and sat down.
Though he wasn't supposed to smoke in the house, he lit
a cigarette anyway and put on a CD of Barenboim playing
Chopin's Nocturnes. Even at low volume, the clarity
of the sound was astonishing. He had hardly begun to let

his mind roam freely over the image of Chivers he had
created so far when he heard the front door open and
close softly, then the creak of a stair.

He opened the living-room door and saw Tracy tiptoeing
upstairs.

"Come down here a moment," he whispered, careful
not to wake Sandra.

Tracy hesitated, halfway up, then shrugged and followed
him into the living-room.

Banks held out his wristwatch towards her. "Know
what time it is?"

"Of course I do."

"Where've you been?"

"Out with Keith."

"Where to?"

"Oh, Dad! We went to the pictures, then after that we
were hungry so we went for a burger."

"A burger? At this time of night?"

"You know, that new McDonald's that's opened in the
shopping centre. It's open till midnight."

"How did you get home?"

"Keith walked me."

"It's too late to be out on a weeknight. You've got
school in the morning."

"It's only midnight. I'll get plenty of sleep."

There she stood, about seven stones of teenage rebellion,
weight balanced on one hip, once long and beautiful
blonde hair chopped short, wearing black leggings and a
long, fawn cable-knit jumper, pale translucent skin glowing
from the chill.

"You're too young to be out so late," he said.

"Oh, don't be so old-fashioned. Everyone stays out until
midnight these days."

"I don't care what everyone else does. It's you I'm
talking about."

"It would be different if it was Brian, wouldn't it? He
could always stay out as late as he wanted, couldn't he?"

"He had to live with the same rules as you."

"Rules! I bet you've no idea what he's up to now, have
you? Or what he got up to when he was still at home. It's
all right for him. Honestly, it's not fair. Just because I'm
a girl."

"Tracy, love, it's not a safe world."

Her cheeks blazed red and her eyes flashed dangerously,
just like Sandra's did when she was angry. "I'm
fed up of it," she said. "Living here, being interrogated
every time I come in. Sometimes it's just absolutely
fucking awful having a policeman for a father!"

And with that, she stormed out of the room and up the
stairs without giving Banks a chance to respond. He
stood there a moment, stunned by her language--not that
she knew such words, even five-year-olds knew them,
but that she would use them that way in front of him--
then he felt himself relax a little and he began to shake
his head slowly. By the time he had sat down again and
picked up his drink, he had started to smile. "Kids . . ."
he mused aloud. "What can you do?" But even as he said
it, he knew that Sandra had been right: the problem was
that Tracy wasn't a kid any more.


IV



Brenda had locked the door earlier, and slid the bolt

and put the chain on, too. When the key wouldn't work,

she could hear Les fumble around for a while, rattling it

and mumbling. Brenda could see his silhouette through

the frosted-glass panes in the door as she sat on the

stairs and listened. He tried the key again, then she

heard him swear in frustration and start knocking. She



didn't answer.

"Brenda," he said, "I know you're in there. Come on,
love, and open up. There's something wrong with my
key."

She could tell by the way he slurred his words that
he'd been drinking. The police either hadn't found him,
then, or had let him go before closing time.

He rattled the door. "Brenda! It's fucking cold out
here. Let me in."

Still she ignored him, sitting on the staircase, arms
wrapped around herself.

The letter-box opened. "I know you're in there," he
said. "Have a heart, Brenda."

She stood up and walked down the stairs to the door.
"Go away," she said. "I don't want you here any more.
Go away."

"Brenda!" He was still on his knees by the letterbox.
"Don't be daft, love. Let me in. We'll talk about it."

"There's nothing to talk about. Go away."

"Where? This is my home. It's all I've got."

"Go back to the police. I'm sure they'll give you a bed
for the night."

He was silent for a few moments. Then she heard
shuffling outside. The letter-box snapped shut, then
opened again. "It wasn't nothing, love," he said. "A mistake.
It was some other bloke they were after."

"Liar."

"It was. Honest it was."

"What have you done with my Gemma?"

Another pause, even longer this time, then, "How
could you think such a thing? It wasn't nothing to do
with that. Look, let me in. It's raining. I'll catch cold. I'm
freezing my goolies off out here."

"Good."

"Brenda! The neighbours are watching."

"I couldn't care less."

"What about my things?"

Brenda dashed up to the bedroom. Les's "things," such
as they were, shouldn't take up much space. She was a
bit unsteady on her feet, but she managed to stand on a
chair and get an old suitcase down from the top of the
wardrobe. First, she emptied out his underwear drawer.
Shirts and trousers followed, then she tossed in his old
denim jacket. He was wearing the leather one, she remembered.
She dropped a couple of pairs of shoes on the
top, then went into the bathroom and picked up his razor,
shaving cream, toothbrush. For some reason, she didn't
know why, she also picked up a package of tampons and
put them in the suitcase, too, smiling as she did so. And
on further thought, she took his condoms from the bedside
drawer and put them in as well.

Enjoying herself more than she had since her TV appearance,
Brenda searched around for anything else that
belonged to him. A comb. Brylcreem. Half a packet of
cigarettes. No, she would keep them for herself. Nothing
else.

As she struggled to fasten the suitcase, she could hear
him outside in the street yelling up at her: "Brenda!
Come on, Brenda, let me in. Please. I'm freezing to death
out here."

She walked over to the window. Les stood by the gate
at the bottom of the path, partly lit by a nearby street- lamp.
Across the street, lights came on as people opened
their doors or peered through curtains to see what was
going on. This would give the neighbours something to
talk about, Brenda thought, as she opened the window.

Les looked up at her. For a moment, she remembered a
scene in a play they'd taken her to see with the school
years ago, where some wally in tights down on the
ground had been chatting up a bird on a balcony. She

giggled and swayed, then got a hold on herself. After all,
she had an audience. "Bugger off, Les," she yelled. "I've
had enough of you and your filthy ways. If it wasn't for
you I'd still have my Gemma."

"Open the fucking door, cow," said Les, "or I'll kick it
down. You never liked the little bitch anyway."

"I loved my daughter," said Brenda. "It was you used
to upset her. Where is she, Les? What have you done
with her?"

Another door opened down the street. "Be quiet," a
woman shouted. "My husband's got to get up to go to
work at five o'clock in the morning."

"Shut up, you stuck-up old bag," shouted someone
else. "Your husband's never done a day's work in his
life. This is the best show we've had in ages." Bursts of
laughter echoed down the street.

A window slid open. "Give him hell, love!" a
woman's voice encouraged Brenda.

"What's going on?" someone else asked. "Has anyone
called the police yet?"

"See what you've started," Les said, looking around at
the gathering of neighbours and trying to keep his voice
down. "Come on, love, let me in. We'll have a cuddle
and talk about it. I've done nowt wrong."

"And what about that telly?" Brenda taunted him.
"Where did that come from, eh? Have you noticed the
way the police look at it every time they come here?"

"Must be fans of 'The Bill,'" someone joked, and the
neighbours laughed. "Anyone got a bottle," the joker
continued. "I could do with a wee nip."

"Buy your own, you tight-fisted old bugger," came the
reply.

"Open the door," Les pleaded. "Brenda, come on,
love, have mercy."

"I'll not show no mercy for you, you snake. Where's

my Gemma?"

"I'll do you for bloody slander, I will," yelled Les.
"Making accusations like that in front of witnesses." He
turned to the nearest neighbour, an old woman in a dressing-gown.
"You heard her, didn't you?"

"Maybe she's right," said the woman.

"Aye," said the man next door.

"Hey," said Les, "Now, come on." He looked up at the
window again. "Brenda, let me in. I don't like the look of
this lot."

"Too bad." Brenda swung the suitcase behind her as
far as she could, then let it fly out the window. It hit the
gatepost and burst open, showering its contents over the
garden and street. Les put his hands up to try and stop it
from hitting him, but all he managed to catch was the
packet of tampons. It spilled its contents on him as he
grasped it too tightly. One of the neighbours noticed and
started laughing. Les stood there in the rain, half in
shadow, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of his life
and a packet of tampons spilled like cigarettes at his feet.
He looked up at Brenda and shouted one last appeal.
Brenda closed the window. Before she pulled the curtains
on him, she noticed some of the neighbours edging
forward in a semi-circle towards Les, who was backing
down the street, looking behind him for a clear escape
route.

11


I



"Les Poole's done a bunk, sir."


"Has he, now?" Banks looked up from his morning
coffee at Susan Gay standing in his office door. She was
wearing a cream skirt and jacket over a powder-blue
blouse fastened at the neck with an antique jet brooch.
Matching jet teardrops hung from her small ears. Her
complexion looked fresh-scrubbed under the tight blonde
curls that still glistened from her morning shower. Her
eyes were lit with excitement.

"Come in and tell me about it," Banks said.

Susan sat down opposite him. He noticed her glance at
the morning papers spread out on his desk. There, on the
front pages of all of them, the police artist's impression
of Smiler Chivers and his blonde girlfriend stared out.

"There was a bit of a barney last night on the East Side
Estate," Susan began. "According to PC Evans, who
walks the beat down there, Les Poole was out in the
street yelling at Brenda to let him in."

"She locked him out?"

"Seems like it."

"Why?"

"Well, that's where it gets interesting. PC Evans talked


237



to some of the neighbours. Most of them were a bit tight lipped,
but he found one chap who'd been watching it all
from his bedroom window down the street. He said it
looked like the others had turned into a mob and were
about to attack Poole. That's why he ran off."

"Any idea why, apart from his sparkling personality?"

"While they were yelling at each other, Brenda apparently
made some comment about Poole being responsible
for Gemma's disappearance."

"What?"

"That's all he heard, sir, the neighbour. Brenda kept
asking Poole what he'd done with Gemma."

Banks reached for a cigarette, his first of the day.
"What do you think?" he asked.

"About Poole?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. I mean it could just have been something
Brenda thought up on the spur of the moment to hit
out at him, couldn't it?"

"I know Poole's been holding something back," Banks
said. "That's just his nature. But I never really thought
. . ." He stubbed out his unfinished cigarette and stood
up. "Come on. First, let's send some of the lads out looking
for him. And then we'd better have another word
with Brenda." He picked up one of the newspapers.
"We'll see if she recognizes the artist's impression, too."

They drove in silence to East Side Estate. It was a
blustery morning, with occasional shafts of sunlight
piercing the clouds and illuminating a bridge, a clump of
trees or a block of maisonettes for a few seconds then
disappearing. There ought to be a shimmering dramatic
soundtrack, Banks thought, something to harmonize with
the odd sense of revelation the fleeting rays of light conveyed.

Banks knocked on the frosted pane of Brenda's door,

but no one answered. He knocked harder. Across the
street, a curtain twitched. Discarded cellophane wrapping
and newspaper blew across the road, scraping against the
tarmac.

"They'll be having the time of their lives," Susan said,
nodding towards the houses opposite. "Twice in two
days. A real bonanza."

Banks renewed his efforts. Eventually he was rewarded
by the sight of a blurry figure walking down the
stairs.

"Who is it?" Brenda asked.

"Police."

She fiddled with the bolts and chain and let them in.

"Sorry," she said, rubbing the back of her hand over
her eyes. "I was fast asleep. Must have been those pills
the doctor gave me."

She looked dreadful, Banks thought: knotted and
straggly hair in need of a good wash, puffy complexion,
mottled skin, red eyes. She wore a white terry-cloth robe,
and when she sat down in the living-room under the gaze
of Elvis, it was clear she wore nothing underneath. As
she leaned forward to pick up a cigarette from the table,
the bathrobe hung loose at the front, revealing her
plump, round breasts. Unembarrassed, she pulled the
lapels together and slouched back in the chair. Banks and
Susan sat on the sofa opposite her.

"What is it?" Brenda asked after she had exhaled a
lungful of smoke. "Have you found Gemma?"

"No," said Banks. "It's about Les."

She snorted. "Oh, him. Well, he's gone, and good riddance,
too."

"So I heard. Any idea where he's gone?"

She shook her head.

"Why did you throw him out, Brenda?"

"You should know. It was you lot had him at the

station last night, wasn't it?"

"Did you know the neighbours nearly lynched him?"

"So what?"

"Brenda, it's dangerous to make accusations like the
one you did, especially in front of a crowd. You know
from experience how people feel whenever children are
involved. They can turn very nasty. There's records of
people being torn apart by angry mobs."

"Yes, I know. I know all about what people do to
child-molesters. They deserve it."

"Did Les molest Gemma? Is that it?"

Brenda blew out more smoke and sighed. "No," she
said. "No, he never did anything like that."

"Maybe when you weren't around?"

"No. I'd have known. Gemma would have . . ." She
paused and stared at the end of her cigarette.

"Perhaps Gemma wouldn't have mentioned it to you,"
Banks suggested. "You told us yourself she's a quiet, secretive
child. And children are almost always afraid to
speak out when things like that happen."

"No," Brenda said again. "I would have known.

Believe me."

Whether he believed her or not, Banks felt that line of
questioning had come to a dead end. "What reason do
you have to think Les was involved in her disappearance,

then?" he asked.

Brenda frowned. "You had him in for questioning,

didn't you?"

"What made you think that had anything to do with

Gemma?"

"What else would it be about?"

"So you just assumed. Is that it?"

"Of course. Unless . . ."

"Unless what?"

Brenda reddened, and Banks noticed her glance to
wards the television set.

"Did you think it was about the Fletcher's warehouse
job?"

Brenda shook her head. "I ... I don't know."

"Did Les ever mention an acquaintance named Carl
Johnson to you?"

"No. He never talked about his pub mates. If I ever
asked him where he'd been or who he'd been with, he
just told me to mind my own business."

"Look, this is important," Banks said slowly. "Think
about it. When you accused Les out in the street, did you
have any other basis for doing so other than the fact that
we'd taken him in for questioning?"

"What?"

Banks explained. Brenda leaned forward to put out her
cigarette. She held her robe closed this time. "That and
the way he's been acting," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"It's hard to put into words. Ever since Gemma . . .
well, things haven't been the same between us. Do you
know what I mean?"

Banks nodded.

"I don't know why, but they haven't. And he just
looks so sheepish, the way he creeps around all the time,
giving me guilty smiles. Mostly, though, he's been keeping
out of my way."

"In what way could he have been involved, Brenda?"
Susan asked.

Brenda looked sideways towards her, as if seeing her
for the first time. "How should I know?" she said. "I'm
not the detective, am I?" She spoke more harshly than
she had to Banks. Woman to woman, he thought, Brenda
Scupham was uncomfortable.

Banks gently took the focus away from Susan.
"Brenda, have you any proof at all that Les had some
thing to do with Gemma's disappearance?"

"No. Just a feeling."

"Okay. I'm not dismissing that. What you told us,
about this Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, that was all
true, wasn't it?"

"Yes. That's how it happened."

Banks showed her the newspaper pictures of Chivers
and the blonde. "Do you recognize these people?"

She squinted at the pictures. "It could be him. The
hair's sort of the same, but a different colour. I don't
know about her, though. People look so different with
their hair up. Him, though ... I think . . . yes ... I think
it might be."

Banks put the paper aside. "You told us Les wasn't in
when they came."

"That's right. He was at the pub."

"How did he react when you told him?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Did he seem shocked, upset, what?"

Tears came to Brenda's eyes. "He said I was a stupid
cow for letting them take her . . . but..."

"But what?"

She rubbed the backs of her hands across her eyes. "I
need a cup of tea. I can't really get started without my
cup of tea in a morning. Do you want some?"

"All right," said Banks. It wouldn't be a bad idea to
give her a couple of minutes to mull over his question.

He and Susan waited silently while Brenda went into
the kitchen and made tea. Outside, a car went by, a dog
barked, and two laughing children kicked a tin can down
the street. The wind shrilled at the ill-fitting windows,
stirring the curtains in its draught. Banks studied the portrait
of Elvis. It really was grotesque: a piece of kitsch
dedicated to a bloated and gaudy idol.

As a teenager, he had been a keen Elvis fan. He had

seen all those dreadful movies of the early sixties, where
Elvis usually played a slightly podgy beach-bum, and he
had bought all the new singles as soon as they came out.
Somehow, though, after The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The
Rolling Stones and the rest, Elvis had never seemed important
again.

Still, he remembered how he had listened to "They
Remind Me Too Much of You" over and over again the
night June Higgins chucked him for John Hill. He had
been assembling a model Messerschmitt at the time, so
maybe it was the glue fumes that had made his eyes water.
Glue-sniffing hadn't been invented back then. He had
been thirteen; now Elvis was dead but lived on in garish
oils on walls like this.

The whistle blew. When it stopped, Banks heard
Brenda go upstairs. A few moments later she came in
with the teapot and three mugs. She had taken the opportunity
to get dressed, run a brush through her hair and put
on a bit of makeup.

"Where were we?" she asked, pouring the tea.
"There's milk and sugar if you want it." Susan helped
herself to a splash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar.
Both Banks and Brenda took theirs as it came.

"Les's reaction when you told him about Gemma."

"Yes. I've been thinking about it while the tea was
mashing," Brenda said. "He didn't believe me at first. I'd
say more than anything he was surprised. It's just that. . .
well, he turned away from me, and I couldn't see his
face, but it was like he knew something or he suspected
something, like he was frowning and he didn't want me
to see his expression. Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so."

"I could just feel it. I know I've not got any proof or
anything, but sometimes you can sense things about people,
can't you? Lenora says she thinks I'm a bit psychic,

too, so maybe that's it. But I never thought for a moment
he had anything to do with it. I mean, how could I? What
could Les have had to do with those two well-dressed
people who came to the door? And we lived together. I
know he didn't care for Gemma much, she got on his
nerves, but he wouldn't hurt her. I mean he was surprised,
shocked, I'm sure of that, but when it sank in, he
seemed to be thinking, puzzling over something. I put it
out of my mind, but it nagged. After that we never really
got on well. I'm glad he's gone." She paused, as if surprised
at herself for saying so much, then reached for a
second cigarette.

"What made you accuse him last night?" Banks asked.

"It's just something that had been at the back of my
mind, that's all. Like I said, I never really believed he
had anything to do with it. I just had this nagging feeling
something wasn't right. I suppose I lashed out, just for
the sake of it. I couldn't help myself."

"What about now?"

"What?"

"You said you didn't think Les had anything to do
with Gemma's disappearance at first. What do you think
now?"

Brenda paused to blow on her hot tea, cradling the
mug in her palms, then she turned her eyes up to Banks
and shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered. "I
just don't know."


II



Banks and Jenny dashed across the cobbles in the rain to

the Queen's Arms. Once through the door, they shook

their coats and hung them up.


"Double brandy, then?" Banks asked.

"No. No, really, Alan. I didn't mean it," Jenny said.
"Just a small Scotch and water, please."

Now she was embarrassed. She put her briefcase on
the chair beside her and sat down at a table near the window.
She had been in Banks's office going over all the
material on the Carl Johnson murder--statements, forensic
reports, the lot--and when she got to the photographs
of his body, she had turned pale and said she needed a
drink. She didn't know why they should affect her that
way--she had seen similar images in textbooks--but
suddenly she had felt dizzy and nauseated. Something
about the way the belly gaped open like a huge fish- mouth
. . . no, she wouldn't think about it any more.

Banks returned with their drinks and reached for his
cigarettes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You must think I'm a real idiot."

"Not at all. I just wasn't thinking. I should have prepared
you."

"Anyway, I'm fine now." She raised her glass.
"Cheers."

"Cheers."

She could see Market Street through a clear, rain-streaked
pane. Young mothers walked by pushing prams,
plastic rainhats tied over their heads, and delivery vans
blocked the traffic while men in white smocks carried
boxes in and out of the shops, oblivious to the downpour.
All the hurly and burly of commerce so essential to a
thriving English market town. So normal. She shivered.

"I take it you're assuming the crimes are related
now?" she asked.

Banks nodded. "We are for the moment. I've read over
the paperwork on the Gemma Scupham case, and I've
filled the super in on Johnson. How are you getting on
with him, by the way?"

Jenny smiled. "Fine. He doesn't seem like such an
ogre when you get to know him a bit."

"True, he's not. Anyway, we know that the Manleys
abducted Gemma, and that in all likelihood the man's
real name is Chivers. We still don't know who the
woman is."

"But you don't know for sure that this Chivers killed
Carl Johnson?"

"No. I realize it's a bit thin, but when you get connections
like this between two major crimes you can't overlook
them. Maybe in a big city you could, but not in
Eastvale."

"And even if he did it, you don't know if the woman
was present?"

"No."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"For a start, I want to know if you think it could be the
same person, or same people, psychologically speaking."

Jenny took a deep breath. "The two crimes are so different.
I can't really find a pattern."

"Are there no elements in common?"

Jenny thought for a moment, and the images of
Johnson's body came back. She sipped at her drink.
"From all I've seen and heard," she said, "I'd say that the
two crimes at least demonstrate a complete lack of empathy
on the criminal's part, which leans towards the theory
of the psychopath. If that's the case, he probably wasn't
sexually interested in Gemma, only in his power over
her, which he may have been demonstrating to the
woman, as I said to the superintendent last time we met."
She ran her hand through her hair. "I just don't have anything
more to go on."

"Think about the Johnson murder."

Jenny leaned forward and rested her hands on the
table. "All right. The couple who took Gemma showed

no feeling for the mother at all. Whoever killed Johnson
didn't feel his pain, or if he did, he enjoyed it. You know
even better than I do that murder can take many forms
there's the heat of the moment, and there's at least some
distancing, as when a gun's used. Even the classic poisoner
often prefers to be far away when the poison takes
effect. But here we have someone who, according to all
the evidence you've shown me, must have stood very
close indeed to his victim, looked him in the eye as he
killed slowly. Could you do that? Could I? I don't think
so. Most of us have at least some sensitivity to another's
painwe imagine what it would feel like if we suffered
it ourselves. But one class of person doesn'tthe psychopath.
He can't relate to anyone else's pain, can't
imagine it happening to him. He's so self-centred that he
lacks empathy completely."

"You keep saying 'he.'"

Jenny slapped his wrist playfully. "You know as well
as I do that, statistically speaking, most psychopaths are
men. And it might be pretty interesting to try to find out
why. But that's beside the point. That's what the two
crimes, what I know of them, have in common. There are
other elements that fit the psychopath profile, too: the apparent
coolness and bravado with which Gemma was abducted;
the charm Chivers must have exhibited to her
mother; the clever deceit he must have played to get
Johnson out to the mill, if that's what he did. And you
can add that he's also likely to be manipulative, impulsive,
egocentric and irresponsible. You're nursing your
pint, Alan. Anything wrong?"

"What? Oh, no. I'm just preserving my liver. I have to
meet Jim Hatchley for dinner in a couple of hours."

"So he's in town again, is he?"

"Just for a little job."

Jenny held her hand up. "Say no more. I don't want to

know anything about it. I can't understand why you like
that man."

Banks shrugged. "Jim's all right. Anyway, back to
Chivers. What if he committed the Carl Johnson murder
out of self-preservation?"

"The method was still his choice."

"Yes." Banks lit another cigarette. "Look, I'll tell you
what I'm getting at. Just before you arrived, I talked to
my old friend Barney Merritt at the Yard, and he told me
that Criminal Intelligence has got quite a file on Chivers.
They've never been able to put him away for anything,
but they've had reports of his suspected activities from
time to time, and they've usually had some connection
with organized crime. The closest they came to nabbing
him was four years ago. An outsider trying to muscle in
on a protection racket in Birmingham was found on a
building site with a bullet in his brain. The police knew
Chivers was connected with the local mob up there, and
a couple of witnesses placed him with the victim in a pub
near the site. Soon as things got serious, though, the witnesses
started to lose their memories."

"What are you telling me, Alan, that he's a hit man or
something?"

Banks waved his hand. "No, hold on, let me finish.
Most of the information in the CI files concerns his suspected
connection with criminal gangs in London and in
Birmingham, doing hits, nobbling witnesses, enforcing
debt-collection and the like. But word has it that when
business is slack, Chivers is not averse to a bit of murder
and mayhem on the side, just for the fun of it. And according
to Barney, his employers started to get bad feelings
about him about a year ago. They're keeping their
distance. Again, there's nothing proven, just hearsay."

"Interesting," said Jenny. "Is there any more?"

"Just a few details. He's prime suspectwithout a

scrap of proof--in three murders down south, one involving
a fair amount of torture before death, and there
are rumours of one or two fourteen-year-old girls he's
treated roughly in bed."

Jenny shook her head. "If you're getting at some kind
of connection between that and Gemma, I'd say it's
highly unlikely."

"But why? He likes his sex rough and strange. He
likes them young. What happens when fourteen isn't
enough of a kick any more?"

"The fact that he likes having sex with fourteen-year-old
girls in no way indicates, psychologically, that he
could be interested in seven-year-olds. Quite the opposite,
really."

Banks frowned. "I don't understand."

"It was something else I discovered in my research.
According to statistics, the younger the child, the older
the paedophile is likely to be. Your Chivers sounds about
the right age for an unhealthy interest in fourteen-year- olds,
but, you know, if you'd given me no information at
all about Gemma's abduction, I'd say you should be
looking for someone over forty, most likely someone
who knew Gemma--a family friend, neighbour or even a
relative--who lives in the area, or not far away, and
probably lives alone. I certainly wouldn't be looking for
a young couple from Birmingham, or wherever."

Banks shook his head. "Okay, let's get back on track.
Tell me what you think of this scenario. We know that
plenty of psychopaths have found gainful employment in
organized crime. They're good at frightening people,
they're clever, and they make good killers. The problem
is that they're hard to control. Now, what do you do with
a psychopath when you find him more of a business liability
than an asset? You try to cut him loose and hope to
hell he doesn't bear a grudge. Or you have him killed,

and so the cycle continues. His old bosses don't trust
Chivers any more, Jenny. He's persona non grata.
They're scared of him. He has to provide his own entertainment
now."

"Hmm." Jenny swirled her glass and took another sip.
"It makes some sense, but I doubt that it's quite like that.
In the first place, if he's hard to control, it's more likely
to mean that he's losing control of himself. From what
you told me, Chivers must have been a highly organized
personality type at one time, exhibiting a great deal of
control. But psychopaths are also highly unstable.
They're prone to deterioration. His personality could be
disintegrating towards the disorganized type, and right
now he might be in the middle, the mixed type. Most serial
killers, for example, keep on killing until they're
caught or until they lose touch completely with reality.
That's why you don't find many of them over forty.
They've either been caught by then, or they're hopelessly
insane."

Banks stubbed out his cigarette. "Are you suggesting
that Chivers could be turning into a serial killer?"

Jenny shrugged. "Not necessarily a serial killer, but
it's possible, isn't it? He doesn't fit the general profile of
a paedophile, and he's certainly changing into something.
Yes, it makes sense, Alan. I'm not saying it's true, but
it's certainly consistent with the information you've got."

"So what next?"

Jenny shuddered. "Your guess is as good as mine.
Whatever it is, you can be sure it won't be very pleasant.
If he is experiencing loss of control, then he's probably
at a very volatile and unpredictable stage." She finished
her drink. "I'll give you one piece of advice, though."

"What's that?"

"If it is true, be very careful. 1 ais man's a loose cannon
on the deck. He's very dangerous. Maybe even more
so than you realize."

Ill


"Congratulations," said Banks. "I really mean it, Jim.

I'm happy for you. Why the hell didn't you tell me before?"


"Aye, well . . . weren't sure." Sergeant Hatchley
blushed. A typical Yorkshireman, he wasn't comfortable
with expressions of sentiment.

The two of them sat in the large oak-panelled dining-room
of the Red Lion Hotel, an enormous Victorian
structure by the roundabout on the southern edge of
Eastvale. Hatchley was looking a bit healthier than he
had on his arrival that afternoon. Then the ravages of a
hangover had still been apparent around his eyes and in
his skin, but now he had regained his normal ruddy complexion
and that tell-me-another-one look in his pale blue
eyes. Just for a few moments, though, his colour deepened
even more and his eyes filled with pride. Banks was
congratulating him on his wife's pregnancy. Their first.

"When's it due?" Banks asked.

"I don't know. Don't they usually take nine months?"

"I just wondered if the doctor had given you a date."

"Mebbe Carol knows. She didn't say owt to me,
though. This is a good bit of beef." He cut into his prime- rib
roast and washed it down with a draught of
Theakston's bitter. "Ah, it's good to be home again."

Banks was eating lamb and drinking red wine. Not
that he had become averse to Theakston's, but the Red
Lion had a decent house claret and it seemed a shame to
ignore it. "You still think of Eastvale as home?" he
asked.

"Grew up here," replied Hatchley around a mouthful
of Yorkshire pudding. "Place gets in your blood."

"How are you liking the coast?"

"It's all right. Been a good summer." Sergeant

Hatchley had been transferred to Saltby Bay, between
Scarborough and Whitby, mostly in order to make way
for Phil Richmond's boost up the promotion ladder.
Hatchley was a good sergeant and always would be;
Richmond, Banks suspected, would probably make at
least Chief Inspector, his own rank, and might go even
further if he kept on top of the latest computer technology
and showed a bit more initiative and leadership quality.
Susan Gay, their most recent DC, was certainly
demonstrating plenty of initiative, though it didn't always
lead where it should.

"Do I detect a note of nostalgia?" Banks asked.

Hatchley grinned. "Let me put it this way. It's a bit
like a holiday. Trouble isand I never thought I'd be
complaining about thisit's a holiday that never bloody
ends. There's not much goes on for CID to deal with out
there, save for a bit of organized pickpocketing in season,
a few B-and-Es, or a spot of trouble with the bookies
now and then. It's mostly paperwork, a desk job."
Hatchley uttered those last two words with flat-vowelled
Yorkshire contempt.

"Thought you'd be enjoying the rest."

"I might be a bit of a lazy sod, but I'm not bloody retiring
age yet. You know me, I like a bit of action now
and then. Out there, half the time I think I've died and
gone to Harrogate, only by the sea."

"What are you getting at, Jim?"

Hatchley hesitated for a moment, then put his knife
and fork down. "I'll be blunt. We're all right for now,
Carol and me, but after the baby's born, do you think
there's any chance of us getting back to Eastvale?"

Banks sipped some wine and thought for a moment.

"Look," Hatchley said, "I know the super doesn't like
me. Never has. I knew that even before you came on the
scene."

Three and a half years ago, Banks thought. Was that
all? So much had happened. He raised his eyebrows.

"But we get on all right, don't we?" Hatchley went on.
"I mean, it took us a while, we didn't have the best of
starts. But I know my faults. I've got strengths, too, is all
I'm saying."

"I know that," Banks said. "And you're right." He remembered
that it had taken him two years to call
Sergeant Hatchley by his first name. By then he had developed
a grudging respect for the man's tenacity.
Hatchley might take the easy way out, act in unorthodox
ways, cut corners, take risks, but he generally got what
he set out to get. In other words, he was a bit of a maverick,
like Banks himself, and he was neither as thick nor
as thuggish as Banks had first thought.

Apart from Gristhorpe, Banks felt most comfortable
with Hatchley. Phil Richmond was all right, pleasant
enough, but he always seemed a bit remote and self-absorbed.
For God's sake, Banks thought, what could you
expect from a man who read science fiction, listened to
New Age music and spent half his time playing computer
games? Susan Gay was too prickly, too oversensitive
to feel really at ease with, though he admired her
spunk and her common sense.

"It's not up to me," Banks said finally. "You know
that. But the way Phil's going it wouldn't surprise me if
he went in for a transfer to the Yard before long."

"Aye, well, he always was an ambitious lad, was Phil."

It was said without rancour, but Banks knew it must
have hurt Hatchley to be shunted to a backwater so as
not to impede a younger man's progress up the ranks.
Transfer to CID was no more a "promotion" per se than
transfer to Traffic and Communications --a sergeant was
a sergeant, whether he or she had the prefix "detective"
or not--though some, like Susan Gay, actually saw it

that way, as a mark of recognition of special abilities.
Some detectives were transferred back to uniform; some
returned from choice. But Banks knew that Hatchley had
no desire to walk the beat or drive the patrol cars again.
What he wanted was to come back to Eastvale as a
Detective Sergeant, and there simply wasn't room for
him with Richmond at the same rank.

Banks shrugged. "What can I say, Jim? Be patient."

"Can I count on your support, if the situation arises?"

Banks nodded. "You can." He smiled to himself as the
unbidden image of Jim Hatchley and Susan Gay working
together came to mind. Oh, there would be fun and
games ahead if Sergeant Hatchley came back to Eastvale.

Hatchley finished his pint and looked Banks in the
eye. "Aye, well that's all right then. How about a sweet?"

"Not for me."

Hatchley caught the waiter's attention and ordered
Black Forest gateau, a cup of coffee and another pint of
Theakston's. Banks stayed with his glass of red wine,
which was still half-full.

"Down to business, then," Hatchley said, as he tucked
into the dessert.

Banks gave him a summary of the case and its twists
and turns so far, then explained what he wanted him to
do.

"A pleasure," said Hatchley, smiling.

"And in the meantime, you can concentrate on installing
that shower or whatever it is. I can't say how
long we'll be. It depends."

Hatchley pulled a face. "I hope it's sooner rather than
later."

"Problem?"

"Oh, not really. As you know, I've got a few days
leave. There's not a lot on in Saltby at the moment, anyway,
and Carol will be all right. She's built up quite a

gaggle of mates out there, and there'll be no keeping
them away since we heard about the baby. You know
how women get all gooey-eyed about things like that.
You can almost hear the bloody knitting needles clacking
from here. No, it's just that it might mean staying on
longer than I have to at the in-laws, that's all."

"You don't get on?"

"It's not that. We had them for two weeks in July. It's
just. . . well, you know how it is with in-laws."

Banks remembered Mr and Mrs Ellis from Hatchley's
wedding the previous Christmas. Mrs Ellis in particular
had seemed angry that Hatchley stayed at the reception
too long and drank too much. But then, he thought, she
had every right to be annoyed. "They don't approve of
your drinking?" he guessed.

"You make it sound as if I'm an alcoholic or something,"
Hatchley said indignantly. "Just because a bloke
enjoys a pint or two of ale now and then. . . . No, they're
religious, Four Square Gospel," he sighed, as if that explained
it all. "You know, Chapel on Sundays, the whole
kit and caboodle. Never mind." He sat up straight and
puffed out his chest. "A man's got to do what a man's
got to do. Just hurry up and find the bugger. What about
this Olivers bloke? Any leads?"

"According to Phil, we've already had sightings from
St Austell, King's Lynn, Clitheroe and the Kyle of
Lochalsh."

Hatchley laughed. "It was ever thus. Tell me about
him. He sounds interesting."

Banks told him what Barney Merritt had said and what
he and Jenny had discussed late afternoon.

"Reckon he's done her, the kid?"

Banks nodded. "It's been over a week, Jim. I just don't
like to think about what probably happened before he
killed her."

Hatchley's eyes narrowed to slits. "Know who the tart
is? The blonde?"

"No idea. He picks them up and casts them off.
They're fascinated by him, like flies to shit. According to
what Barney could dig up, his full name's Jeremy
Chivers, called Jem for short. He grew up in a nice middle-class
home in Sevenoaks. No record of any trouble as
a kid. No one can figure out how he got hooked up with
the gangs. He had a good education, moved to work for
an insurance company in London, then it all started."

"It's not hard for rats to find the local sewer," said
Hatchley.

"No. Anyway, he's twenty-eight now, apparently looks
even younger. And he's no fool. You've got to be pretty
smart to keep on doing what he does and get away with
it. It all satisfies whatever weird appetites he's developing."

"If you ask me," said Hatchley, "we'd all be best off if
he found himself at the end of a noose."

Banks remembered his early feelings about Hatchley.
That comment, so typical of him and so typical of the
burned-out, cynical London coppers Banks had been trying
to get away from at the time, brought them all back.

Once, Banks would have cheerfully echoed the sentiment.
Sometimes, even now, he felt it. It was impossible
to contemplate someone like Chivers and what he had
done to Carl Johnsonif he had done itand, perhaps,
to Gemma Scupham, without wanting to see him dangling
at the end of a rope, or worse, to make it personal,
to squeeze the life out of him with one's own hands. Like
everyone who had read about the case in the newspapers,
like everyone who had children of his own, Banks could
easily give voice to the outraged clich that hanging was
too good for the likes of Chivers. What was even worse
was that Banks didn't know, could not predict for certain,

what he would do if he ever did get Chivers within hurting
distance.

The conflict was always there: on the one hand, pure
atavistic rage for revenge, the gut feeling that someone
who did what Chivers did no longer deserved to be a
member of the human race, had somehow, through his
monstrous acts, forfeited his humanity; and on the other
hand, the feeling that such a reaction makes us no better
than him, however we sugar-coat our socially sanctioned
murders, and with it the idea that perhaps more insight is
to be gained from the study of such a mind than from its
destruction, and that knowledge like that may help prevent
Chiverses of the future. There was no easy solution
for him. The two sides of the argument struggled for ascendancy;
some days sheer outrage won out, others a
kind of noble humanism took supremacy.

Instead of responding to Hatchley's comment, Banks
gestured for the bill and lit a cigarette. It was time to go
home, perhaps listen to Mitsuko Uchida playing some
Mozart piano sonatas and snuggle up to Sandra, if she
was in.

"Ah well," sighed Hatchley. "Back to the in-laws, I
suppose." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a packet
of extra-strong Trebor mints and popped one in his
mouth. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends. . . ."


IV



The piece of luck that Banks had been hoping for came

at about six-thirty in the morning. Like most police luck,

it was more a result of hard slog and keen observation

than any magnanimous gesture on the part of some

almighty deity.


The telephone woke Banks from a disjointed dream

full of anger and frustration. He groped for the receiver
in the dark. Beside him, Sandra stirred and muttered in
her sleep.

"Sir?" It was Susan Gay.

"Mmm," Banks mumbled.

"Sorry to wake you, sir, but they've found him.
Poole."

"Where is he?"

"At the station."

"What time is it?"

"Half past six."

"All right. Phone Jim Hatchley at Carol's parents'
place and get him down there, but keep him out of sight.
And"

"I've already phoned the super, sir. He's on his way
in."

"Good. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Sandra turned over and sighed. Banks crept out of bed
as quietly as he could, grabbed the clothes he had left
folded on a chair and went into the bathroom. He still
couldn't shake the feeling the dream had left him with.
Probably something to do with the row he had with
Tracy after he got back from dinner with Jim Hatchley.
Not even a row, really. Trying to be more understanding
towards her, he had simply made some comment about
how nice it was to have her home with the family, and
she had burst into tears and dashed up to her room.
Sandra had shot him a nasty look and hurried up after
her. It turned out her boyfriend had chucked her for
someone else. Well, how was he supposed to know? It all
changed so quickly. She never told him about anything
these days.

As soon as he had showered and dressed, he went out
to the car. The wind had dropped, but the pre-dawn sky
was overcast, a dreary iron grey, except to the east where

it was flushed deep red close to the horizon. For the first
time that year, Banks could see his breath. Already, lights
were on in some of the houses, and the woman in the
newsagent's at the corner of Banks's street and Market
Street was sorting the papers for the delivery kids.

Inside the station, an outsider would have had no idea
it was so early in the morning. Activity went on under
the fluorescent lights as usual, as it did twenty-four hours
a day. Only a copper would sense that end-ofthe-night- shift
feel as constables changed back into civvies to go
home and the day shift came in bright-eyed and bushy- tailed,
shaved faces shining, or make-up freshly applied.

Upstairs, where the CID had their offices, was quieter.
They hardly had a need for shift work, and their hours
varied depending on what was going on. This past week,
with a murder and a missing child, long hours had been
taking their toll on everyone. Richmond was there, looking
red-eyed from too much staring at the computer
screen, and Susan Gay had dark blue smears under her
eyes.

"What happened?" Banks asked her.

"I'd just come in," she said. "Couldn't sleep so I came
in at six and thought I'd have another look at the forensic
reports, then they brought him in. Found him sleeping in
a ditch a mile or so down the Helmthorpe Road."

"Jesus Christ," said Banks. "It must have been cold.
Where is he?"

"Interview room. PC Evans is with him."

"Sergeant Hatchley?"

"Got here just before you. He's in position."

Banks nodded. "Let's wait for the super."

Gristhorpe arrived fifteen minutes later, looking
brighter than the rest of them. His hair was a mess, as
usual, but his innocent blue eyes shone every bit as alert
and probing as ever.

"Let's have at him, then," he said, rubbing his hands.
"Alan, would you like to lead, seeing as you know him
so well? Let me play monster in reserve."

"All right."

They headed for the small interview room. Before
they went in, Banks asked Richmond if he would get
them a large pot of tea.

The drab room seemed overcrowded with four of
them, and the heat was turned too high. PC Evans went
and sat in the corner by the window, ready to take notes,
Banks sat opposite Poole, and Gristhorpe at right angles.

Poole licked his lips and looked around the room.

"You look like you've been dragged through a hedge
backwards, Les," Banks said. "What happened?"

"Sleeping rough. Nowhere to go, had I?"

He was unshaven, his leather jacket was scuffed and
stained with mud, his greasy hair bedraggled and matted.
He also had a black eye and a split lip. The tea arrived.
Banks played mother and passed a large steaming mug
over to Les. "Here, have a cuppa," he said. "You don't
look like you've had your breakfast yet."

"Thanks." Poole grasped the mug with both hands.

"How'd you get the war wounds?"

"Bloody mob, wasn't it? I need protection, I do."

"From your neighbours?"

"Bloody right." He pointed to his face. "They did this
to me before I managed to run off. I'm a victim. I should
press charges." Poole slurped some tea.

"Be our guest," said Banks. "But later. There's a few
other things to deal with first."

Poole frowned. "Oh? Like what?"

"Like why did you run?"

"That's a daft question. You'd bloody run if you had a
mob like that after you."

"Where were you heading?"

"Dunno. Anywhere. I'd got no money so I could
hardly stay in a bleeding hotel, could I?"

"What about your mate at the shop?"

"Wasn't in."

"What did the mob want with you, Les?"

"It was all that silly bitch Brenda's fault. Put on a right
show, she did, chucking my stuff at me like that. And
that's another thing. I'll bloody sue her for damage to
property."

"You do that, Les. She'd probably have to sell the telly
and that nice little stereo system to pay her costs. Why
did they turn on you?"

Les glanced nervously at Gristhorpe, then said to
Banks, "Is he going to stay here all the time?"

Banks nodded. "If I can't get the truth out of you, he
takes over. Believe me, you'll be a lot happier if that
never happens. We were talking about your neighbours.
Look at me."

Poole turned back. "Yeah, well, Brenda yelled some
stupid things out the window. It was her fault. She could
have got me killed."

"What did she yell?"

Banks could see Poole weighing him up, gauging what
he knew already. Finally, he said, "Seeing as she's probably
already told you, it doesn't matter, does it?" He kept
glancing at Gristhorpe out of the corner of his eye.

"It matters a lot," Banks said. "It's a very serious allegation,
that is, saying you were mixed up with Gemma's
disappearance. They don't take kindly to child-molesters
in prison, Les. This time it won't be as easy as your other
stretches inside. Why don't you tell us what you know?"

Poole finished his tea and reached for the pot. Banks
let him pour another large mug. "Because I don't know
anything," he said. "I told you, Brenda was out of line."

"No smoke without fire, Les."

"Corne on, Mr Banks, you know me. Do I look like a
child-molester?"

"How would I know? What do you think they look
like? Ogres with hairs growing out of their noses and
warts on their bald heads? Do you think they go around
carrying signs?"

"She was trying to stir it, to wind me up. Honest. Ask
her. Ask her if she really thinks I had anything to do with
it."

"I have, Les."

"Yeah? And what did she say?"

"How did you feel when she told you Gemma had
been abducted?"

"Feel?"

"Yes, Les. It's something people do. Part of what
makes them human."

"I know what it means. Don't think I don't have feelings."
He paused, and gulped down more tea. "How did I
feel? I dunno."

"Were you upset?"

"Well, I was worried."

"Were you surprised?"

"Course I was."

"Did anything spring to mind, anything to make you
wonder maybe about what had happened?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do, Les."

Banks looked over at Gristhorpe, who nodded grimly.

Poole licked his lips again. "Look, what's going on
here? You trying to fit me up?"

Banks let the silence stretch. Poole squirmed in his
hard chair. "I need a piss," he said finally.

Banks stood up. "Come on, then."

They walked down the corridor to the gents and Banks
stood by the inside of the door while Poole went to the

urinal.

"Tell us where Gemma is, Les," Banks said, as Poole
relieved himself. "It'll save us all a lot of trouble."

All of a sudden, the stall door burst open. Poole
turned. A red-faced giant in a rumpled grey suit with
short fair hair and hands like hams stood in front of him.
Poole pissed all over his shoes and cursed, cringing back
against the urinal, holding his arms out to ward off an attack.

"Is that him?" the giant said. "Is that the fucking pervert
who"

Banks dashed over and held him back. "Jim, don't.
We're still questioning"

"Is that the fucking pervert or isn't it?"

Hatchley strained to get past Banks, who was backing
towards the door with Poole scrabbling behind him. "Get
out, Les," Banks said. "While you can. I'll keep him
back. Go on. Hurry!"

They backed into the corridor and two uniformed constables
came to hold Hatchley, still shouting obscenities.
Banks put a protective arm around Poole and led him
back to the interview room. On the way, they passed
Susan Gay, who looked at Poole and blushed. Banks followed
her gaze. "Better zip it up, Les," he said, "or we'll
have you for indecent exposure as well."

Poole did as he was told and Banks ushered him back
into the room, Hatchley cursing and shouting behind
them, held back by the two men.

"What the hell's going on?" Gristhorpe asked.

"It's Jim," Banks explained, sitting Poole down again.
"You know what he's been like since that bloke interfered
with his little girl."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe, "but can't we keep a leash on
him?"

"Not easy, sir. He's a good man. Just a bit unhinged at

the moment."

Poole followed the exchange, paling.

"Look," he said, "I ain't no pervert. Tell him. Keep
him away from me."

"We'll try," Banks said, "but we might have a hard
time getting him to believe us."

Poole ran a hand through his greasy hair. "All right,"
he said. "All right. I'll tell you all I know. Okay? Just
keep him off me."

Banks stared at him.

"Then you can tell them all I'm not a pervert and I had
nothing to do with it, all right?"

"If that's the way it turns out. If I believe you. And it's
a big if, Les, after the bollocks you've been feeding us
this past week."

"I know, I know." Poole licked his lips. "Look, first
off, you've got to believe me, I had nothing to do with
what happened to Gemma. Nothing."

"Convince me."

Outside, they could hear Hatchley bellowing about
what he would do to perverts if he had his way: "I'd cut
your balls off with a blunt penknife, I bloody would!
And I'd feed them down your fucking throat!" He got
close enough to thump at the door and rattle the handle
before they could hear him being dragged off still yelling
down the corridor. Banks could hardly keep from laughing.
Jim and the uniforms sounded like they were having
the time of their lives.

"Christ," said Les, with a shudder. "Just keep him off
me, that's all."

"So you had nothing to do with Gemma's disappearance?"
Banks said.

"No. See, I used to talk about the kid down the pub,
over a jar, like. I admit I wasn't very flattering, but she
was a strange one was Gemma. She could irritate you

just by looking at you that way she had, accusing like.
Make you feel like dirt."

"So you complained about your girlfriend's kid.
Nothing odd in that, is there, Les?"

"Well, that's just it, isn't it? What I've been saying. It
was just pub talk, that's all. Now, I never touched her, Mr
Banks. Never. Not a word of a lie. But Brenda got pissed
off that time after Gemma spilled her paints on my racing
form and gave her a bloody good shaking. First time
I seen her do it, and it scared me, honest it did. Left big
bruises on the kid's arm. I felt sorry for her, but I'm not
her fucking father, what am I supposed to do?"

"Get to the point, Les. Those lads out there can't hold
Sergeant Hatchley down forever."

"Aye, well, I didn't exactly tell you the truth before.
You see, I did meet this Chivers and his bird a couple of
times, with Carl at the pub. Never took to him. She
wasn't a bad-looking hint, mind you. A bit weird, but not
bad. He thought I was coming on to her once and warned
me, all quiet and civilized, like, that if I went so much as
with a yard of her he'd cut off my balls and shove them
up my arse." Poole paused and swallowed. No doubt he
was realizing, Banks thought, that threats to his privates
were coming thick and fast from all sides. "He gave me
the creeps, Mr Banks. There was something not right
about him. About the pair of them, if you ask me."

"Did this Chivers seem interested when you talked
about Gemma?"

"Well, yeah, about as interested as he seemed in anything.
He was a cool one. Cold. Like a fucking reptile.
There was just no reading him. He'd ask about her, yeah,
just over a few drinks, like, but I thought nothing of it.
And once he told me about a case he'd read in the papers
where some couple had pretended to be child-care workers
and asked to examine a child. Thought that was

funny, he did. Thought it showed bottle. I put it out of
my mind. To be honest, soon as we'd done the Flsoon
as we'd finished our bit of business, I wouldn't go near
him or her. I can't explain it. They seemed nice and normal
enough on the surface, all charm and that nice smile
of his, but inside he was hard and cold, and you never
knew what he was going to do next. I suppose that's the
kind of thing she liked. There's no figuring out some
women's taste."

"So Chivers showed some interest in Gemma and he
told you about the newspaper story, right?"

"Right. And that's as far as it went."

"Did Chivers give you any reason to believe he was
interested in little children?"

"Well, no, not directly. I mean, Carl told me a few stories
about him, how he'd been involved in the porn trade
down The Smoke and how he wasn't averse to a bit of
bondage and that. Just titillating stories, that's all. And
when you saw him and his bird together, they were
weird, like they had something going that no one could
get in on. She hung on his every word and when he told
her to do something, she did. I mean ... it was . . . Once,
we was in the car, like, plann, just talking, with them
two in the front and me and Carl in the back, and he told
her to suck him off. She got right down there and did it,
and all the time he kept talking, just stopping once, like,
to give a little sigh when he shot his load. Then she sat
back up again as if nothing had happened."

"But they never made any direct reference to children?"

"No. But you see what I mean, don't you, Mr Banks? I
mean, as far as I'm concerned, them two was capable of
anything."

"I see what you mean. What did you do?"

"Well, I kept quiet, didn't I? I mean, there was no way

of knowing it was them took Gemma. The descriptions
weren't the same. And then when Carl turned up dead, I
had a good idea who might have liked killing someone
that way and ... I was scared. I mean, wouldn't you be?
Maybe Carl had made the same connection, too, and
Chivers had offed him while the hint looked on and
laughed. That's the kind of feeling they gave you."

"Do you have any evidence that Chivers killed Carl?"

"Evidence? That's down to you lot, isn't it? No, I told
you. I kept away from him. It just seemed like something
he would do."

"Where are they now, Les?"

"I've no idea, honest I don't. And you can turn your
gorilla on me and I can't tell you any different. I haven't
seen nor heard of them since last week. And I don't want
to."

"Do you think they're still in Eastvale, Les?"

"Be daft if they were, wouldn't they? But I don't mind
saying I was scared shitless those two nights sleeping
out. I kept thinking there was someone creeping up on
me to cut my throat. You know what it's like out in the
country, all those animal noises and the wind blowing
barn doors." He shuddered.

"Is that everything, Les?"

"Cross my heart."

Banks noticed he didn't say "hope to die" this time.
"It'd better be," said Banks, standing and stretching. He
walked over to the door and peered outside, then turned
to Gristhorpe. "Looks like they've got Jim away somewhere.
What shall we do now?"

Gristhorpe assessed Poole with a steady gaze. "I think
he's told us all he knows," he said finally. "We'd better
take him to the charge room then lock him up."

"Good idea," Banks said. "Give him a nice warm cell
for the day. For his own safety."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe. "What'll we charge him
with?"

"We could start with indecent exposure."

They spent another hour or so going over Poole's
statement with him, and Poole made no objections as the
constable finally led him down to the charge room. He
just looked anxiously right and left to make sure
Hatchley wasn't around. Banks wandered to his office
for a cigarette and another cup of coffee. Gristhorpe
joined him there, and a few minutes later Jim Hatchley
walked in with a big grin on his face.

"Haven't had as much fun since the last rugby club
trip," he said. "How did you know he'd be going for a
piss anyway? I was getting a bit fed up stuck in there. I'd
read the Sport twice already."

"People want to urinate a lot when they're anxious,"
Banks said. "He did before. Besides, tea's a diuretic,
didn't you know that?"

Hatchley shook his head.

"Anyway, he'd have wanted to go eventually. We'd
just have kept him as long as necessary."

"Aye," said Hatchley, "and me in the fucking shit-house."

Banks smiled. "Effective, though, wasn't it? More dramatic
that way."

"Very dramatic. Thinking of doing a bit of local theatre,
are you?"

Banks laughed. "Sometimes that's what I think I am
doing already." He walked over to the window and
stretched. "Christ, it's been a long morning," he muttered.

The gold hands against the blue face of the church
clock stood at ten-twenty. Susan Gay walked in and out
with the latest developments. Not much. There had been
more reports of Chivers, from Welshpool, Ramsgate and

Llaneilian, and all had to be checked out by the locals.

So far, they didn't have one clear lead. Just after eleven,

the phone rang, and Banks picked it up.

"Detective Inspector Loder here. Dorset CID."
Banks sighed. "Not another report of Chivers?"
"More than that," said Loder. "In fact, I think you'd

better get down to Weymouth if you can."
Banks sat upright. "You've got him?"
"Not exactly, but we've got a dead blonde in a hotel

room, and she matches the description you put out."

12


i



Gristhorpe sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked police

car with a road map spread out on his knees. Banks

drove. He would have preferred his own Cortina, mostly

because of the stereo system, but Sandra needed it for all

her gallery work. Besides, Gristhorpe was tone deaf; for

all his learning, he couldn't appreciate music. Banks had

packed his Walkman and a couple of tapes in his

overnight bag; he knew it wouldn't be easy getting to

sleep in a strange hotel room, especially after what

awaited them in Weymouth, and music would help.


They were heading down the Ml past Sheffield with
its huge cooling towers, shaped like giant whalebone
corsets, and its wasteland of disused steel factories. It
was almost one-thirty in the afternoon, and despite the
intermittent rain they were making good time.

Gristhorpe, after much muttering to himself, decided it
would be best to turn off the motorway just south of
Northampton and go via Oxford, Swindon and Salisbury.
Banks drove as fast as he could, and just over an hour
later they reached the junction with the A43. They
skirted Oxford in the late afternoon and didn't get held
up until they hit Swindon at rush-hour.


270



After Blandford Forum, they passed the time reading
signposts and testing one another on Hardy's names for
the places. They managed to keep abreast until
Gristhorpe went ahead with Middleton Abbey for Milton
Abbas.

After a traffic snarl-up in the centre of Dorchester,
they approached Weymouth in the early evening. Loder
had given clear directions to the hotel, and luckily it was
easy to spot, one of the Georgian terraces on the
Dorchester Road close to the point where it merged with
The Esplanade.

A plump, curly-haired woman called Maureen greeted
them in the small lobby and told them that Inspector
Loder and his men had been gone for some time but had
left a guard outside the room and requested she call them
at the station as soon as Banks and Gristhorpe arrived.
Their booking for the night had already been made: two
singles on the third floor, one floor down from where the
body had been discovered.

Out of courtesy, Banks and Gristhorpe waited for
Loder to arrive before going up to the room. They had
requested that, as far as possible, things should be left as
they were when the chambermaid discovered the body
that morning. Of course, Loder's scene-of-crime men
had done their business, and the Home Office pathologist
had examined the body in situ, but the corpse was still
there, waiting for them, in the position she been found.

Loder walked in fifteen minutes later. He was a
painfully thin man with a hatchet face and a sparse fuzz
of grey hair. Close to retirement, Banks guessed, and
tired. His worn navy blue suit hung on him, and his wire- rimmed
glasses seemed precariously balanced near the
end of his long, thin nose. As he spoke, his grey-green
eyes peered over the tops of the lenses.

After the formalities were over, the three men headed

up the thickly carpeted stairs to room 403.

"We tried to do as you asked," Loder said as they
climbed. "You might see some traces of the SOCO
team's presence, but otherwise . . ." He had a local accent,
a kind of deep burr like a mist around his vowels,
and he spoke slowly, pausing between thoughts.

The uniformed constable stepped aside at Loder's gesture,
and they entered the room and turned on the light.
They had no need to wear surgical gloves, as the forensic
scientists had already been over the scene. What they
were getting was part preservation, part recreation.

First, Banks studied the room in general. It was unusually
spacious for a seaside hotel room, with a high ceiling,
ornate moulding and an oriel window overlooking
the sea, now only a dim presence beyond the Esplanade
lights. The window was open a fraction and Banks felt
the pleasant chill of the breeze and heard the distant
wash of waves on the beach. Gristhorpe stood beside
him, similarly watchful. The wallpaper, a bright flower
pattern, gave a cheerful aura, and a framed watercolour
of Weymouth's seafront hung over the writing-desk.
There was little other furniture: armchair, television,
dressing-table, wardrobe and bedside tables--and the
large bed itself. Banks left that until last.

The shape of a woman's body was clearly defined by
the twisted white sheet that covered it. At first glance, it
looked like someone sprawled on her back in the morning
just before stretching and getting up. But instead of
her head resting on the pillow, the pillow was resting on
her head.

"Is this how you found her?" Banks asked Loder.

He nodded. "The doc did his stuff, of course, but he
tried not to disturb her too much. We put the body back
much as it was, as you requested."

There was an implied criticism in his tone. Why on

earth, Loder seemed to be asking, did you want us to
leave the body? But Banks ignored him. He always liked
to get the feel of a scene; somehow it told him much
more than photographs, drawings and reports. There was
nothing morbid in his need to see the body where it lay;
in fact, in many instances, this included, he would far
rather not. But it did make a difference. Not only did it
give him some sort of contact with the victim, the symbolism
of having touched the corpse, something he
needed to fuel him through a murder investigation, but it
also sometimes enabled him to enter the criminal's and
the victim's minds. He didn't think there was anything
particularly psychic about this; it was more a Holmesian
manner of working back from the little things one observed
to the circumstances that created them. There was
no denying, though, that sometimes he did get a true feel
for the way the killer thought and what his next moves
might be.

From the disapproval in his tone, Banks formed the
impression that Loder was a highly moral man, outraged
not only by the murder but by the delay in getting the
corpse to its proper place. It was a woman's body, too,
and that seemed to embarrass him.

Slowly, Banks walked over to the bed and picked up
the pillow. Gristhorpe stood beside him. The woman's
long blonde hair lay spread out on the undersheet. She
had been beautiful, no doubt about that: fine bone structure,
a clear complexion, full lips. Apart from her head,
only her neck and shoulders were exposed, alabaster skin
clouded with the bluish tinge of cyanosis.

Her left hand grasped the top of the sheet and bunched
it up. She wore red nail polish, but Banks thought he
could also detect traces of blood around the tips of her
fingers and smeared on the white sheet. He lifted the
sheet. She was naked underneath. Carefully, he replaced

it, as if to avoid causing her further embarrassment.
Loder wasn't the only sensitive one, no matter what he
thought.

Gristhorpe opened one of her eyelids. "See that," he
said pointing to the red pinpricks of blood in the once- blue
eye.

Banks nodded. It was a petechial haemorrhage, one
sign of asphyxiation, most likely in this case caused by
the pillow.

Banks touched her right hand and shivered; it was cold
and stiff with rigor.

"We've got the skin and blood samples, of course,"
said Loder, when he saw Banks examining the nails.
"Looks like she put up a bit of a struggle. We should be
able to type the killer, maybe even do a DNA profile."

"We don't have time for that," Gristhorpe said. "This
one's got to be stopped fast."

"We-ell," said Loder, in his slow burr, "at least it'll
come in useful in court. Is it her, the one you're looking
for?"

"We didn't have a very good description," Gristhorpe
answered. "Alan?"

"Couldn't say." Banks turned to Loder. "She was with
the man, though, you said?"

"Yes. The one with the nice smile. You mentioned it
specifically in the papers. That's why we called you boys
in."

"Any identification?" Gristhorpe asked.

Loder shook his head. "Nothing. Whoever did it took
everything. Clothes, handbag, the lot. We tried her fingerprints
but they're not on file." He paused. "It looks as
if she was killed here, and the doc says she certainly
hasn't been moved since she died. He's anxious to get to
the PM, of course, but ruling out drugs, his findings so
far are consistent with asphyxiation."

"Any idea of the time?"

"Doc puts it between six and nine in the morning."

"Anything else we should know?"

Loder glanced towards the body and paused for a moment
before speaking. "Nothing else unusual about the
body," he said, "unless you count the fact that she'd had
sex around the time she was killed."

"Forced?"

"Not so far as the doc could make out." Loder walked
towards the window, leaned on the sill and looked out
over the Esplanade lights. "But it probably wouldn't be,
would it, if she was sleeping with the bloke. Now, if you
gentlemen are through, could we possibly get out of
here? I seem to have spent far too much time with her already
today." He sounded weary, and Banks wondered if
he were not only tired but ill; he certainly seemed unusually
thin and pale.

"Of course," said Gristhorpe, looking over at Banks.
"Just a couple more questions first, while they're fresh in
my mind."

Loder sighed. "All right."

"I don't suppose the chambermaid actually cleaned the
room, did she, given what she found here?"

"No," said Loder, a thin smile on his lips. "No, she
didn't. I'm sure you'll want to talk to her yourselves, but
the one odd thingand I noticed it, toowas that room
looked as if it had just been cleaned. The SOCO team
tried to disturb things as little as possible. They took
their samples, dusted for prints and so on, but you can
see what it was like."

Indeed they could. The room looked spotless, clean
and tidy. Under the thin patina of fingerprint powder,
wood surfaces gleamed with recent polishing. Gristhorpe
glanced in the small bathroom toilet, and it was the same,
as if the fixtures and fittings had been scrubbed with

Ajax, the towels hung neatly on the racks. There wasn't a
smear of toothpaste or a trace of stubble stuck to the
sides of the sink.

"The cottage the Manleys left in Eastvale was just the
same," Gristhorpe said. "What do you make of it, Alan?"

Banks shrugged. "Partly getting rid of evidence, I suppose,"
he said. "Though he kindly left us semen samples,
not to mention blood and skin under her fingernails.
Maybe he's got a pathological obsession with cleanliness
and neatness. I've heard it's not uncommon among psychopaths.
Something to ask Jenny about, anyway." He
pointed to two thin, glossy leaflets on the dressing-table.
"Were those there when the chambermaid came in?"

"No," said Loder. "Sorry. One of the crime-scene boys
found them and forgot to put them back."

"Would you show us where?"

Loder opened one of the drawers, which was lined
with plain paper, and slipped the brochures under. "Like
this," he said. "I thought maybe he'd forgotten them, or
they slipped under the lining by accident. The chambermaid
said she cleans out the drawers thoroughly between
guests, so they can't have been there before. They're
ferry timetables, see. For Cherbourg and the Channel
Islands. We reckon that's where he must have gone."

"What time do the ferries start?"

"Early enough."

"Did he have a car?"

"Yes, parked out back. A white Fiesta. See, he
wouldn't need it to get to the ferry dock, and once he
gets over to the Channel Islands or France, well . . .
Anyway, our lads have taken it to the police garage."

"Is there anything else?" Gristhorpe asked.

Loder shook his head.

"All right, let's get out of here. Tell your boys they can
get her to the mortuary. Will the pathologist be able to

start the autopsy tonight?"

"I think so." Loder closed the door behind them. "As I
said, he's been chomping at the bit all day as it is." The
police guard resumed his post and Loder led the way
downstairs.

"Good," said Gristhorpe. "I think we can leave it till
morning to talk to the hotel staff. I trust your lads have
already taken statements?"

Loder nodded.

"We'll see what a good night's sleep does for their
memories then. Anything else you can think of, Alan?"

Banks shook his head, but couldn't prevent his stomach
from rumbling.

"Oh, aye," said Gristhorpe. "I forgot we hadn't eaten
all day. Better see what we can rustle up."


II



"Is this the place?" Susan Gay asked.


Richmond nodded. "Looks like it."

Rampart Street sounded as if it should have been situated
near the castle, but instead, for reasons known only
to town-planners, it was a nondescript cul-de-sac running
south off Elmet Street in Eastvale's west end. One side
consisted of pre-war terrace houses without gardens.
Mostly they seemed in a state of neglect and disrepair,
but some tenants had attempted to brighten things up
with window-boxes and brass door-knockers.

The other side of the street, with a small Esso garage
on the corner, consisted of several shops, including a
greengrocer's with tables of fruit and vegetables out
front; a betting shop; a newsagent-cum-video rental outlet;
and the incongruously named Rampart Antiques.
However one defines "antique," whether it be by some

kind of intrinsic beauty or simply by age, Rampart
Antiques failed on both counts.

In the grimy window, Susan spotted a heap of cracked
Sony Walkmans without headphones, two stringless
acoustic guitars and several dusty box-cameras, along
with the occasional chipped souvenir plate with its
"hand-painted" scene of Blackpool tower or London
Bridge wedged among them. One corner was devoted to
old LPs--Frank Sinatra, the Black Dyke Mills Band,
Bobby Vinton, Connie Francis--covers faded and curled
at the edges after too long in the sun. An old Remington
office typewriter, which looked as if it weighed a ton,
stood next to a cracked Coronation mug and a bulbous
pink china lamp-stand.

Inside was no less messy, and the smell of dust,
mildew and stale tobacco made Susan's nose itch.

"Can I help you?"

The man sat behind the counter, a copy of Penthouse
open in front of him. It was hard to tell how tall he was,
but he certainly had the short black hair, the squarish
face and the broken nose that the woman in Johnson's
building had mentioned.

"John Fairley?" Richmond asked.

"That's me."

Richmond and Susan showed their warrant cards, then
Richmond said, in his formal voice, "We have received
information which leads us to believe that there may be
stolen property on these premises." He handed over a
copy of the search warrant they had spent all afternoon
arranging. Fairley stared at it, openmouthed.

By then, both Richmond and Susan were rummaging
through the junk. They would find nothing on display, of
course, but the search had to be as thorough as possible.
Susan flipped through the stacks of old 45s on wobbly
tables--Rai Donner, B. Bumble and the Stingers, Karl

Denver, Boots Randolph, the Surfaris, names she had
never heard of. One table groaned under the whole of
Verdi's Rigoletto on 78s. There were also several shelves
of books along one wall: Reader's Digest condensed editions;
old Enid Blytons with torn paper covers that said
2/6 on the front; books with stiff pages and covers
warped and stained by water-damage, most by authors
she had never heard of. She doubted whether even Banks
or Gristhoipe would have heard of them, either. Who on
earth would want to buy such useless and smelly junk?

When they were satisfied that there were no videos or
stereos hidden among the cracked figurines and rusted
treadle sewing-machines, they asked Fairley if he would
show them the rest of the premises. At first he hesitated,
then he shrugged, locked the front door, turned the sign
to read CLOSED, and led them through the moth-eaten
curtain behind the counter. Silent so far, he seemed resigned
to his fate.

The curtain led into a corridor with a filthy sink piled
with cups growing mould from old tea leaves. Next to
the sink was a metal counter-top streaked with rust, on
which stood, among the mouse-droppings, a bottle of
Camp coffee, a quarter of Typhoo tea, some curdled milk
and a bowl of sugar lumps.

The corridor ended in a toilet with a stained bowl and
washbasin, flaking plaster and spider-webs in the corners.
It was almost impossible to open the door to the
other room on the ground floor, but slim Richmond managed
to slip in and discover that it was packed mostly
with collapsed cardboard boxes. There were also some
books, video cassettes and magazines of a slightly suspect
eroticism, though perhaps not the more prosecutable
variety of pornography.

After he had finished there, Richmond pointed to the
other door off the corridor. "Where's that lead?" he

asked.

Fairley tried to bluff his way out of opening it. He said
it led nowhere, wasn't part of the premises, but
Richmond persisted. They soon found themselves following
Fairley down to a cellar with whitewashed walls.
There, lit by a bare bulb, stood what looked like the remnants
of the Fletcher's warehouse job. Two television
sets, three videos and a compact-disc player.

"Bankrupt stock," said Fairley. "I was going to put
them in the window when I've got room."

Richmond ignored him and asked Susan to check the
serial numbers on the cartons with the list that the manager
of Fletcher's had supplied. They matched.

"Right," said Richmond, leaning back against the
stack of cartons. "Before we go down to the nick, I'd like
to ask you a few questions, John."

"Aren't you going to charge me?"

"Later."

"I mean, shouldn't I have a solicitor present or something?"

"If you want. But let's just forget the stolen goods for
the moment, shall we? Have you got any form, John?"

Fairley shook his head.

"That's good," Richmond said. "First offence. It'll go
better for you if you help us. We want to know about
Carl Johnson."

"Now look, I didn't have nothing to do with that. You
can't pin that on me."

It was interesting to watch Richmond at work, Susan
thought. Cool, relaxed and looking as elegant as ever in
the dingy room, careful not to lean against the wall for
fear of marking his suit, he set Fairley at ease and led
him gently through a series of preliminary questions
about his relationship with Johnson and Poole before he
got to Chivers. At the mention of the name, Fairley be
came obviously nervous.

"Carl brought him here," he said, squatting miserably
on a box. "I never liked him, or that girlfriend of his.
They were both a bit doolally, if you ask me."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that look he got in his eyes sometimes. Oh, he
could be pleasant enough on the surface, but when you
saw what was underneath, it was scary. I couldn't look
him in the eye without trembling."

"When did you see him last?"

"Couple of weeks ago."

"Did you ever think he might be concerned with Carl's
death?"

"I ... well, to be honest, it crossed my mind. I don't
know why. Just the kind of person he seemed."

"Yet you didn't come forward?"

"Do you think I'm crazy or something?"

"Did you know of any reason he might have had for
killing Johnson?"

Fairley shook his head. "No."

"There was no falling out over the loot?"

"What loot?"

Richmond kicked a box. "The alleged loot."

"No."

"What about the girl? Did Johnson make a play for
her?"

"Not that I know of. She was sexy enough, and she
knew it, but she was Chivers's property, no mistaking
that. NO ENTRY signs on every orifice. Sorry, love." He
looked at Susan, who simply gave him a blank stare.
"No," he went on, turning back to Richmond, "I don't
think Carl was daft enough to mess with her."

"What about Gemma Scupham?"

Fairley looked surprised. "The kid who was abducted?"

"That's her."

"What about her?"

"You tell me, John."

Fairley tensed. A vein throbbed at his temple. "You
can't think I had anything to do with that? Oh, come on!
I don't go in for little girls. No way."

"What about Chivers?"

"Nothing about him would surprise me."

"Did he ever mention her?"

"No. I mean, I had heard of her. Les complained about
her sometimes and Carl sympathized. Chivers just
seemed to be standing back, sort of laughing at it all, as
if such a problem could never happen to him. He always
seemed above everything, arrogant like, as if we were all
just petty people with petty concerns and he'd think no
more about stepping on us if he had to than he would
about swatting a fly. Look, why are you asking me about
Gemma? I never even met the kid."

"She was never in this shop?"

"No. Why should she have been?"

"Where is Chivers now?"

"I don't know and I don't want to know. He's bad
news."

Richmond sat down carefully on a box. "Has it never
struck you," he said, "that if he did kill Johnson, then
you and Les might be in danger, too?"

"No. Why? We didn't do nothing. We always played
square."

"So did Carl, apparently. Unless there's something
you're not telling me. It doesn't seem to matter with
Chivers, does it? Why do you think he killed Carl, if he
did?"

"I told you, I don't know. He's a nutter. He always
seemed to me like he was on the jdge, you know, ready
to go off. People like him don't always need reasons.

Maybe he did it for fun."

"Maybe. So why not kill you, too? Might that not be
fun?"

Fairley licked his lips. "Look, if you're trying to scare
me you're doing a damn good job. Are you trying to
warn me I'm in danger or just trying to make me talk? I
think it's about time I saw a solicitor."

Richmond stood up and brushed off the seat of his
pants with his palm. "Are you sure you have no idea
where Chivers went after he left Eastvale?"

"None."

"Did he say anything about his plans?"

"Not to me."

"Where did he come from?"

"Dunno. He never talked about himself. Honest. Look,
are you winding me up about all this?" Fairley had
started to sweat now.

"We need to find him, John," said Richmond quietly.
"That's all. Then we'll all sleep a little easier in our
beds." He turned to Susan. "Let's take him to station now
and make it formal, shall we?" He rubbed the wall and
held up his forefinger. "And we'd better get a SOCO
team down here, too. Remember that whitewash on
Gemma's clothing?"

Susan nodded. As they left, she noticed that John
Fairley seemed far more willing to accompany them to
the station than most villains they arrested.

"I'll tell you one thing for free," he said as they got in
the car.

"What's that?" said Richmond.

"He had a gun, Chivers did. I saw it once when he was
showing off with it in front of his girlfriend."

"What kind of gun?"

"How would I know? I don't know nothing about
them."

"Big, small, medium?"

"It wasn't that big. Like those toy guns you play with
when you're a kid. But it weren't no toy."

"A revolver?"

"What's the difference?"

"Never mind."

"Isn't it enough just to know the bastard's got a gun?"

"Yes," sighed Richmond, looking over at Susan. "Yes,
it is."


Ill



Banks and Gristhorpe leaned on the railings above the

beach and ate fish and chips out of cardboard cartons.

The hotel didn't do evening meals, and, as in most seaside

towns, all the cafs seemed to close at five or six.


"Not bad," said Gristhorpe, "but they do them better
up north."

"If you like them greasy."

"Traitor. I keep forgetting you're still just a southerner
underneath it all."

Banks tossed his empty carton into a rubbish-bin and
looked out to sea. Close to shore, bright stars shone
through gaps in the clouds and reflected in the dark water.
Farther out, the cloud-covering thickened and
dimmed the quarter moon. The breeze that was slowly
driving the clouds inland carried a chill, and Banks was
glad he had put on a pullover under his sports jacket. He
sniffed the bracing air, sharp with ozone. A few cars
droned along The Esplanade, and the sound of people
talking or laughing in the night drifted on the air occasionally,
but mostly it was quiet. Banks lit a cigarette and
drew deep. Silly, he thought, but it tasted better out here
in the sea air pervaded with the smells of saltwater and

seaweed.

"Do you know," said Banks finally, "I think I'm developing
a feel for Chivers. I know he's been here. I know
he killed the girl."

Gristhorpe gave him a steady, appraising look. "Not
turning psychic on me, are you, Alan?"

Banks laughed. "Not me. Look, there's the white
Fiesta, the smile, the blonde, the neatness of the hotel
room. You'll agree the incidents have those things in
common?"

"Aye. And tomorrow morning we'll have a word with
the hotel staff and look over Loder's reports, see if we
can't amass enough evidence to be sure. Maybe then
we'll know what the next move is. If that bastard's
slipped away abroad . . ." Gristhorpe crumpled up his
cardboard box and tossed it in the bin.

"We'll get him."

Gristhorpe raised an eyebrow. "More intuition?"

"No. Just sheer dogged determination."

Gristhorpe clapped Banks lightly on the shoulder.
"That I can understand. I think I'll turn in now.
Coming?"

Banks sniffed the night air. He felt too restless to go to
bed so soon. "Think I'll take a walk on the prom," he
said. "Just to clear out the cobwebs."

"Right. See you at breakfast."

Banks watched Gristhorpe, a tall, powerful man in a
chunky Swaledale sweater, cross the road, then he started
walking along the promenade. A few couples, arms
around one another, strolled by, but Weymouth at ten- thirty
that Friday evening in late September was as dead
as any out-of-season seaside resort. Over the road stood
the tall Georgian terrace houses, most of them converted
into hotels. Lights shone behind some curtains, but most
of the rooms were dark.

When he got to the Jubilee Clock, an ornate structure
built to commemorate Queen Victoria's Diamond
Jubilee, Banks took the steps down to the beach. The tide
hadn't been out long and the glistening sand was wet like
a hardening gel under his feet. The footprints he made
disappeared as soon as he moved on.

As he walked, it was of John Cowper Powys he
thought, not Thomas Hardy. Somebody had mentioned
Weymouth Sands to him around Christmas time and, intrigued,
he had bought a copy. Now, as he actually trod
Weymouth sands himself for the first time since he was a
child, he thought of the opening scene where Magnus
Muir stood meditating on the relationship between the
all-consuming unity of the sea and the peculiar and individual
character of each wave. The Esplanade lights reflected
in the wet sand, which sucked in the remaining
moisture with a hissing sound every time a wave retreated.

Heady thoughts for a lowly chief inspector. He stood
for a moment and let the waves lick at his shoes. Farther
south, the lights of the car ferry terminal seemed to hang
suspended over the water. Loder was right, he thought:
Chivers would have been a fool to take his car. Much
easier to mingle with the foot-passengers and rent one
wherever he went. Or, even more anonymous, travel by
train if he got to France.

Seeing the dead woman in the hotel had shaken Banks
more than he realized. Wondering why, as he doubled
back along the ribbed sand at the edge of the beach, he
felt it was perhaps because of Sandra. There was only a
superficial resemblance, of course, but it was enough to
remind him of Sandra in her twenties. Though Sandra
had ridiculed the idea, the photo of Gemma Scupham
had also reminded him of a younger Tracy, albeit a less
doleful-looking one. Tracy took after Sandra, whereas

Brian, with his small, lean, dark-haired Celtic appearance,
took after Banks. There were altogether too many
resemblances for comfort in this case.

Banks thought about what he had said earlier, the feel
he was developing for the way Chivers operated. Then
he thought about what he hadn't told Gristhorpe.
Standing in that room and looking down at the dead
woman, Banks had known, as surely as he knew what
happened at Johnson's murder, that Chivers had been
making love to her, smiling down, and that as he was
reaching his climaxthat brief pause for a sigh that Les
Poole had mentionedhe had taken the pillow and held
it over her face. She had struggled, scratching and gouging
his skin, but he had pushed it down and ejaculated as
she died.

Was he really beginning to understand something of
Chivers's psychopathic thought processes? It was a
frightening notion, and for a moment he felt himself almost
pull in his antennae and reject the insight. But he
couldn't.

The blonde womanhe wished he knew her name
must somehow have started to become a liability.
Perhaps she was having second thoughts about what
they'd done to Gemma; maybe she was overcome by
guilt and had threatened to go to the police. Perhaps
Chivers had conned her into thinking they were taking
the child for some other reason, and she had found out
what really happened. She could have panicked when
she saw the newspaper likenesses, and Chivers didn't
feel he could trust her any longer. Or maybe he just grew
tired of her. Whatever the reason, she ceased to be of use
to him, and someone like Chivers would then start to
think of an interesting way to get rid of her.

He must be easily bored, Banks thought, remembering
what he and Jenny had talked about in the Queen's

Arms. A creative intelligence, though clearly a warped
one, he showed imagination and daring. For some years,
he had been able to channel his urges into legitimate
criminal activity--a contradiction in terms, Banks realized,
but nonetheless true. Chivers had sought work from
people who had logical, financial reasons for what they
employed him to do, and however evil they were, whatever
harm they did, there was no denying that at bottom
they were essentially businessmen gone wrong, the other
side of the coin, not much different from insider traders
and the rest of the corporate crooks.

Now, though, perhaps because he was deteriorating,
losing control, as Jenny had said, Chivers was starting to
create his own opportunities for pleasure, financed by
simple heists like the Fletcher's warehouse job. The
money he got from such ventures would allow him the
freedom to roam the country and follow his fancy wherever
it led him. And by paying cash, he would leave no
tell-tale credit-card traces.

Now, it seemed, Chivers was escalating, craving more
dangerous thrills to satiate his needs. He was like a drug
addict; he always needed more to keep him at the same
level. Gemma Scupham, Carl Johnson, the blonde. How
quickly was he losing control? Was he starting to get
careless?

A wave soaked one foot and the bottom of his pant
leg. He stepped back and did a little dance to shake the
water off. Then he reached for a cigarette and, for some
reason, thought of Brian, not more than seventy miles
east of him, in Portsmouth. College had only just started,
and he might be feeling lonely and alien in a strange city.
It was so close, yet Banks wouldn't be able to visit.

He missed his son. Much as Tracy had always seemed
the favourite, with her interests in history and literature,
her curiosity and intelligence, and Brian always the out
sider, the rebel, with his loud rock music and his lack of
interest in school, Banks missed him. Certainly he felt
the odd one out now that Tracy was only interested in
boys and clothes.

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 collectionand of
course, no teenager would be seen dead sharing his father's
taste in musiche 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.

13


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.


292



"Nothing much. There's a couple from Wolver hampton
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-meifyou-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 hon-
est 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
Wey mouth.

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 testingit
looks like our man's Group O, by the waybut 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."

"Thanks." Gristhorpe shook his hand. "Thanks a lot."

They watched Loder walk off towards his car. "He's
got a point," said Gristhorpe. "What do we do next?"

Banks shrugged. "I can only speculate."

"Go ahead."

Banks watched a ferry steam out of the dock. The
flock of gulls swooped on a dead fish on the beach. "I've
been thinking about Chivers," he said, lighting a
cigarette and looking out to sea. "Trying to fathom his

thought processes."

"And?"

"And I'm not sure, but . . . look, he must know we're
after him by now. Surely he's seen the stuff in the newspapers.
What does he do? He kills the woman, too much
extra baggage, and he takes off. Now a normal criminal
would certainly head for the continent and disappear. But
we know Chivers isn't normal."

"I think I follow your train, Alan. I've had the same
thought myself. He's playing a game, isn't he? Laughing
at us."

Banks nodded. "And he likes the attention. Jenny said
he's likely to be egocentric, but he's also probably impulsive
and irresponsible. I've thought about that a lot."

"So where would he head, given the way he thinks?"

"Back to where it started, I think," said Banks. "I'll
bet you a pound to a penny the bastard's back in
Eastvale."


II



It was late that Saturday evening when Banks and

Gristhorpe arrived back in Eastvale. They were delayed

by a six-car pile-up into a jackknifed lorry on the Ml just

south of Leicester, and as they passed by Pontefract and

Castleford on the Al, the rain fell in buckets, slowing

traffic to a crawl.


So it was that on Sunday morning, as the bells rang in
the church and people crossed the market square in their
Sunday best for the morning service, the members of
Eastvale CID sat in the conference room around the large
circular table drinking coffee and pooling their findings.

Richmond and Susan brought the others up to date on
John Fairley's information about Chivers and the fact

that he owned a gun.

"Fairley seems the least involved of them all," said
Richmond. "We had a good long chat when we brought
him in. He's got no prior form. I'm sure he's dealt with
stuff that fell off the back of a lorry before, but the
Fletcher's warehouse job is his first big bit of fencing,
we're sure ofthat. Susan?"

"I agree," said Susan Gay, looking up from the notes
in front of her. "Seems it was Johnson's idea, and he recruited
Les Poole easily. They were mates of Fairley's,
genuinely helping out at the shop for a bit of under-the- counter
pocket money. Chivers was the prime mover.
Without him, I don't reckon the others would have had
the guts to go through with it. It was Chivers drugged the
guard dogs and cut through the chain-link fence. Poole
drove the van, backed it up to the loading bay and away
they went. The back of Fairley's shop is just a quiet
backstreet, so they got unloaded without any trouble. It
wasn't too hard to make a few sales through their pub
mates, word of mouth, and they'd already got rid of most
of the stuff by the time we called."

"Was there any falling out over the loot?" Banks
asked.

"No," said Richmond. "Not as far as we could tell.
Everyone seemed happy with his share. Poole took the
television and stereo as part of his cut. Johnson got a
thousand in cash. Fairley's got no idea why Johnson was
killed, though he said he wouldn't be surprised to hear
that Chivers had done him. Chivers scared him, seemed
the type who'd do it for fun."

"And he's seen or heard nothing of him since?"

"No, sir. And doesn't want to."

"What about Gemma?" Banks asked. "Does Fairley
know anything about what happened to her?"

"Just confirms what Poole told us, that's all," said

Richmond. "After we spotted the whitewash in the cellar,
we had the team do a thorough search last night, but
they've turned up nothing to indicate Gemma was there."

"Right," said Gristhorpe, standing up and looking at
his watch. "I've told you what Alan thinks about Chivers
being in the area, and I agree with him. What I propose is
that we start trying to flush him out. Phil, I'd like you to
muster as many men as you can and start knocking on
doors, asking questions. Somebody must have seen the
bastard. The station and the bus station are obvious
places to start. He left his car in Weymouth and unless he
stole one, the odds are that he took some other form of
transport. The lads down there are doing their bit, too.
We're co-ordinating with a DI Loder. I'll get in touch
with the media and we'll see if we can't get something
on the local news tonight. I want it all in the open. If he
is here, I want him to know we're closing in on him. I
want him to panic and make a run for it.

"Susan, get in touch with as many of those concerned
citizens who helped in the search for Gemma and get
them to ask around. Tell them to make sure they don't
take any risks, though. This one's dangerous. You know
the kind of thing to ask about. Smoke from a cottage
that's supposed to be empty, odd noises, suspicious
strangers, that kind of thing. Especially anyone who insists
on paying cash in large amounts. We'd better put a
watch on Fairley's shop, Brenda Scupham's place and
the holiday cottage, too, just in case. And we'll ask
around the pubs. He's not the type to lie low. He'll be
wanting to see the effect he's having. And remember, he
may have altered his appearance a bit. He's done it before,
so don't rely on hair colour. The one thing he can't
change is that bloody smile. All right?"

Everyone nodded and dispersed. Banks returned to his
office and looked out on the church-goers pouring into

the market square: women in powder blue suits holding
onto their broad brimmed hats in the wind, clutching
handbags; husbands in dark suits at their sides, collars
too tight, shifting from foot to foot as their wives chatted,
thinking maybe now they'd done their duty they'd be
able to sneak off to the Queen's Arms or the Crooked
Billet for a quick one before dinner; restless children
dreaming of an afternoon at Kinley Pond catching frogs,
or climbing trees to collect birds' eggs in Brinely
Woodseither that or sniffing glue under the railway
bridge and planning a bit of recreational B and E. And
somewhere, in the midst of all that quotidian human activity
and aspiration, was Jeremy Chivers.

Banks didn't notice Susan in his doorway until she
cleared her throat. He turned.

"Sorry, sir," she said, "it slipped my mind at the meeting,
but you had a call from Piet Kuypers, Amsterdam
police. Said to call him back, you'd know what it was
about."

"Did he leave a message?"

"No. Just said he had a few interesting speculations for
you." Susan handed him a piece of paper. "The top's his
work number," she said, pointing, "and that one's home."

"Thank you." Banks took the paper and sat down. In
the excitement of the chase for Chivers, he realized, he
had quite forgotten asking Piet to check up on Adam
Harkness. He hadn't liked the man much, but as soon as
it became clear that Chivers had more than likely killed
Carl Johnson, there had seemed no real reason to consider
Harkness any longer.

Puzzled, he dialled Piet's home number. A child's
voice answered. Banks couldn't speak Dutch, and the little
girl didn't seem to understand English. The phone
banged down on a hard surface and a moment later a
man's voice came over the line, again in Dutch.

"Piet? It's me. Alan Banks in Eastvale?"

"Ah, Alan," said Piet. "That was my daughter, Eva.
She only began to learn her English this year." He
laughed. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, Piet. Hope I didn't disturb your lunch but
I've been out of town and I got a message to call you."

"Yes. You have a moment?"

"Yes, of course."

Banks heard the receiver placed, more gently this
time, on the hard surface, and he put his feet on the desk
and lit a cigarette while he waited for Piet to come back.
He realized he had been talking too loudly, as one does
on the telephone to foreigners, and reminded himself that
Piet's English was almost as good as his own.

"Sorry about that," said Piet. "Yes, I did a little snooping,
as you call it, about that man Harkness." His voice
bore only traces of a Dutch accent.

"Anything interesting?"

"Interesting, yes, I think so. But nothing but rumours,
you understand. Hearsay. I found his wife. She has since
remarried, and she didn't want to talk about her relationship
with Harkness, but she hinted that part of the reason
they separated was that he had what she called filthy
habits."

"Filthy habits?"

"Yes. Like what, I thought? What do you English regard
as a filthy habit? Picking his nose in bed? But I
couldn't get her to say any more. She is very religious.
She had a strict Dutch Protestant upbringing in a small
town in Friesland. I'm sorry, Alan, but I couldn't force
her to talk if she did not want to."

Banks sighed. "No, of course not. What happened
next?"

"I talked to some of my colleagues on drugs and vice,
but they don't know him. Mostly they're new. You don't

last that long working on drugs and vice, and Harkness
has been gone, how long did you say, two years?"

"Something like that," said Banks.

"So I had an idea," Piet went on. "I went to see Wim
Kaspar. Now Wim is a strange man. Nobody really
knows how far it all went, but he was, how do you
English say, made to leave work early?"

"Fired?"

"No. I know that word. Not exactly fired."

"Made redundant?"

Piet laughed. "Yes, that's it. Such an odd phrase. Well,
there was something of a cloud over Wim, you see.
Nobody could prove anything, but it was suspected he
took bribes and that he was involved with the drugs and
girls in the Red Light district. But Wim worked many
years in the Red Light district, ever since patrolman, and
he knows more than anybody else what goes on there.
And I don't care what people saymaybe it is truebut
he is a good man in many ways. Do you understand?"

"I think so," said Banks, remembering now that Piet
was a nice bloke but took ages getting to the bloody
point.

"Wim heard and saw many things that went no further.
It's give and take in that world. You scratch my back and
I'll scratch yours. Especially if what they say about him
is true. So I talked to him and he remembers something.
Now you must understand, Alan, that there is no proof of
this. It's just rumours. And Wim will never repeat officially
what he told me."

"Tell me, Piet."

"According to Wim's contacts, your Mr Harkness visited
the Red Light district on several occasions."

"Piet, who doesn't visit the Red Light district? It's one
of your main tourist attractions."

"No, wait. There's more. There are some places, very

bad places. Not just the pretty women in the windows,
you understand?"

"Yes?"

"And Wim told me that your Mr Harkness visited one
of these places."

"How did your source know who he was?"

"Alan, you must remember Mr Harkness is well
known in Amsterdam, and not without influence. Do you
want me to go on?"

"Yes, please."

"It was a very bad place," Piet continued. "You understand
prostitution is not illegal here, that there are many
brothels?"

"Yes."

"And the live sex shows and the whips and chains and
all the rest. But this one brothel, Wim says, was a very
special place. A place that caters for people who like little
girls."

"Jesus Christ!"

"It happens, Alan. What can I say? Girls disappear
from the big cities, they turn up in these places.
Sometimes they are used for snuff films. You know what
they are?"

"I know. Why wasn't he arrested?"

"Sometimes it is better to leave the little fish. Also,
Harkness was an important man and, how shall I say,
perhaps pressure could be brought to bear. He could have
been useful."

Banks sighed. He knew the scenario. Get something
on a man like Harkness and you've got him in your
pocket: the police version of blackmail.

"Alan, in Amsterdam, just as, I suspect, in your
London, you can get anything you want if you have the
money to pay for it. Anything. If we can find these
places and find evidence, we close them down and arrest

the people responsible. But these men are very clever.
And sometimes policemen can be bought, protection can
be paid. Or blackmailed. We all have skeletons in our
closets. Alan? Are you still there?"

"Yes. Yes, Piet, I know. I was thinking. Listen, I'd like
you to do me a big favour. I assume places like this are
still in existence?"

"There is one place now we are suspicious of. On the
surface, it seems like an ordinary brothel, but rumour has
it that young girls can be had there, for a price. Our undercover
men are watching, but we have no proof yet."

"I'd like you to find out if there are any new girls." He
gave Piet Gemma's description, praying he was wrong.
At least it meant she might still be alive, if Harkness kept
his connections in Amsterdam. He still couldn't work out
the whys and the wherefores, how everything linked up,
but he knew it would not have been so difficult for
Harkness or someone else to smuggle Gemma out of
the country, even during the search. The ferry from
Immingham, for example, was always crowded; it would
be easy enough to slip in among the other families with a
sleeping child on the overnight journey, when everyone
was tired. "I don't care whether you get enough proof to
lock them up or not. Rumours will do fine for me. Use
your contacts, informers. Maybe even your friend Wim
might be able to help?"

"Yes," said Piet slowly. "I understand. I'll try. What
more can I say?"

"And Piet."

"Yes?"

"Thanks. Thanks a lot. You did a great job." Then
Banks slammed down the receiver and rushed to find
Gristhorpe.

Ill


It was about time the place had a good cleaning, Brenda

thought, wielding the Hoover like a lawnmower. She

knew she wasn't good at housekeeping, but now she had

so much time on her hands and nothing but bad thoughts

and terrifying dreams, she had to do something or she

would fall apart. The ground-in dirt and the food stains

wouldn't come out, of course, they would need shampooing,

but the dust would. At least it was a start.


The vacuum was so noisy that she didn't hear the bell.
It was only the steady thumping on her door that broke
through. She turned off the machine and listened again.
Another knock. For a moment she just stood there, worried
it might be Les. She wasn't frightened of him--she
knew he was a coward at heart--but she didn't feel like
another public row and she was damned if she was going
to let him in. On the other hand, it might be the police
with news of Gemma. She glanced out of the window
but couldn't see a police car. That didn't matter, she realized.
The plain-clothes men drove ordinary cars.

She sighed and stood the Hoover in the corner. Well, if
it was Les, she'd just have to tell him to stay away and
call the police if he insisted on pestering her. The blurred
figure through the frosted glass wasn't Les, that was for
certain, but she couldn't tell who it was until she opened
the door and saw Lenora Carlyle standing there with her
long black hair and penetrating eyes. She didn't want to
let Lenora in. Somehow, she thought, that entire episode
had been a weakness, a mistake. She had been grasping
at straws. And look what she was left with: nothing but a
video of herself, which was already beginning to feel like
an embarrassment. But she stood aside politely. Lenora
hung up her coat and followed her into the front room.

"Tea?" said Brenda, feeling like a cup herself.

"Yes, please, dear, if it's no trouble." Lenora sat on the
sofa and brushed down her skirt. "Been cleaning, I see."

"Yes." Brenda shrugged and went to make the tea.
When it was ready, she brought it in on a tray and
poured, then lit a cigarette.

"I sense there's been some great change," Lenora said,
frowning with concentration. "Some sort of upheaval."

"If you mean I chucked Les out, I suppose you're
right."

Lenora looked disappointed at such a prosaic explanation.
"Any news?"

Brenda shook her head.

"Well, that's why I'm here, really. You remember what
I said before?"

"That Gemma's still alive?"

"That's right." Her eyes glittered. "More than ever I'm
convinced of it, Brenda."

"I don't think so." Brenda shook her head. "Not after
all this time."

"But you must have faith. She's frightened and weak.
But she's alive, Brenda."

"Don't."

"You must listen." Lenora put her mug down and
leaned forward, clasping her hands. "I saw animals.
Jungle animals, Brenda. Lions, tigers, leopards. They're
connected with Gemma somehow."

"What are you saying? She's been taken to Africa or
something?"

Lenora flopped back on the sofa. "I don't know. The
message is very weak. That's all I see. Gemma and animals."

"Look, I really don't"

"They're not harming her, Brenda."

"I don't believe you."

"But you must believe!"

"Why must I believe? What good has it done me?"
"Don't you want to see your Gemma again?"
Brenda stood up. "Of course I want to see Gemma
again. But I can't. She's dead. Can't you understand?
She's dead. She must be. If she's not dead by now she
must be suffering so much. It's best that she's dead." The
tears and grief she had felt welling up for so long were
breaking the dam.

"We must cling to the gift of life, Brenda."
"No. I don't want to listen to this. You're frightening
me. Go away. Leave me alone."
"But Brenda, I"

"Go on." Brenda pointed at the door, tears burning her
eyes. "Go away. Get out!"

Lenora shook her head slowly, then, shoulders
slumped, she got up and left the room. When Brenda
heard the door close, she sank back into her chair. She
was shaking now and tears burned down her cheeks.
Dammit, why wouldn't they all leave her alone? And
why couldn't she know for sure? Every day that Gemma
stayed missing was more like hell. Why couldn't they
find her body, then Brenda could get her grieving done
with, organize the funeral, move on. But no. Just day after
day of misery. And it was all her fault, all Brenda's
fault for not loving her daughter enough, for losing control
and shaking her so much she was terrified what she
might do the next time.

She stared at the large TV screen and saw her own reflection
distorted through her tears. She remembered the
interview she had watched over and over again. Vanity.
Madness. It had all been madness. In a sudden burst of
rage, she drew back her arm and flung her mug as hard
as she could at the screen.

IV


Just a few hours ago the wind had been cool, and there

had been only enough blue sky to make baby a new bonnet.

Now, as Banks and Susan drove to Harkness's, the

wind had dropped, the sun had come out and the afternoon

had turned out fine. Gristhorpe had been out when

Banks went to find him, so he had left a message and

found Susan, who happened to be in the corridor at the

time.


Enjoying probably the last fine weekend of the season,
families sat out on the green at Fortford eating picnics,
even though it wasn't particularly warm and the grass
must still be damp. Banks turned right on the Lyndgarth
road, and as they approached the bridge, they saw even
more people ambling along The Leas or sitting on the
riverbank fishing.

Banks drove in silence, tense and angry over the forthcoming
confrontation. They turned in the drive just before
the old pack-horse bridge, and the car flung up
gravel as they stopped. They had no evidence, he reminded
himself, only supposition, and everything depended
on bluffing and scaring Harkness into blabbing.
It wouldn't be easy; it never was with those so used to
having things their own way. Piet's information wasn't
anywhere near enough to get him in court. But Harkness
had known Johnson, and Johnson had known Chivers.
Jenny said the paedophile was likely to be over forty,
lived alone, and probably knew Gemma. Well, Harkness
hadn't known Gemma, but he could have heard of her
through Johnson and Chivers. It made sense.

After the conversation, Banks had checked the time
and, finding they were only two hours ahead, tried the
South African police again. They still had nothing to report,
and he got the impression they were dragging their

feet. He could only speculate on the nature of the crime
there, and on the depth of the cover-up. He had tried
Linda Fish from the Writers' Circle again, too, but she
had heard no more from her writer friend. He had felt too
edgy simply to wait around for more information to
come in.

Harkness answered the door at the first ring. He
seemed nervous to see them, Banks thought, fidgety and
too talkative as he led them this time into the living-room
and bade them sit.

"Have you found out who killed Carl?"

"We're looking for a man called Jeremy Chivers,"
Banks said. "Someone Johnson knew. Did he ever mention
the name?"

"Let's not go through all that again." Harkness walked
over to the mantelpiece. "Who is this Chivers?"

"A suspect."

"So why have you come to pester me again?"

Banks scratched the little scar by his right eye. It
wasn't always reliable, but it did have a tendency to itch
in warning when he hadn't quite realized that something
was wrong. "Well, I'll tell you, Mr Harkness. I've just
had a chat with a friend of mine on the Amsterdam police,
and he told me some very odd things."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You lived there for some time, didn't you?"

"Yes, you know I did. But I can assure you I never
came into contact with the police."

"Clever there, sir, weren't you?" said Susan suddenly.

Harkness looked from one to the other, reddening.
"Look, what is this?" he said. "You can't just come in
here"

Banks waved him to silence, ready to make his accusation.
But just before he opened his mouth to speak, he
paused. Something was definitely bothering him. Even

now, he didn't know what it was: tension in the air, a
feeling of dj vu, or that little shiver when someone
steps on your grave. It would come. He went on,
"Everyone knows you can get anything you want in
Amsterdam. If you know where to go. If you can pay for
it."

"So what? It's hardly different from any other city in
that way, I should think." Harkness paced, hands in his
pockets.

"True," said Banks, "though it does have something of
a reputation for sex in various forms, straight and other."

"What are you suggesting? Get to the point."

"That's just it. We have information leading us to believe
that you frequented a brothel. A very special kind
of brothel. One that made young children available to its
customers."

"What! This is monstrous. I've already told you the
Assistant Chief Commissioner is a good friend of mine,
the Commissioner, too. If you don't take back your slanderous
allegations, I'll make sure you're out of the force
before bedtime tonight. Damn it, I think I'll do it anyway."

"I don't think so," said Banks. "The Commissioner is
particularly upset about this case. He has grandchildren
the same age as Gemma Scupham, so I don't think the
fact that you belong to the same golf club will cut a lot of
ice with him, sir."

"But this is preposterous! You can't possibly be suggesting
that I had anything to do with that?"

"Well, I" Banks stopped, suddenly aware of what
was bothering him. He shot Susan a quick glance and
stood up. Looking puzzled, she followed suit. "Probably
not," he said, "But I had to find out. I'm sorry, Mr
Harkness. I just wanted to test your reaction to the allegations."

"You've got a damned nasty way of going about your
business, Banks. I most certainly will be talking to your
superior."

"As you wish." Banks followed Susan to the door.
"But please understand, we have to follow every lead,
however incredible, however distasteful. I'm very sorry
to have bothered you, sir. I think I can safely say we
won't be troubling you again."

"Well . . ." Harkness looked confused. He opened his
mouth as if to complain more, then seemed to think better
of it, realizing they were leaving, and stood there
gulping like a fish. "I should damn well think so," he
muttered finally. "And don't think I don't mean it about
talking to the Commissioner."

"What is it?" Susan asked as they drove back onto the
road. "Sir? Why did you do that?"

Banks said nothing. When they were out of the sight
of the house, about half a mile down the road, hidden by
the roadside trees, he pulled into a lay-by.

"What is it?" Susan asked again. "I picked up the signal
to get out, but why? You were rattling him. We could
have had him."

"This is the third time I've visited Harkness," Banks
said slowly, hands still gripping the wheel. "Both times
before the place has been a bit of a messdusty, untidy,
a typical bachelor dwelling."

"So?" said Susan. "He's had the cleaning lady in."

"I don't think so. He said he didn't employ one.
Notice how clean the surfaces were, and that silver goblet
on the coffee-table?"

"Yes. Polished so you could see your face."

"You weren't there," Banks said, "but it's the same
polish smell as in the Weymouth hotel room, something
with a strong scent of pine."

"You can't be thinking . . . surely?"

Banks nodded. "That's just what I am thinking, Susan.
We've got to radio for help." He gestured with his thumb
back towards the house. "I think Chivers is in there
somewhere, and he's armed."

14


nr



I



To the casual observer, nothing unusual occurred around

The Leas and Devraulx Abbey that fine Sunday afternoon

in late September. If one fisherman approached another,

had a chat, then replaced him at the riverbank, or if

a picnicking family, shortly after having a few words

with a passing rambler complete with rucksack and stick,

decided to pack up and leave because the wasps were

bothering them, then what of it? The Abbey closed early,

and there were a few more cars on the road than usual,

but then it was such a surprisingly beautiful afternoon

that everyone wanted to enjoy a bit of it before the rain

and wind returned.


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


315



and a tight circle had been drawn around Harkness's
house and grounds.

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

"But sir," said Susan. "I think I should go, too."

"No," said Gristhorpe. "Stay here with Phil."

"But"

"Look. I'm not doubting your competence, Susan. But
what we need here is experience. Alan?"

"I agree," said Banks.

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

"Ready?" said Gristhorpe.

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

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

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

incriminating himself."

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

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

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

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

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

He was sweating.

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

"I'll sue the both of you for wrongful arrest. I'll have
you off the force. I'll--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There weren't many places Chivers could go. Fences
and thick hedges blocked off the riverbank to the east
and west, enclosing Harkness's property, and ahead lay

the water. With a quick glance right and left and a wild
shot, Chivers charged into the water. Soon it was up to
his hips, then his waist. He aimed towards the tree and
fired again. The bullet thudded into the bark. When
Banks looked around the trunk again, he saw the other
police in a line across the river, all with guns, closing
fast. Gristhorpe must have commandeered the whole
bloody dale, he thought. Glancing back towards the
house, he saw Susan Gay and Phil Richmond framed by
the french window staring at Gristhorpe. He waved to
them to take cover.

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

"Come on," he said. "Look around you. It's over."
Chivers looked and saw the men lining the opposite
bank. They were in range now. He looked again at
Banks. Then he shrugged, tossed the gun in the water,
and smiled.


II



Everything had been done by the book; Banks saw to

that. Thus, when they finally got to talk to Chivers, the

custody record had been opened; he had been offered the

right to legal advice, which he had repeatedly refused;

offered the chance to inform a friend or relative of his arrest,

at which he had laughed; and even offered a cup of

tea, which he had accepted. The desk sergeant had managed

to rustle up a disposable white boiler suit to replace

his wet clothes, as according to the Police and Criminal

Evidence Act, "a person may not be interviewed unless



adequate clothing has been offered to him." And the interview
room they sat in, while not especially large, was
at least "adequately heated, lit and ventilated" according
to the letter of the law. If questioning went on for a long
time, Chivers would be brought meals and allowed periods
of rest.

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

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

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

As he looked, he certainly felt the impulse to kill
Chivers, simply to swat him as one would a troublesome
wasp. But it wasn't an impulse he was proud of. All his
life, both in spite of and because of his job, Banks had
tried to cultivate his own version of compassion. If crime
really was part of what made us human, he thought, then
it merited deep study. If we simply kill off the pests that
bother us, we make no progress at all. He knew that he
could, in some strange way, learn from Chivers. It was a
knowledge he might deeply wish to reject, but spiritual

and intellectual cowardice had never been among his
failings.

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

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

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

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

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

"Whose idea was it?"

"Mr Harkness wanted a companion."

"How did he get in touch with you?"

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

"Poole?"

"That's right. Small-time, the two of them. Lowlifes."

"How did you first meet Harkness?"

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

"Humour us."

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

"What happened?"

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

"And did it?"

"Of course."

"How much?"

"Please. A gentleman never discusses money."

"How much?"

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

"So you abducted Gemma Scupham just for money?"

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

"So you'd heard about Gemma through Les Poole and

thought she would be the perfect candidate?"

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

"Did either Johnson or Poole know about this?"

"I'm not stupid. I wouldn't have trusted either of
them."

"So what went wrong?"

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

"But we did."

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

"What happened?"

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

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

"For a fee?"

"Of course. I wouldn't say I'm in it for the money, but

I need a fair bit to keep me in the style to which I'm accustomed.
Harkness arranged to meet him at the old lead
mine to pay him off and Chelsea and I gave him a lift
there. Poor bastard, he never suspected a thing."

"Chelsea?"

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

"Understand what?"

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

"Did you know she was pregnant?"

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

"Why?"

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

"What did she want?"

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

"And Harkness?" Banks said.

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

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

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

"What about the clothing we found?"

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

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

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

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

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


Ill



Banks stood by his office window with the light off and

looked down on the darkening market square again, a

cigarette between his fingers. Like Phil and Jenny, he

had felt as if he needed a long, hot bath after watching

and listening to Chivers. It was odd how they had drifted

away to try to scrub themselves free of the dirt: Jenny,

pale and quiet, had gone home; Richmond had gone to

the computer room. They all recognized one another's

need for a little solitude, despite the work that remained.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come and see me, Alan. There's a couple of things I
want to talk about."

Banks put on his coat and drove over to Eastvale
General. He hated hospitals, the smell of disinfectant, the
starched uniforms, the pale shadows with clear fluid

dripping into them from plastic bags being pushed on
trolleys down gloomy hallways. But Gristhorpe had a
pleasant enough private room. Already, someone had
sent flowers and Banks felt suddenly guilty that he had
come empty-handed.

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

"Harkness never expected any trouble from the police
over Gemma's abduction, did he?" he asked.

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

"Aye, but everything changed, didn't it, after Johnson's
murder?"

"Yes."

"And you were a bit hard on Harkness, given that chip
on your shoulder, weren't you?"

"I suppose so. What are you getting at?"

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

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

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

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

"Let's assume that Chivers is telling the truth,"
Gristhorpe went on, "and he delivered Gemma to
Harkness on Tuesday evening and killed Johnson on
Thursday evening. Now Harkness could have spirited

Gemma out of the house, say to Amsterdam, before
Johnson's murder, but why should he? And if he hadn't
done it by then, he'd probably be too nervous to make
such a move later."

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

"But our men have found nothing so far."

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

"//she's there."

Banks watched the blood drip slowly into Gristhorpe's
veins. "What do you mean?"

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

Banks stared at the polished silver. "The goblet?"

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

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

"Don't you?" Gristhorpe passed him the chalice. "See
those markings?"

Banks examined it. "Yes."

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

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


IV



It was late twilight as Banks drove: the time of evening

when the greens of the hillsides and the grey of the limestone

houses and walls are all just shades of darkness.

But the river seemed to glow with a light of its own,

hoarded from the day, as it snaked through the wooded

river meadows known as The Leas.


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

"I grew up in Lyndgarth, just up the hill from
Harkness's," Gristhorpe had continued, "and when we
were kids there were always rumours about the old De
Montfort house, as it was called then. We thought it was

haunted, riddled with secret passages. You know how
kids dream. We never went inside, of course, but we
made up stories about it. I'd forgotten all about it until
we went there tonightand I must admit things happened
quickly enough to put it right out of my mind
again. Until I saw this chalice. It started me thinking.
The date's right, the history, so it's worth a try, don't you
think?"

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

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

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

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

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

thought.

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

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

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

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

Afraid of what he might find, Banks crossed the passage
and fitted the other key in the lock. It opened easily.
This time, he had no need to grope for a light switch.

Beside the narrow bed stood a small orange-shaded
table-lamp. Next to it sat a book of Thomas the Tank
Engine stories and a bottle of pills. The walls were
painted with the same whitewash as the other room, but a
quilt decorated with stylized jungle animalslions,
tigers and leopards with friendly human expressions
covered the small, still shape on the bed.

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

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

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

