Wednesday's Child (24 page)

“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, 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 know—the 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 descriptions—if 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 I 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 moment 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: thick-set, 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 you—a name, a date, an opinion, whatever—but 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.

III

“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 some thing that could help us find her, you'd better tell me, because I'm getting tired of this.”

“I only know what I told Brenda—that 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.”