Wednesday's Child (28 page)

“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 letter-box. “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.

ELEVEN

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.”