Wednesday's Child (34 page)

“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 became 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 edge, 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.”

III

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 cafés 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 climax— that brief pause for a sigh that Les Poole had mentioned—he 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 woman—he 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 outsider, 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.