Piece of My Heart (46 page)

But he didn’t push. Banks, who had tensed, ready for a struggle, felt the hand relax on his shoulder, and he knew that Adams was about to turn away, that he had reached the end of his resources. Killing Nick Barber and seizing his notes was one thing, but killing a copper in cold blood was quite another.

It all happened at once. Before Banks could move or say anything, he heard footsteps running down the lane, and someone shouted out his name. Then he heard a terrible scream from his left, and a dark, powerful figure came hurtling forward, crashing right into Adams and toppling both of them over into the deep end of the empty pool. The cavalry had arrived, but they were too late.

By the time Annie and Winsome arrived on the scene, the ambulances had been and gone. It was getting dark, and the wind was howling through the trees and the nooks and crannies of Swainsview Lodge fit to wake the dead. The SOCOs had lit the scene with bright arc lamps and were still strutting about in their white boiler suits like spacemen on a mission. There were spatters of blood at the bottom of the pool mixed in with the other detritus. Annie saw Banks standing alone, head bowed, by the poolside and walked over to him, touching him gently on the shoulder. “Okay?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“I heard what happened.”

“Greaves thought Adams was going to do to me what he saw him do to Robin Merchant all those years ago. Then the uniforms came dashing down the lane and frightened him. It’s
nobody’s fault. I doubt that anyone could have foreseen it and stopped him.”

“Wasn’t Adams going to push you in?”

“No. He ran out of steam.”

“But you think Greaves witnessed Adams push Merchant?”

“I’m certain of it. He was on LSD at the time. That was what sent him over the edge. Can you imagine it? Adams has taken care of him ever since, protected him, as much for his own sake as anything. Persuaded him not to talk, maybe even persuaded him that it happened some other way. Greaves was so confused. He couldn’t trust his own judgment. But when he saw Adams rest his hand on my shoulder by the pool…”

“It all came back?”

“Something like that, in whatever fragmented and chaotic way Greaves’s mind works these days. However it happened, he snapped. He’d been like a coiled spring all those years. Adams protected him from anything that was likely to push him towards his snapping point. But when Barber appeared with his questions about Plymouth, Cardiff and Brighton, it was too much. Greaves had heard Adams’s conversation with Merchant at the pool, so somewhere in his messed-up mind he knew about these things, what Merchant had done. But he couldn’t confront it. He told Adams, who was terrified that Barber would push too hard and crack the veneer. So he killed him. Barber didn’t think he had anything to fear. He knew who Adams was, thought he’d come to talk to him. He was just having a chat, turning away, reaching for his cigarettes, then Adams picked up the poker, seized the moment. Luckily for him, he still had time to gather Barber’s stuff before the power cut.”

“Can we prove it?”

“I don’t know. He’s tired of it all, but he wouldn’t admit to anything. He’s not stupid. You should have seen him down there, crying like a baby, cradling Greaves’s head in his lap, even though he must have been in considerable pain himself.”

“What’s the extent of his injuries?”

“Dislocated shoulder, couple of broken ribs, cuts and bruises, according to the paramedics.”

“And Greaves?”

“Landed badly. Broke his neck. Died instantly.”

Annie was silent for a moment, staring into the harshly lit swimming pool. “Maybe it’s a blessing.”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “God knows he was a tortured soul.”

“What now?”

“We try to get as much evidence as we can on Adams. He’s not getting away with this. Not if I can help it. We’ll go over the forensics, check and recheck witness statements, interview the entire village again, probe his alibi, the lot. There has to be something there to link him to Barber’s murder. Not Merchant’s. That’s too long ago, and there’s no way we’ll get him for that now.”

“Stefan says he’s got some prints and hair from the living room that don’t match anyone else’s so far.”

Banks looked at her, a hint of a smile on his face. “Then I’d say we’ve got him, wouldn’t you? An amateur like Adams would never be able to clean up completely after himself. Besides, when the fact that Greaves is dead sinks in, I think we’ve also got a better chance of appealing to his conscience. He’s got no one to protect anymore.”

“What about the Mad Hatters? The past? The reputation? Aren’t they supposed to be doing some reunion tour?”

“There’s every chance none of it will get out, anyway.
Cardiff. Brighton. Plymouth. Why should it if Adams pleads guilty? Those cases are long over, and the killer died more than thirty-five years ago. Maybe the local forces can put a tick in a box and claim another success in their statistics of crimes solved, but that’ll be about as far as it goes.”

“Until another Nick Barber comes along.”

“Perhaps,” said Banks. “But that’s none of our business.”

“Winsome talked to people in Plymouth and Cardiff, who were able to dig up the old files,” Annie said.

“And?”

“In the file, it said that each girl had a flower painted on her cheek. A cornflower.”

Banks nodded. “Merchant’s signature. Just like Linda Lofthouse.”

“They didn’t release that to the general public.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” said Banks. “If they had, we might not be here now.” He turned up the collar of his jacket. His teeth were chattering.

“Cold?” Annie said.

“Getting there.”

“By the way,” she said, “I just saw Kev Templeton come storming out of Superintendent Gervaise’s office with a face like a slapped arse.”

Banks smiled. “So there is some justice in the world.” He glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. “I’m starving,” he said, “and I could do with a stiff drink. How about it?”

“Sure you’re up to it?”

Banks gave her an unreadable glance, his features cast into planes of light and shadow by the bright arc lights, his eyes piercing blue. “Let’s go,” he said, turning away. “I’ve finished here.”

Monday, September 29, 1969

The deserted stretch of canal ran by a scrapyard where the pattering rain echoed on the piles of rusty old metal. Stanley Chadwick walked along the towpath with his raincoat collar turned up. He knew that what he was about to do was wrong, that it went against everything he believed in, but he felt that it was the only way. He couldn’t just leave things to chance because, in his experience, chance had no history of supporting the right side without a little help. And he was right; of that he was certain. Proving it was another matter.

Yvonne had been gone almost a week, run away from home. Janet had found some items of her favourite clothes missing, along with an old rucksack they used to carry pop and sandwiches in when they went on family hikes from the Primrose Valley caravan. Chadwick was worried about his daughter, but at least he knew that no immediate harm had come to her. Not that the cities were safe for vulnerable sixteen-year-old girls, but he was certain that she wasn’t as foolish as some, and he hoped that she would soon come back. He couldn’t make her disappearance offcial, set the country’s police forces looking for her, so he would just have to bide his time and hope she got homesick. It tore at his heart, but he could see no other way. For the moment, he and Janet had told curious friends and neighbours that Yvonne had gone to stay with her aunt in London. She probably
had
gone to London, anyway, Chadwick realized. Most runaways ended up there.

The figure approached from under the Kirkstall Viaduct, as arranged. Jack Skelgate was a small-time fence who rather resembled a ferret, and he had been useful to Chadwick as an informer on many occasions. Chadwick had chosen Skelgate because he had so much on him he could send him away for
the next ten years, and if there was one thing that terrified Skelgate more than anything else, it was the idea of prison. Which, Chadwick had often thought, ought to have made him consider another, more honest, occupation, but some people just don’t manage to make the connection. They don’t get it. That’s why the jails are always full. Like so many of the people Chadwick had met and interviewed over the past couple of weeks, Skelgate was as thick as two short planks, but this would play to Chadwick’s advantage.

“Miserable bloody day, in’ it,” said Skelgate, by way of greeting. He was always sniffing, as if he had a permanent cold.

“There was a burglary in Cross Gates the other night,” Chadwick said. “Someone drove off with fifty canteens of cutlery. Nice ones. Silver. I wonder if any of them happened to find their way into your hands?”

“Silver cutlery, you say? Can’t say as I’ve seen any of that in quite a while.”

“But you’d let me know if you did?”

“Of course I would, Mr. Chadwick.”

“We think the Newton gang might be behind it, and you know how interested I am in putting them away.”

Skelgate cringed at the words, even though they referred to someone else. “The Newtons, you say. Nasty lot, them.”

“They may be planning other raids. If you happen to hear anything, we could come to the usual arrangement.”

“I’ll keep my ears open, Mr. Chadwick, that I will.” Skelgate looked around with his ferrety eyes. Paranoia was another trait of his; he always thought someone was watching or listening in. “Is that all, Mr. Chadwick? Can I go now? Only, I don’t want us to be seen together. Those Newtons are a violent bunch. Think nothing of putting a man in hospital for a month, they wouldn’t.”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open.” Chadwick paused, tensing as he realized he was reaching the point of no return. For weeks he had been moving among people who despised everything he valued, and somewhere in the midst of it all, he had become unglued. He knew this, and he also knew there was no going back. All he wanted was for Yvonne to come home and McGarrity to go to jail for the murder of Linda Lofthouse. Then, he hoped, perhaps he might find some peace. But deep down, he also knew that there was every chance peace would elude him forever. His strict religious upbringing told him he would be damning himself to eternal hellfire for what he was about to do. But so be it.

He felt a sudden heaviness in his chest. Not a sharp pain or anything, just a heaviness, the way he always thought the sort of heartbreak that torch singers describe would feel. He had felt it just once before, when he ran out of the landing craft on the morning of June 6, 1944, but that day he had soon forgotten it in the noise and smoke, in dodging the mortar and machine-gun fire. “There is one more thing I’d like you to do for me,” he said.

Skelgate clearly didn’t like the sound of that. He was practically bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. “What?” he said. “You know I do what I can for you.”

“I want a flick knife.” There, he’d said it.

“A flick knife?”

“Yes. With a tortoiseshell handle.”

“But why do you want a flick knife?”

Chadwick gave him a hard look. “Can you get me one?”

“Of course,” said Skelgate. “Nothing could be easier.”

“When?”

“When do you want it?”

“Soon.”

“Same place, same time, tomorrow?”

“That’ll do fine,” said Chadwick. “Be here.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Skelgate said, then glanced around, saw nothing to worry about and scurried down the towpath. Chadwick stood watching him go and wondered just what it was that had brought him to this godforsaken place on this ungodly mission. Then he turned in the other direction and walked back in the rain to his car.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Sheila Halladay and Dominick Abel for reading and commenting on early versions of the manuscript, and my editors, Dinah Forbes, Carolyn Marino and Carolyn Mays, for doing such a wonderful job on the final version. The copy editors certainly had their work cut out, too, and came through with flying colours.

They say that if you remember the sixties, you weren’t there. I was, so I could hardly rely entirely on memory for the sections of this book that take place in 1969. Jill Bullock, communications coordinator of the Alumni and Development Team at the University of Leeds, proved to be a mine of useful information. Kenneth Lee and Paul Mercs, who were both also there, shared some interesting stories with me, some of which could be repeated in the book. Among the many books I read and DVDs I watched, I would like to single out Jonathon Green’s account of the period,
All Dressed Up
, and Murray Lerner’s documentary on the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival,
Message to Love
.

A special thanks to Andrew Male, deputy editor of
Mojo
, for interesting conversations and information about some of the more obscure elements of late-sixties music, and for letting
me be a fly on the wall in the office. Thanks also, as ever, to Philip Gormley and Claire Stevens.

I also have special thank yous for Dr. Sue, of the Calgary WordFest volunteers; for the doctors, staff and paramedics of Mineral Springs Hospital, Banff; and for Drs. Michael Connelly and Michael Curtis, along with the nurses and staff of the cardiac unit at Foothills Hospital, Calgary, without whom
piece of my heart
might have taken on a whole new meaning altogether! Also, thanks for Janet, Randy, Matthew, Jonathan and Megan for a home away from home.