Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (14 page)

‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.’

‘I did say it was limited experience. And don’t ask.’

‘But Quinn got set up.’

‘Indeed. What is it? What are you thinking?’

Banks hadn’t realised that his expression had so clearly indicated a sudden thought. ‘Two things,’ he said. ‘A conference in France – Lyon – with Ken Blackstone, among others, and the Rachel Hewitt case.’

‘The girl who disappeared from the hen weekend in Tallinn?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I’ve been to Tallinn once,’ said Annie. ‘Lovely city.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You don’t know everything about me.’

‘Obviously not. When was this?’

‘A few years ago. After Rachel Hewitt disappeared.’

‘Hen party?’

‘Do I
look
like a hen?’

‘What, then?’

‘Dirty weekend.’

‘The married man?’

‘Mind your own business.’

‘Anyway, there might be other trips Quinn made abroad, in addition to Lyon and Tallinn. We’ll ask around. Thanks for the tip. That’s a good line of enquiry, and I’ll see it gets priority, and that your name is mentioned in dispatches.’

Annie put her mug down and stretched. ‘All I wanted to hear. And now I’d better go.’

‘You sure? No more tea? One for the road?’

‘I’m tired. I really think I’d better get going. I’ve got a massage appointment at St Peter’s tomorrow afternoon.’ Annie stood up, took a long look around the conservatory, then headed for the front door. Banks helped her on with her coat. It was still raining outside, but not so fast now, and the wind had dropped. ‘See you on Monday,’ she said. ‘Maybe I can help run down Bill Quinn’s trips abroad?’ Then she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Remember, watch out for the blonde,’ she said and dashed outside. He watched until her car disappeared down the drive, waved, and went back inside. She’d given him a lot to think about, he had to admit. In the initial flurry of questions, information and possibilities, he had neglected to zoom in on the important psychological details the way Annie had.

It was just after eleven o’clock on Friday night, and he didn’t feel like going out. Helmthorpe would be closing down for the night, anyway, unless they had a lock-in at the Duck and Drake. But Banks didn’t feel like company. Instead, he made a detour through the entertainment room and pressed PLAY again with
Ashore
still in the CD player. ‘Finisterre’ piped through the good quality speakers in the conservatory, where the rain was now no more than a pattering of mice’s feet. The tea had been nice, but he poured himself another glass of Malbec and settled down to listen to the music and think about what Annie had said. He did his best thinking when he was listening to music and drinking wine.

Chapter 4

‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ asked Banks.

‘According to the phone company, yes.’

‘But it’s . . .’

‘I know,’ said Winsome. ‘Apparently, it’s won prizes, though.’

Banks gave her a quizzical glance. ‘Prizes?’

‘Yes. It’s quite famous. A tourist attraction.’

Banks opened the door and glanced inside. ‘Bloody hell, I can see what you mean.’

‘That’s why it’s famous,’ said Winsome, smiling.

The old red telephone box abutted the end wall of a terrace of cottages in the village of Ingleby, not far from Lyndgarth. The paintwork and the window panes were as clean as could be, not a scratch or a greasy fingerprint in sight. Inside, there was a carpet on the little square of floor, a vase of fresh-cut pink and purple flowers on the shelf by the directory, a box for donations, and an empty waste paper bin. Banks shook the donations box. It rattled with coins. The whole place smelled clean and lemony, and all the surfaces shone every bit as much as the outside, as if recently polished. There was even a functioning telephone, as shiny black as could be, and no doubt sanitised, too. In almost every other telephone box Banks had seen over the past few years, the cash box, if there was one, had been broken into and the phone ripped, or cut, from its connecting wire. The donations box wouldn’t have lasted five minutes, either.

What was more, Bill Quinn had received two telephone calls on his mobile from this very box over the past ten days, the last one on Tuesday evening, the day before he had been killed. There were other calls, of course, including several to and from his son or daughter, and one from an untraceable mobile number on the morning of the day he died, but this one seemed really odd. The team was already checking to find out what other calls had been made from the telephone box in the past ten days, especially around the same time as the calls to Bill Quinn.

Ingleby was a beautiful village, slate roofs gleaming in the morning sunshine, still a little damp from last night’s rain, limestone cottages scrubbed and rinsed clean by the wind and rain, the gardens neat and already colourful, though it was still only late April, ready to burst forth in spectacular fashion as soon as summer arrived. Smoke curled up from one or two of the chimneys, as there was still a slight nip in the air. Behind the village, the daleside rose steeply through green and sere slopes to the rocky outcrops that marked the beginnings of the moorland. A narrow track wound up the hill, then split and ran along the daleside in both directions, about halfway up. Cloud-shadows drifted slowly across the backdrop on the light breeze.

Banks felt as if he were in a place where nothing had changed for centuries, though the telephone box was clear evidence that they had. No signs of vandalism, neat gardens, obviously tended with pride. No wonder Ingleby had won the prettiest village award more than once. There were people in the cities who didn’t know, or even believe, that such places existed. Everybody believed in the urban landscape, with its no-go areas, dodgy council estates, riots, looting, terrorist hot beds, street gangs, people who would mug you as soon as look at you, and people who would kick the shit out of you if you so much as glanced at them. But this was something else. This was Arcadia.

Banks remembered the stories in a book he had read recently about wartime evacuees sent from the cities to the country panicking when they saw a cow or an apple tree because they had never experienced such things in their natural environment before. They thought that cows were no bigger than dogs or cats, and that apples grew in wooden boxes. Of course, there were other people, mainly in America, who believed that all of England was like this. The fact was that, while such pastoral idylls did exist in many pockets of the country, even in places as picturesque as Ingleby appearances could be deceptive; even in the prettiest villages there were things under the surface that didn’t bear close examination. As Sherlock Holmes had once observed about the countryside in general; there were stones you didn’t want to turn over, cupboards you didn’t want to open.

Banks took a deep breath of fresh air. ‘We’d better get the CSIs to come and check out the telephone box,’ he said. ‘I doubt we’ll find anything, the way it’s been cleaned and polished, but it’s worth a try.’

‘I suppose we’d better start asking a few questions, too,’ Winsome said. ‘Shouldn’t take long, a place this size. Should we ask her to help?’ She nodded in the direction of Inspector Passero, who had insisted on accompanying them from Eastvale and was now standing back, checking her mobile for texts.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s just keep her at a distance for now. She can tag along, but I don’t want her taking any leads.’ At least Joanna was wearing more appropriate clothing today, Banks had noticed, though even to someone as unversed as he was in matters of style and design, its quality and fashion cred were unmistakable. With her skintight designer jeans disappearing into tan leather boots a little below her knees, and the green roll-neck jumper under the light brown suede jacket, all she needed was a riding-cap and crop and she would be ready to set off on the morning gallops out Middleham way.

‘Please yourself,’ said Winsome with a shrug. ‘You’re the boss.’

There were several cottages clustered around the small square facing the telephone box, and Banks had noticed the net curtains twitching in one of them while they had been standing there. ‘Let’s start with that one,’ he said. The cottage he pointed to had a gate of blackened iron railings and worn steps leading up to the arched stone porch around the door. Creeping vegetation covered almost the entire front of the building like something from a horror movie Banks remembered seeing many years ago.

A few seconds after Banks rang the bell, an elderly woman answered the door. She reminded him of Margaret Thatcher; at least her hair did. The rest of her was plump and matronly, like a cook from a television costume drama, and she was dressed for gardening, in baggy trousers and a shapeless jumper. Banks showed his warrant card and introduced Winsome. Joanna lingered at the bottom of the garden, inspecting the herbaceous borders, as if not quite sure what to do. Banks identified her for the woman anyway, just for the record.

‘Gladys,’ the woman said. ‘Gladys Boscombe. Please, come in. I saw you looking at our telephone box, and you don’t seem like the usual tourist types we get.’ She had a hint of a Yorkshire accent, but it sounded to Banks as if she had worked at adding a veneer of sophistication to it over the years.

Banks and Winsome followed her first into the hall, then through to the living room. Joanna didn’t seem at all sure what to do, so Banks gestured for her to accompany them. It was a small room, and it seemed crowded with the four of them in it, but they each found somewhere to sit, and Gladys Boscombe dashed off to make tea. Nobody had refused her offer. The front window was open a couple of inches, despite the chill, and the silence was punctuated only by birds singing. The room smelled of lavender. The velour sofa and armchairs were covered with lace antimacassars, and even the hard-backed chair Banks sat on had a covered seat cushion. Knick-knacks stood on every surface and filled every alcove: delicate porcelain figurines of piping shepherds or waiting princesses, whorled seashells and pebbles, silver-framed family photographs, a carved ivory and ebony chess set.

That gave him a sudden, sharp memory of Sophia, who had been his girlfriend until a few months ago. She liked to collect shiny pretty things, too, and he had been partly responsible for some of them being vandalised. She had never forgiven him for that; in a way, it had helped precipitate the end of their relationship. He still missed Sophia, despite everything, and sometimes he thought he should try to get in touch with her again, try to rekindle the spark, which he was certain was still there. Then he remembered how she had ignored his calls and emails before, and he didn’t want to risk rejection again. Her ‘dear John’ email had been banal, chatty and brutal. He remembered how low it had made him feel, and how he had half-drunkenly responded with some gibberish he could hardly remember now. He wished he had acted in a more grown-up manner, been more accepting and kind. Clearly such happiness as he had known in those few brief weeks they had been together was not meant for him. Sometimes he felt dragged down by the recent past, and he wanted desperately to get beyond it, to be OK with Annie, with Tracy, with Sophia, even though he realised he would probably never see her again. Right now, there was nobody in his life except family and friends, and that was just fine for the moment. He had nothing to give anyone else.

Gladys Boscombe came back with the tea service on a silver tray, delicate little rose-patterned china cups rimmed with gold, matching saucers and teapot. She put the tray down on the low table in front of the fireplace and beamed at them. ‘We’ll just let it mash a few minutes, shall we? Giles will be sorry to miss you. That’s my husband. He’s always been interested in detective stories. Never missed a
Midsomer Murders
. The proper ones, you know, with John Nettles. But he’s out walking the lads on the moor. Perhaps he’ll be back soon.’

‘Your children still live with you?’ She looked far too old to have children young enough to take for a walk, but Banks thought it best to be polite.

Mrs Boscombe patted her hair. She ought to be careful or she’d cut herself, he thought. ‘Oooh, don’t be silly, young man. Both our children are long grown up and moved away. No, I mean the lads, Jewel and Warris, the Jack Russells.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Banks managed to suppress his laughter at the thought of two Jack Russells named after a pair of music hall comedians. Jimmy Jewel and Ben Warris; he hadn’t thought or heard of them in years. Must be dead now, he supposed, along with their contemporaries Mike and Bernie Winters. ‘Right. Thanks, Mrs Boscombe. We’re here about the telephone box, as you might have gathered.’

Mrs Boscombe eased herself down on the sofa beside Winsome. ‘Yes, I couldn’t think for the life of me why you were all standing around it chatting, then examining it like some museum exhibit. I can’t imagine why on earth you would be interested in that old thing,’ she said, a note of distaste creeping into her tone. ‘True, I suppose it is famous in its way, but it’s still an eyesore. And some of the people it seems to attract . . .’ She gave a mock shudder.

‘Actually,’ said Banks, ‘that’s what we’re interested in. The people it attracts.’

‘Tourists, mostly. A lot of foreigners. They leave their litter in the street and keep their car engines running, filling the air with that dreadful carbon monoxide. Some of them even stand and smoke cigarettes. I suppose we should think ourselves fortunate it doesn’t draw the younger generation, or it would soon be vandalised, no doubt, but even so . . .’ Mrs Boscombe poured the tea, offering milk and sugar to all who wanted it. When Banks lifted the cup to take his first sip, he felt that he ought to stick his little finger in the air. Joanna did so, he noticed. She caught him glancing and blushed.