Wednesday's Child (14 page)

Banks drove into the village and passed the green, to his left, where a group of elderly locals sat gossiping and passing the time on a bench below the partially excavated Roman fort on the round hillock opposite. Smoke from their pipes drifted slowly on the hazy evening air.

It felt like a summer evening, Banks thought, and wondered just how long the fine weather would last; not long, if you believed the forecasters. Still, at least for now he could drive with his window down and enjoy the fresh air, except when it was permeated by the overripe tang of manure. Sometimes, though, a different smell would drift in, a garden bonfire, burning vegetation acrid on the air. He listened to Gurney's “Preludes” and felt that the piano music possessed the same starkly beautiful quality as the songs, unmistakably Gurney, heart-rending in the way it snatched moments of order from chaos.

At the corner, by the whitewashed sixteenth-century pub, he turned right onto the Lyndgarth road. Way ahead, about halfway up the daleside, he could see Lyndgarth itself, limestone cottages clustered around a small green, and the stubby, square tower of St
Mary's. About half a mile north of the village, he could make out Gristhorpe's old grey farmhouse. Just to the left of Lyndgarth, a little lower down the hillside, stood the dark ruin of Devraulx Abbey, partially hidden by trees, looking eerie and haunted in the smoky evening light.

Banks drove only as far as the small stone bridge over the River Swain and turned left into a gravelled drive. Sheltered on all sides but the water by poplars, “Leasholme” was an ideal, secluded spot for a reclusive millionaire to retire to. Banks had phoned Adam Harkness earlier and been invited that very evening. He doubted he would find out much from Carl Johnson's employer, but he had to try.

He parked at the end of the drive beside Harkness's Jaguar. The house itself was a mix of Elizabethan and seventeenth-century styles, built mostly of limestone, with grit-stone lintels and cornerstones and a flagged roof. It was, however, larger than most, and had clearly belonged to a wealthy landowner. Over the door, the date read 1617, but Banks guessed the original structure had been there earlier. The large garden had little to show but roses that time of year, but it looked well designed and cared for. Carl Johnson's green fingers, no doubt.

Finally, irritated by the cloud of gnats that hung over him, Banks rang the bell.

Harkness opened the door a few moments later and beckoned him inside, then led him along a cavernous hallway into a room at the back of the house, which turned out to be the library. Bookcases, made of dark wood, covered three walls, flanking a heavy door in one and a stone hearth in another. A white wicker armchair faced the fourth wall, where french windows opened into the garden. The well-kept lawn sloped down to the riverbank, fringed with rushes, and just to the left, a large copper beech framed a view of the Leas, with Lyndgarth and Aldington Edge beyond, just obscuring Devraulx Abbey behind its thick foliage. The river possessed a magical quality in the fading light; slow-moving, mirror-like, it presented a perfect reflection of the reeds that grew by its banks.

“It is spectacular, isn't it?” Harkness said. “It's one of the reasons I bought the place. It's much too big for me, of course. I don't even use half the rooms.”

Banks had noticed the dust in the hall and a certain mustiness to the atmosphere. Even the library was untidy, with a large desk littered with papers, pens, rubber bands and a few books placed in small piles on the floor beneath the shelves.

“How long have you been here?” Banks asked.

“Two years. I still travel a fair bit. I'm not retired yet, you know, still got a lot of life in me. But I thought it was time I deserved to take things easy, put in a bit more golf.”

Harkness looked about fifty-five. He was Banks's height, with silver hair and that brick-red, lined complexion peculiar to the Englishmen who have spent years in warmer climates. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and navy-blue trousers. The pot-belly and sagging breasts showed he wasn't a man who took much exercise off the golf course.

“Drink?”

“A small Scotch, please,” Banks said.

“Sit down.” Harkness offered Banks the wicker chair and pulled a swivel chair for himself from behind the desk.

Banks sat. Music played softly in the background: the Radio Three Dvorak concert, by the sound of it. He glanced at the books on the shelves and, for some reason, got the impression they were more for show than use, bought by the yard. A full set of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica,
some Book Club editions of Jane Austen and Dickens, a mail-order “Great Writers” series.

Harkness passed Banks the drink in a heavy crystal glass then joined him, carefully tugging up the creases of his trousers before he sat. “You didn't tell me very much on the telephone,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I'd just like to ask you a few questions about Carl Johnson.”

Harkness shook his head slowly. “I still find it hard to believe such a thing could happen. We live in dangerous times.” His accent was an odd mix of South African and public-school English, his manner relaxed. A man used to being in charge, Banks guessed.

“Did you know much about Mr Johnson? About his life, his background?”

Harkness shook his head. “I rarely saw him. He would come and put in his hours whether I was here or not. That was our
arrangement. I'm afraid I know nothing at all about his personal life.”

“Did you know he had a criminal record?”

Harkness raised an eyebrow and looked at Banks over the top of his glass. “I know he'd been in jail, if that's what you mean.”

“How did you find out?”

“He told me when he came for the interview.” Harkness allowed a brief smile. “In fact, he told me that's where he learned the job.”

“And that didn't bother you?”

“The man had served his time. He was obviously honest enough to let me know about his past right from the start. Besides, I believe in giving everyone another chance. Everyone's capable of change, given the right conditions. Carl was a good, hard worker. And he was always very open and honest in his dealings with me. Anyway, I'm not an easy man to defraud.”

“I thought you hardly ever talked to him.”

“We had to discuss his work occasionally.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“Five pounds an hour. I know that's not very much for a skilled worker, but he seemed grateful enough. And it was … how shall I say? … cash in hand.”

“How long had he been working for you?”

“Since March.”

“How did you make contact with him?”

“My previous gardener left. I placed an advertisement in the local paper and Carl Johnson replied. He seemed to know his stuff, and I was impressed with his frankness, so I took him on. I never regretted it.” He pointed towards the windows. “As you can see, he did a fine job.”

Banks put his glass down. Harkness offered him another, but he refused. The light had almost gone now, and the river seemed to hoard its last rays and glow from deep within. Harkness turned on the desk lamp.

“Do you know any reason,” Banks asked, “why someone might want to kill him?”

“None. But as I said, I knew nothing about his personal life.” “When did you last see him?”

“Monday.”

“Did he seem worried about anything?”

“Not that I could tell. We had a brief conversation about the lawn and the roses, as far as I can remember, and that's all. As I said, he didn't confide in me.”

“He didn't seem different in any way?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention any of his friends or acquaintances, a girl friend, perhaps?”

“No. I assumed he acted like any normal young man on his own time.”

“Ever heard of a bloke called Les Poole?”

“No.”

Banks scratched the scar by his right eye and crossed his legs.

“Mr Harkness,” he said, “can you think of any reason why Johnson had over a thousand pounds hidden in his flat?”

“A thousand pounds, you say? Well … no. I certainly didn't pay him that much. Perhaps he saved up.”

“Perhaps.”

“He may have worked for others, too. We didn't have an exclusive contract.”

“You never asked?”

“Why should I? He was always available when I needed him.” “Where were you on Thursday evening?”

“Really, Chief Inspector! You can't believe I had anything to do with the man's death?”

“Just a matter of elimination, sir.”

“Oh, very well.” Harkness rubbed his chin. “Let me see … Well, Thursday, I'd have been at the Golf Club. I played that afternoon with Martin Lambert, and after the game we had dinner at the club.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Not until well after eleven. The others will vouch for me.”

Banks nodded. He felt that Harkness was enjoying the game, one he knew he could win. There was a kind of smugness and arrogance about him that irked Banks. He had come across it before in powerful and wealthy people and had never been able accept it.

“I understand you were born around these parts?” he asked. “Yes. Lyndgarth, as a matter of fact. We emigrated when I was four.”

“South Africa?”

“Yes. Johannesburg. My father saw opportunities there. He liked to take risks, and this one paid off. Why do you ask?”

“Out of interest. You took over the business?”

“When he died. And, I might add, I succeeded him out of ability, not nepotism. I worked with him for years. He taught me all he knew.”

“Is the company still in existence?”

“Very much so. And our mines are still productive. But I've had very little to do with that part of the operation of late. I moved to Amsterdam over ten years ago to handle the sales end of the business.” He looked down, swirled the amber liquid in his crystal snifter, then looked Banks in the eye. “Quite frankly, I couldn't stomach the politics over there. Apartheid disgusted me, and I lacked the courage to become a revolutionary. Who wants another white liberal, anyway?”

“So you moved to Amsterdam?”

“Yes.”

“But you kept your business interests in South Africa?”

“I said I couldn't stand living with the politics, Chief Inspector.

I didn't say I was a fool. I also don't believe in sanctions. But that's not what you came to hear about.”

“Still, it is fascinating. Are you married?”

“Divorced, back in Amsterdam.” He shifted in his chair. “If you don't mind—”

“I'm sorry.” Banks put down his empty glass and stood up. “It's just a copper's instinct. Curiosity.”

“It's also what killed the cat.”

Harkness said it with a smile, but Banks could hardly miss the cutting edge. He ignored it and walked to the library door.

As they walked down the gloomy hall with its waist-high wain-scoting, Banks turned to one of the doors. “What's in here?” he asked.

Harkness opened the door and turned on a light. “Living-room.”

It was a spacious, high-ceilinged room with wall-to-wall thick pile carpeting and a burgundy three-piece suite. Next to the fireplace stood a tall bookcase stacked with old
National Geographic
magazines. A couple of landscapes hung on the walls: original oils, by the look of them. Banks couldn't tell who the artists were, but Sandra would probably know. Again, Banks noticed how untidy the room was and how dusty the fixtures. Beside the sofa was a long, low table, and at its centre stood a tarnished silver goblet encrusted with dirt. Banks picked it up. “What's this?” he asked.

Harkness shrugged. “Carl found it when he was digging the garden one day and he brought it to me. It looks old. I keep meaning to get it cleaned up and valued. He thought it might be worth something. I suppose,” he went on, “you could take that as another example of his honesty. He could have kept it.”

Banks examined the goblet. It had some kind of design engraved on it, but he couldn't make out what it was through the grime. It looked like a coat of arms. He put it back down on the table. It was something Tracy would be interested in, he thought. Would have been, he corrected himself.

Harkness noticed him looking around. “It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid. But as I said, the house is too big and I don't use all of it anyway.”

“Don't you have a cleaning lady?”

“Can't abide maids. Ever since I was a child in South Africa we had them, and I never could stand them. Always fussing around you. And I suppose as much as anything I couldn't stand the idea of anyone having to clean up after anyone else. It seemed so undigni-fied, somehow.”

Banks, whose mother had charred at a Peterborough office block to bring in a bit of extra money, said, “Yet you employed a gardener?”

Harkness led the way to the front door. “That's different, don't you think? A gardener is a kind of artist in a way, and I've no objection to being a patron of the arts. I always thought of the grounds as very much Carl's creation.”

“I suppose you're right,” Banks said at the door. “Just one more question: Did he ever mention the old lead mine near Relton?”

“No. Why?”

“I just wondered if it was special to him for some reason. Can you think of any reason he might have been there?”

Harkness shook his head. “None at all. Digging for hidden treasure, perhaps?” His eyes twinkled.

“Perhaps,” Banks said. “Thank you for your time.”

“My pleasure.”

Harkness closed the door slowly but firmly and Banks got into his car. As he drove back to Eastvale in the blue-grey twilight with the haunting piano music playing, he wondered about Harkness. Many business dealings don't bear close scrutiny, of course, and you don't get as rich as Harkness without skirting the law and stepping on a few toes here and there. Is that what Harkness was getting at with his remark about curiosity killing the cat? If that was so, where did Johnson fit in? It might be useful having a criminal for a gardener if you wanted other kinds of dirty business done. On the other hand, it might also, after a while, turn out to be very inconvenient, too. At least, Banks concluded, it might be worthwhile asking a few questions about Mr Adam Harkness.