Wednesday's Child (31 page)

Hatchley finished his pint and looked Banks in the eye. “Aye, well that's all right then. How about a sweet?”

“Not for me.”

Hatchley caught the waiter's attention and ordered Black Forest gateau, a cup of coffee and another pint of Theakston's. Banks stayed with his glass of red wine, which was still half-full.

“Down to business, then,” Hatchley said, as he tucked into the dessert.

Banks gave him a summary of the case and its twists and turns so far, then explained what he wanted him to do.

“A pleasure,” said Hatchley, smiling.

“And in the meantime, you can concentrate on installing that shower or whatever it is. I can't say how long we'll be. It depends.”

Hatchley pulled a face. “I hope it's sooner rather than later.”

“Problem?”

“Oh, not really. As you know, I've got a few days leave. There's not a lot on in Saltby at the moment, anyway, and Carol will be all right. She's built up quite a gaggle of mates out there, and there'll be no keeping them away since we heard about the baby. You know how women get all gooey-eyed about things like that. You can almost hear the bloody knitting needles clacking from here. No, it's just that it might mean staying on longer than I have to at the in-laws, that's all.”

“You don't get on?”

“It's not that. We had them for two weeks in July. It's just … well, you know how it is with in-laws.”

Banks remembered Mr and Mrs Ellis from Hatchley's wedding the previous Christmas. Mrs Ellis in particular had seemed angry that Hatchley stayed at the reception too long and drank too much. But then, he thought, she had every right to be annoyed. “They don't approve of your drinking?” he guessed.

“You make it sound as if I'm an alcoholic or something,” Hatchley said indignantly. “Just because a bloke enjoys a pint or two of ale now and then… . No, they're religious, Four Square Gospel,” he sighed, as if that explained it all. “You know, Chapel on Sundays, the whole kit and caboodle. Never mind.” He sat up straight and puffed out his chest. “A man's got to do what a man's got to do. Just hurry up and find the bugger. What about this Chivers bloke? Any leads?”

“According to Phil, we've already had sightings from St Austell, King's Lynn, Clitheroe and the Kyle of Lochalsh.”

Hatchley laughed. “It was ever thus. Tell me about him. He sounds interesting.”

Banks told him what Barney Merritt had said and what he and Jenny had discussed late afternoon.

“Reckon he's done her, the kid?”

Banks nodded. “It's been over a week, Jim. I just don't like to think about what probably happened
before
he killed her.”

Hatchley's eyes narrowed to slits. “Know who the tart is? The blonde?”

“No idea. He picks them up and casts them off. They're fascinated by him, like flies to shit. According to what Barney could dig up, his full name's Jeremy Chivers, called Jem for short. He grew up in a nice middle-class home in Sevenoaks. No record of any trouble as a kid. No one can figure out how he got hooked up with the gangs. He had a good education, moved to work for an insurance company in London, then it all started.”

“It's not hard for rats to find the local sewer,” said Hatchley.

“No. Anyway, he's twenty-eight now, apparently looks even younger. And he's no fool. You've got to be pretty smart to keep on
doing what he does and get away with it. It all satisfies whatever weird appetites he's developing.”

“If you ask me,” said Hatchley, “we'd all be best off if he found himself at the end of a noose.”

Banks remembered his early feelings about Hatchley. That comment, so typical of him and so typical of the burned-out, cynical London coppers Banks had been trying to get away from at the time, brought them all back.

Once, Banks would have cheerfully echoed the sentiment. Sometimes, even now, he felt it. It was impossible to contemplate someone like Chivers and what he had done to Carl Johnson—if he had done it—and, perhaps, to Gemma Scupham, without wanting to see him dangling at the end of a rope, or worse, to make it personal, to squeeze the life out of him with one's own hands. Like everyone who had read about the case in the newspapers, like everyone who had children of his own, Banks could easily give voice to the outraged cliché that hanging was too good for the likes of Chivers. What was even worse was that Banks didn't know, could not predict for certain, what he would do if he ever did get Chivers within hurting distance.

The conflict was always there: on the one hand, pure atavistic rage for revenge, the gut feeling that someone who did what Chivers did no longer deserved to be a member of the human race, had somehow, through his monstrous acts, forfeited his humanity; and on the other hand, the feeling that such a reaction makes us no better than him, however we sugar-coat our socially sanctioned murders, and with it the idea that perhaps more insight is to be gained from the study of such a mind than from its destruction, and that knowledge like that may help prevent Chiverses of the future. There was no easy solution for him. The two sides of the argument struggled for ascendancy; some days sheer outrage won out, others a kind of noble humanism took supremacy.

Instead of responding to Hatchley's comment, Banks gestured for the bill and lit a cigarette. It was time to go home, perhaps listen to Mitsuko Uchida playing some Mozart piano sonatas and snuggle up to Sandra, if she was in.

“Ah well,” sighed Hatchley. “Back to the in-laws, I suppose.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a packet of extra-strong Trebor mints and popped one in his mouth. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends… .”

IV

The piece of luck that Banks had been hoping for came at about six-thirty in the morning. Like most police luck, it was more a result of hard slog and keen observation than any magnanimous gesture on the part of some almighty deity.

The telephone woke Banks from a disjointed dream full of anger and frustration. He groped for the receiver in the dark. Beside him, Sandra stirred and muttered in her sleep.

“Sir?” It was Susan Gay.

“Mmm,” Banks mumbled.

“Sorry to wake you, sir, but they've found him. Poole.”

“Where is he?”

“At the station.”

“What time is it?”

“Half past six.”

“All right. Phone Jim Hatchley at Carol's parents' place and get him down there, but keep him out of sight. And—”

“I've already phoned the super, sir. He's on his way in.”

“Good. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Sandra turned over and sighed. Banks crept out of bed as quietly as he could, grabbed the clothes he had left folded on a chair and went into the bathroom. He still couldn't shake the feeling the dream had left him with. Probably something to do with the row he had with Tracy after he got back from dinner with Jim Hatchley. Not even a row, really. Trying to be more understanding towards her, he had simply made some comment about how nice it was to have her home with the family, and she had burst into tears and dashed up to her room. Sandra had shot him a nasty look and hurried up after her. It turned out her boyfriend had chucked her for someone else. Well, how was he supposed to
know? It all changed so quickly. She never told him about anything these days.

As soon as he had showered and dressed, he went out to the car. The wind had dropped, but the pre-dawn sky was overcast, a dreary iron grey, except to the east where it was flushed deep red close to the horizon. For the first time that year, Banks could see his breath. Already, lights were on in some of the houses, and the woman in the newsagent's at the corner of Banks's street and Market Street was sorting the papers for the delivery kids.

Inside the station, an outsider would have had no idea it was so early in the morning. Activity went on under the fluorescent lights as usual, as it did twenty-four hours a day. Only a copper would sense that end-of-the-night-shift feel as constables changed back into civvies to go home and the day shift came in bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, shaved faces shining, or make-up freshly applied.

Upstairs, where the CID had their offices, was quieter. They hardly had a need for shift work, and their hours varied depending on what was going on. This past week, with a murder and a missing child, long hours had been taking their toll on everyone. Richmond was there, looking red-eyed from too much staring at the computer screen, and Susan Gay had dark blue smears under her eyes.

“What happened?” Banks asked her.

“I'd just come in,” she said. “Couldn't sleep so I came in at six and thought I'd have another look at the forensic reports, then they brought him in. Found him sleeping in a ditch a mile or so down the Helmthorpe Road.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Banks. “It must have been cold. Where is he?”

“Interview room. PC Evans is with him.”

“Sergeant Hatchley?”

“Got here just before you. He's in position.”

Banks nodded. “Let's wait for the super.”

Gristhorpe arrived fifteen minutes later, looking brighter than the rest of them. His hair was a mess, as usual, but his innocent blue eyes shone every bit as alert and probing as ever.

“Let's have at him, then,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Alan, would you like to lead, seeing as you know him so well? Let me play monster in reserve.”

“All right.”

They headed for the small interview room. Before they went in, Banks asked Richmond if he would get them a large pot of tea.

The drab room seemed overcrowded with four of them, and the heat was turned too high. PC Evans went and sat in the corner by the window, ready to take notes, Banks sat opposite Poole, and Gristhorpe at right angles.

Poole licked his lips and looked around the room.

“You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards, Les,” Banks said. “What happened?”

“Sleeping rough. Nowhere to go, had I?”

He was unshaven, his leather jacket was scuffed and stained with mud, his greasy hair bedraggled and matted. He also had a black eye and a split lip. The tea arrived. Banks played mother and passed a large steaming mug over to Les. “Here, have a cuppa,” he said. “You don't look like you've had your breakfast yet.”

“Thanks.” Poole grasped the mug with both hands.

“How'd you get the war wounds?”

“Bloody mob, wasn't it? I need protection, I do.”

“From your neighbours?”

“Bloody right.” He pointed to his face. “They did this to me before I managed to run off. I'm a victim. I should press charges.” Poole slurped some tea.

“Be our guest,” said Banks. “But later. There's a few other things to deal with first.”

Poole frowned. “Oh? Like what?”

“Like why did you run?”

“That's a daft question. You'd bloody run if you had a mob like that after you.”

“Where were you heading?”

“Dunno. Anywhere. I'd got no money so I could hardly stay in a bleeding hotel, could I?”

“What about your mate at the shop?”

“Wasn't in.”

“What did the mob want with you, Les?”

“It was all that silly bitch Brenda's fault. Put on a right show, she
did, chucking my stuff at me like that. And that's another thing. I'll bloody sue her for damage to property.”

“You do that, Les. She'd probably have to sell the telly and that nice little stereo system to pay her costs. Why did they turn on you?”

Les glanced nervously at Gristhorpe, then said to Banks, “Is he going to stay here all the time?”

Banks nodded. “If I can't get the truth out of you, he takes over. Believe me, you'll be a lot happier if that never happens. We were talking about your neighbours. Look at me.”

Poole turned back. “Yeah, well, Brenda yelled some stupid things out the window. It was her fault. She could have got me killed.”

“What did she yell?”

Banks could see Poole weighing him up, gauging what he knew already. Finally, he said, “Seeing as she's probably already told you, it doesn't matter, does it?” He kept glancing at Gristhorpe out of the corner of his eye.

“It matters a lot,” Banks said. “It's a very serious allegation, that is, saying you were mixed up with Gemma's disappearance. They don't take kindly to child-molesters in prison, Les. This time it won't be as easy as your other stretches inside. Why don't you tell us what you know?”

Poole finished his tea and reached for the pot. Banks let him pour another large mug. “Because I don't know anything,” he said. “I told you, Brenda was out of line.”

“No smoke without fire, Les.”

“Come on, Mr Banks, you know me. Do I look like a child- molester?”

“How would I know? What do you think they look like? Ogres with hairs growing out of their noses and warts on their bald heads? Do you think they go around carrying signs?”

“She was trying to stir it, to wind me up. Honest. Ask her. Ask her if she
really
thinks I had anything to do with it.”

“I have, Les.”

“Yeah? And what did she say?”

“How did you feel when she told you Gemma had been abducted?”

“Feel?”

“Yes, Les. It's something people do. Part of what makes them human.”

“I know what it means. Don't think I don't have feelings.” He paused, and gulped down more tea. “How did I feel? I dunno.”

“Were you upset?”

“Well, I was worried.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Course I was.”

“Did anything spring to mind, anything to make you wonder maybe about what had happened?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do, Les.”

Banks looked over at Gristhorpe, who nodded grimly. Poole licked his lips again. “Look, what's going on here? You trying to fit me up?”