Wednesday's Child (37 page)

The vacuum was so noisy that she didn't hear the bell. It was only the steady thumping on her door that broke through. She turned off the machine and listened again. Another knock. For a moment she just stood there, worried it might be Les. She wasn't frightened of him—she knew he was a coward at heart—but she didn't feel like another public row and she was damned if she was going to let him in. On the other hand, it might be the police with news of Gemma. She glanced out of the window but couldn't see a police car. That didn't matter, she realized. The plain-clothes men drove ordinary cars.

She sighed and stood the Hoover in the corner. Well, if it
was
Les, she'd just have to tell him to stay away and call the police if he insisted on pestering her. The blurred figure through the frosted glass wasn't Les, that was for certain, but she couldn't tell who it was until she opened the door and saw Lenora Carlyle standing there with her long black hair and penetrating eyes. She didn't want to let Lenora in. Somehow, she thought, that entire episode had been a weakness, a mistake. She had been grasping at straws. And look what she was left with: nothing but a video of herself, which was already beginning to feel like an embarrassment. But she stood
aside politely. Lenora hung up her coat and followed her into the front room.

“Tea?” said Brenda, feeling like a cup herself.

“Yes, please, dear, if it's no trouble.” Lenora sat on the sofa and brushed down her skirt. “Been cleaning, I see.”

“Yes.” Brenda shrugged and went to make the tea. When it was ready, she brought it in on a tray and poured, then lit a cigarette.

“I sense there's been some great change,” Lenora said, frowning with concentration. “Some sort of upheaval.”

“If you mean I chucked Les out, I suppose you're right.”

Lenora looked disappointed at such a prosaic explanation. “Any news?”

Brenda shook her head.

“Well, that's why I'm here, really. You remember what I said before?”

“That Gemma's still alive?”

“That's right.” Her eyes glittered. “More than ever I'm convinced of it, Brenda.”

“I don't think so.” Brenda shook her head. “Not after all this time.”

“But you must have faith. She's frightened and weak. But she's alive, Brenda.”

“Don't.”

“You must listen.” Lenora put her mug down and leaned forward, clasping her hands. “I saw animals. Jungle animals, Brenda. Lions, tigers, leopards. They're connected with Gemma somehow.”

“What are you saying? She's been taken to Africa or something?”

Lenora flopped back on the sofa. “I don't know. The message is very weak. That's all I see. Gemma and animals.”

“Look, I really don't—”

“They're not harming her, Brenda.”

“I don't believe you.”

“But you
must
believe!”

“Why must I believe? What good has it done me?”

“Don't you want to see your Gemma again?”

Brenda stood up. “Of course I want to see Gemma again. But I can't. She's dead. Can't you understand? She's dead. She must be. If
she's not dead by now she must be suffering so much. It's best that she's dead.” The tears and grief she had felt welling up for so long were breaking the dam.

“We must cling to the gift of life, Brenda.”

“No. I don't want to listen to this. You're frightening me. Go away. Leave me alone.”

“But Brenda, I—”

“Go on.” Brenda pointed at the door, tears burning her eyes. “Go away. Get out!”

Lenora shook her head slowly, then, shoulders slumped, she got up and left the room. When Brenda heard the door close, she sank back into her chair. She was shaking now and tears burned down her cheeks. Dammit, why wouldn't they all leave her alone? And why couldn't she know for sure? Every day that Gemma stayed missing was more like hell. Why couldn't they find her body, then Brenda could get her grieving done with, organize the funeral, move on. But no. Just day after day of misery. And it was all her fault, all Brenda's fault for not loving her daughter enough, for losing control and shaking her so much she was terrified what she might do the next time.

She stared at the large TV screen and saw her own reflection distorted through her tears. She remembered the interview she had watched over and over again. Vanity. Madness. It had all been madness. In a sudden burst of rage, she drew back her arm and flung her mug as hard as she could at the screen.

IV

Just a few hours ago the wind had been cool, and there had been only enough blue sky to make baby a new bonnet. Now, as Banks and Susan drove to Harkness's, the wind had dropped, the sun had come out and the afternoon had turned out fine. Gristhorpe had been out when Banks went to find him, so he had left a message and found Susan, who happened to be in the corridor at the time.

Enjoying probably the last fine weekend of the season, families sat out on the green at Fortford eating picnics, even though it
wasn't particularly warm and the grass must still be damp. Banks turned right on the Lyndgarth road, and as they approached the bridge, they saw even more people ambling along The Leas or sitting on the riverbank fishing.

Banks drove in silence, tense and angry over the forthcoming confrontation. They turned in the drive just before the old pack-horse bridge, and the car flung up gravel as they stopped. They had no evidence, he reminded himself, only supposition, and everything depended on bluffing and scaring Harkness into blabbing. It wouldn't be easy; it never was with those so used to having things their own way. Piet's information wasn't anywhere near enough to get him in court. But Harkness
had
known Johnson, and Johnson had known Chivers. Jenny said the paedophile was likely to be over forty, lived alone, and probably knew Gemma. Well, Harkness hadn't known Gemma, but he could have heard of her through Johnson and Chivers. It made sense.

After the conversation, Banks had checked the time and, finding they were only two hours ahead, tried the South African police again. They still had nothing to report, and he got the impression they were dragging their feet. He could only speculate on the nature of the crime there, and on the depth of the cover-up. He had tried Linda Fish from the Writers' Circle again, too, but she had heard no more from her writer friend. He had felt too edgy simply to wait around for more information to come in.

Harkness answered the door at the first ring. He seemed nervous to see them, Banks thought, fidgety and too talkative as he led them this time into the living-room and bade them sit.

“Have you found out who killed Carl?”

“We're looking for a man called Jeremy Chivers,” Banks said. “Someone Johnson knew. Did he ever mention the name?”

“Let's not go through all that again.” Harkness walked over to the mantelpiece. “Who is this Chivers?”

“A suspect.”

“So why have you come to pester me again?”

Banks scratched the little scar by his right eye. It wasn't always reliable, but it did have a tendency to itch in warning when he hadn't quite realized that something was wrong. “Well, I'll tell you,
Mr Harkness. I've just had a chat with a friend of mine on the Amsterdam police, and he told me some very odd things.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You lived there for some time, didn't you?”

“Yes, you know I did. But I can assure you I never came into contact with the police.”

“Clever there, sir, weren't you?” said Susan suddenly. Harkness looked from one to the other, reddening. “Look, what is this?” he said. “You can't just come in here—”

Banks waved him to silence, ready to make his accusation. But just before he opened his mouth to speak, he paused. Something was definitely bothering him. Even now, he didn't know what it was: tension in the air, a feeling of
déjà vu,
or that little shiver when someone steps on your grave. It would come. He went on, “Everyone knows you can get anything you want in Amsterdam. If you know where to go. If you can pay for it.”

“So what? It's hardly different from any other city in that way, I should think.” Harkness paced, hands in his pockets.

“True,” said Banks, “though it does have something of a reputation for sex in various forms, straight and other.”

“What are you suggesting? Get to the point.”

“That's just it. We have information leading us to believe that you frequented a brothel. A very special kind of brothel. One that made young children available to its customers.”

“What! This is monstrous. I've already told you the Assistant Chief Commissioner is a good friend of mine, the Commissioner, too. If you don't take back your slanderous allegations, I'll make sure you're out of the force before bedtime tonight. Damn it, I think I'll do it anyway.”

“I don't think so,” said Banks. “The Commissioner is particularly upset about this case. He has grandchildren the same age as Gemma Scupham, so I don't think the fact that you belong to the same golf club will cut a lot of ice with him, sir.”

“But this is preposterous! You can't possibly be suggesting that I had anything to do with that?”

“Well, I—” Banks stopped, suddenly aware of what was bothering him. He shot Susan a quick glance and stood up. Looking
puzzled, she followed suit. “Probably not,” he said, “but I had to find out. I'm sorry, Mr Harkness. I just wanted to test your reaction to the allegations.”

“You've got a damned nasty way of going about your business, Banks. I most certainly will be talking to your superior.”

“As you wish.” Banks followed Susan to the door. “But please understand, we have to follow every lead, however incredible, however distasteful. I'm very sorry to have bothered you, sir. I think I can safely say we won't be troubling you again.”

“Well …” Harkness looked confused. He opened his mouth as if to complain more, then seemed to think better of it, realizing they were leaving, and stood there gulping like a fish. “I should damn well think so,” he muttered finally. “And don't think I don't mean it about talking to the Commissioner.”

“What is it?” Susan asked as they drove back onto the road. “Sir? Why did you do that?”

Banks said nothing. When they were out of sight of the house, about half a mile down the road, hidden by the roadside trees, he pulled into a lay-by.

“What is it?” Susan asked again. “I picked up signal to get out, but why? You were rattling him. We could have had him.”

“This is the third time I've visited Harkness,” Banks said slowly, hands still gripping the wheel. “Both times before the place has been a bit of a mess—dusty, untidy, a typical bachelor dwelling.”

“So?” said Susan. “He's had the cleaning lady in.”

“I don't think so. He said he didn't employ one. Notice how clean the surfaces were, and that silver goblet on the coffee-table?”

“Yes. Polished so you could see your face.”

“You weren't there,” Banks said, “but it's the same polish smell as in the Weymouth hotel room, something with a strong scent of pine.”

“You can't be thinking … surely?”

Banks nodded. “That's just what I am thinking, Susan. We've got to radio for help.” He gestured with his thumb back towards the house. “I think Chivers is in there somewhere, and he's armed.”

FOURTEEN

I

To the casual observer, nothing unusual occurred around The Leas and Devraulx Abbey that fine Sunday afternoon in late September. If one fisherman approached another, had a chat, then replaced him at the riverbank, or if a picnicking family, shortly after having a few words with a passing rambler complete with rucksack and stick, decided to pack up and leave because the wasps were bothering them, then what of it? The Abbey closed early, and there were a few more cars on the road than usual, but then, it was such a surprisingly beautiful afternoon that everyone wanted to enjoy a bit of it before the rain and wind returned.

Still in the same position, about half a mile down the road, out of sight of the Harkness house, Banks and Susan waited. Birds called, insects hummed, a light breeze hissed through the trees. At last, another car joined them, and Superintendent Gristhorpe got out, along with DS Richmond, and strode purposefully over to Banks's Cortina. There wasn't much to say; everything had been taken care of on the radio. The replacement fishermen were policemen in plain clothes; the picnicking families had all been cleared from the area, and a tight circle had been drawn around Harkness's house and grounds.

“If he's in there,” Gristhorpe said. “He won't get away. Alan, let's you and I go back to the house, say we have a few more questions. Let's see if we can't defuse this mess before it blows up.”

“But sir,” said Susan. “I think I should go, too.”

“No,” said Gristhorpe. “Stay here with Phil.”

“But—”

“Look. I'm not doubting your competence, Susan. But what we need here is experience. Alan?”

“I agree,” said Banks.

Gristhorpe took a .38 Smith and Wesson from his pocket and handed it to Banks, who automatically checked it, though he knew Gristhorpe would have already done so. Susan's lips drew tight and Banks could feel the waves of humiliation flowing from her. He knew why—she had potential, but she was young, inexperienced, and she had made mistakes before—and he agreed completely with the superintendent's judgment. There was no room for error in dealing with someone like Chivers.

“Ready?” said Gristhorpe.

Banks nodded and joined him in the unmarked Rover, leaving Susan to fume and Richmond to console her in Banks's own Cortina.

“How do you read it?” Gristhorpe asked, as Banks drove slowly back towards the pack-horse bridge.

“Harkness is nervous, and I think he's shit-scared, too. And it's not just because of what I think he's done to Gemma Scupham. If I had to guess, I'd say Chivers is either in the house somewhere, or he's been there and he's hiding out nearby. And Harkness isn't harbouring him out of the kindness of his heart. He's damn close to being held hostage. There's nothing he can do, though, without incriminating himself.”