Wednesday's Child (39 page)

He shrugged. “No idea. I completed my side of the bargain. I suppose when the old pervert had finished with her he probably killed her and buried the body under the petunia patch or something. Isn't that what they do? Or maybe he sold her, tried to recoup what he'd spent. There's plenty in the market for that kind of thing, you know.”

“What about the clothing we found?”

“You want me to do your job for you? I don't know. I suppose as soon as things got too hot for him he wanted to put you off the scent. Does that sound about right?”

“Why did you come back to Eastvale? You could probably have got away, you know.”

Chivers's eyes dulled. “Fatal flaw, I suppose. I can't bear to miss anything. Besides, you only caught me because I wanted you to, you know. I've never been on trial, never been in jail. It might be interesting. And, remember, I'm not there yet.” He shot Jenny a quick smile and began to rub harder at the coffee stain, still making no impression. He was clearly uncomfortable in the boiler suit they had found for him, too, scratching now and then where the rough material made his skin itch.

Banks walked over to the door and opened it to the two uniformed officers who stood outside and nodded for them to take Chivers down to the holding cells for the time being.

Chivers sat at the desk staring down at the stain he was rubbing and rubbing. Finally, he gave up and banged the table once, hard, with his fist.

III

Banks stood by his office window with the light off and looked down on the darkening market square again, a cigarette between his fingers. Like Phil and Jenny, he had felt as if he needed a long, hot bath after watching and listening to Chivers. It was odd how they had drifted away to try to scrub themselves free of the dirt: Jenny, pale and quiet, had gone home; Richmond had gone to the computer room. They all recognized one another's need for a little solitude, despite the work that remained.

Little people like Les Poole and others Banks had met in Eastvale sometimes made him despair of human intelligence; someone like Chivers made him wonder seriously about the human
soul
. Not that Banks was a religious man, but as he looked at the Norman church with its low square tower and the arched door with its carvings of the saints, he burned with unanswered questions.

They could wait, though. The hospital had called to tell him that Gristhorpe had a flesh wound in his thigh and was already proving to be a difficult patient. The SOCOs had called several times from The Leas area; no luck so far in finding Gemma's body, and it was getting dark. The frogmen had packed up and gone home. They had found Chivers's gun easily enough, but no trace of Gemma. They would be back tomorrow, though they didn't hold out much hope. The garden was in ruins, but so far the men had uncovered nothing but stones and roots.

Harkness's body lay in the mortuary now, and if anyone had to make him look presentable for the funeral, good luck to them. Banks shuddered at the memory. He had washed and washed his face, but he could still smell the blood, or so he thought. And he had tossed away his jacket and shirt, knowing he could never wear them again, and changed into the spares he always kept at the station.

And he thought of Chelsea. So that was her name, the poor twisted shape on the hotel bed in Weymouth. Why had she been so drawn to a monster like Chivers? Can't people
see
evil when it's staring them right in the face? Maybe not until it's too late, he thought. And the baby. Chivers knew his own evil, revelled in it. Chelsea. Who was she? Where did she come from? Who were her parents and what were they like? Bit by bit, he would find out.

He had been alone with his thoughts for about an hour, watching dusk fall slowly on the cobbled square and the people dribble into the church for the evening service. The glow from the coloured-glass windows of the Queen's Arms looked welcoming on the opposite corner. God, he could do with a drink to take the taste of blood out of his mouth, out of his soul.

The harsh ring of the telephone broke the silence. He picked it up and heard Gristhorpe say, “The buggers wouldn't let me out to question Chivers. Have you done it? Did it go all right?”

Banks smiled to himself and assured Gristhorpe that all was well. “Come and see me, Alan. There's a couple of things I want to talk about.”

Banks put on his coat and drove over to Eastvale General. He hated hospitals, the smell of disinfectant, the starched uniforms, the pale shadows with clear fluid dripping into them from plastic bags being pushed on trolleys down gloomy hallways. But Gristhorpe had a pleasant enough private room. Already, someone had sent flowers and Banks felt suddenly guilty that he had come empty-handed.

Gristhorpe looked a little pale and weak, mostly from shock and blood loss, but apart from that he seemed in fine enough fettle.

“Harkness never expected any trouble from the police over Gemma's abduction, did he?” he asked.

“No,” said Banks. “As Chivers told us, why should he? It was almost the perfect crime. He'd managed to keep a very low profile in the area. Nobody knew how sick his tastes really were.”

“Aye, but everything changed, didn't it, after Johnson's murder?”

“Yes.”

“And you were a bit hard on Harkness, given that chip on your shoulder, weren't you?”

“I suppose so. What are you getting at?”

Gristhorpe tried to sit up in bed and grimaced. “So much so that he might think we'd get onto him?” he said.

“Probably.” Banks rearranged the pillows. “I think he felt quite certain I'd be back.” The superintendent was wearing striped pyjamas, he noticed.

“And he claimed harassment and threatened to call the Commissioner and probably the Prime Minister for all I know.”

“Yes.” Banks looked puzzled. What was Gristhorpe getting at? It wasn't like him to beat about the bush. Had delirium set in?

“Let's assume that Chivers is telling the truth,” Gristhorpe went on, “and he delivered Gemma to Harkness on Tuesday evening and killed Johnson on Thursday evening. Now Harkness
could
have spirited Gemma out of the house, say to Amsterdam, before Johnson's murder, but why should he? And if he hadn't done it by then, he'd probably be too nervous to make such a move later.”

“I suppose he would,” Banks admitted. “And he could have taken her clothes up to the moors to put us off the scent on Thursday evening or Friday, whenever Chivers told him Johnson was dead and came to collect his fee. Harkness must have known we'd visit him then, given his connection with Johnson. But he could have buried her anywhere. It's a very isolated house, and pretty well sheltered by trees. I mean, even someone passing by on the road wouldn't notice him burying a body in the garden, would they?”

“But our men have found nothing so far.”

“You know it can take time. It's a big garden. If she's there, they'll find her. Then there's the river.”

“
If
she's there.”

Banks watched the blood drip slowly into Gristhorpe's veins. “What do you mean?”

“This.” Gristhorpe rolled over carefully and took something out of his bedside cabinet. “I got one of the lads to tag it as evidence and bring it here to me.”

Banks stared at the polished silver. “The goblet?”

“Yes. It's a chalice actually, sixteenth-century, I think. Remember when Phil and Susan took me into Harkness's living-room and laid
me on the couch till the ambulance came? That's when I noticed it. I could hardly miss it, it was right at eye-level.”

“I still don't see what that's got to do with Gemma,” said Banks, who was beginning to worry that Gristhorpe was more seriously injured than he let on.

“Don't you?” Gristhorpe passed him the chalice. “See those markings?”

Banks examined it. “Yes.”

“It's the banner of the Pilgrimage of Grace. See where it shows the five wounds of Christ? I'll explain it, then you can go see if I'm right.”

Puzzled, Banks crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.

IV

It was late twilight as Banks drove: the time of evening when the greens of the hillsides and the grey of the limestone houses and walls are all just shades of darkness. But the river seemed to glow with a light of its own, hoarded from the day, as it snaked through the wooded river meadows known as The Leas.

As he drove, Banks remembered Gristhorpe's words: “In Yorkshire history, The Pilgrimage of Grace started as a religious uprising against Henry VIII, sparked by the closing of the monasteries in 1536. Harkness's house was built later, so this chalice would probably be a precious family heirloom and a powerful symbol to whoever owned it. In the seventeenth century, it was often dangerous to be a Roman Catholic in this part of the country, but they persisted. They didn't take unnecessary risks, though. So while they would invite some wandering incognito priest around to perform mass or take confession in their houses, they knew they might hear the soldiers hammering on the door at any moment, so they built priest holes, cavities in the walls where the priests could hide. Some were even more elaborate than that. They led to underground passages and escape routes.

“I grew up in Lyndgarth, just up the hill from Harkness's,” Gristhorpe had continued, “and when we were kids there were
always rumours about the old De Montfort house, as it was called then. We thought it was haunted, riddled with secret passages. You know how kids dream. We never went inside, of course, but we made up stories about it. I'd forgotten all about it until we went there tonight—and I must admit things happened quickly enough to put it right out of my mind again. Until I saw this chalice. It started me thinking. The date's right, the history, so it's worth a try, don't you think?”

Banks had agreed. He turned into the drive and stopped at the police tape. The man on duty came forward, and when he recognized Banks he let him through.

Banks nodded greetings as he passed the SOCO team at work in the garden, receiving shakes of the head to indicate that nothing new had been discovered. The grounds looked like a film set, with the bright arc-lights casting shadows of men digging, and it was loud with the sound of drills, the humming of the generator van and instructions shouted above the noise. Inside the house, men examined the corners of carpets and settees, sticking on pieces of Sellotape and lifting off fibres, or running over areas with compact hand-vacuums.

First, Banks checked the kitchen, behind the fridge and cooker, then the dining-room, getting help to move out the huge antique cabinet that held cutlery and crystal glasses. Nothing.

The library yielded nothing either, so he went next to the living-room, where he had first noticed the grimy, tarnished chalice on the coffee-table. It was partly seeing it again and noticing how clean it was that had first made him uneasy earlier that day, on his visit with Susan.

The bookcase opposite the fireplace looked promising, and Banks started pulling out the old
National Geographics,
looking for some kind of lever or button to press, and feeling, as he did so, more than a little foolish. It was like something out of Edgar Allan Poe, he thought.

Then he found it: a brass bolt sunk perfectly in the wood at the back of the central shelf, on the left. It slid back smoothly, as if recently oiled, and the whole bookcase swung away from the wall on hinges, just like a door. Before him loomed a dark opening with a flight of worn stone steps leading down.

Banks called for a torch, and when he had one, he stepped into the opening. On a hook to his left hung two keys on a ring. He plucked them off as he went by.

At the bottom of the stairs, a rough, dank passage led on, probably far away from the house to provide an escape for the itinerant priest. Banks shone his torch ahead and noticed that the passage was blocked by rubble after a few yards. But the two heavy wooden doors, one on either side of the passage, looked more interesting. Banks went to the one on his right and tried to open it. It was locked. Holding his breath, heart pounding, he tried the keys. The second one worked.

The hinges creaked a little as he slowly pushed the door open. Groping in the dark, he found a light switch, and a bare bulb came on, revealing a small, square room with whitewashed walls. At the centre of the room stood a leather armchair, the kind with a footrest that slides out as you sit in it, and in front of that stood a television set attached to a video. Banks doubted that priest holes had electricity, so Harkness must have gone to all the trouble of wiring his private den himself. In a rack beside the chair, Banks found a range of pornographic magazines, all of them featuring children being subjected to disgusting and degrading acts. In the cabinet under the video were a number of video cassettes of a similar nature.

Afraid of what he might find, Banks crossed the passage and fitted the other key in the lock. It opened easily. This time, he had no need to grope for a light switch. Beside the narrow bed stood a small orange-shaded table-lamp. Next to it sat a book of
Thomas the Tank Engine
stories and a bottle of pills. The walls were painted with the same whitewash as the other room, but a quilt decorated with stylized jungle animals—lions, tigers and leopards with friendly human expressions—covered the small, still shape on the bed.

It was Gemma Scupham, no doubt about it. From what Banks could see of her face between the dirty patches, it looked white, and she lay motionless on her back, her right arm raised above her head. The scar of a thin cut ran across the pale flesh of her inner arm.

Banks could sense no breath, no life. He bent over to look more closely. As he leaned over Gemma, he fancied he noticed one of her eyelids twitch. He froze. It happened again.

“My God,” he muttered to himself, and gazed down in awe as a tear formed and rolled out of the corner of Gemma's eye, leaving a clean and shining path through the grime.