Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 16

"You know who I mean. Robert Naylor, that's the one. He was behind it all. He always looked up to the wrong people did our Carl. Always trusted the wrong ones. I'm sure he wasn't bad in himself, just too easily led. He always seemed to have this ... this fascination for bad 'uns. He liked to watch those old James Cagney films on telly. Just loved them, he did. What was his favourite, Bert? You know, that one where James Cagney keeps getting these headaches, the one where he loves his mother."

"White Heat." Mr Johnson looked at Susan. "You know the one. 'Top of the world, Ma!'"

Susan didn't, but she nodded anyway.

"That's the one," said Mrs Johnson. "Loved that film, our Carl did. I blame the telly myself for a lot of the violence that goes on these days, I really do. They can get away with anything now."

"Did you know any of his other friends?" Susan asked her.

"Only when he was at school. He just wasn't home much after he left school."

"You don't know the names of anyone else he went around with?"

"Sorry, dearie, no. It's so long ago I just can't remember. It's a miracle Robert Naylor came back to me, and that's only because of the shoplifting. Had the police round then, we did."

"What about this Robert Naylor? Where does he live?"

Mrs Johnson shook her head. Susan made a note of the name anyway. It might be worth trying to track him down. If he was such a "bad 'un" he might even have a record by now. There didn't seem anything else to be gained from talking to the Johnsons, Susan thought. Best nip round the corner and find out about the girl Carl got pregnant, then head back to Eastvale. She finished her tea and stood up to leave.

"Nay, la.s.s," said Mr Johnson. "Have another cup."

"No, I really must be going. Thank you very much."

"Well," he said, "I suppose you've got your job to do."

"Thank you for your time," Susan said, and opened the door.

"You can be sure of one thing, you mark my words," said Mrs Johnson.

Susan paused in the doorway. "Yes?"

"There'll be someone behind this had an influence on our Carl. Put him up to things. A bad 'un. A real bad 'un, with no conscience." And she nodded, as if to emphasize her words.

"I'll remember that," said Susan, then walked out into the cobbled street where bed-sheets, shirts and underclothes flapped on a breeze that carried the fragrances of the east.

III.

The man sitting under a graphic poster about the perils of drunken driving had the irritated, pursed-lipped look of an accountant whose figures won't add up right. When he saw Gristhorpe coming, he got to his feet sharply.

"What are you going to do about it, then?" he asked.

Gristhorpe looked over to Sergeant Rowe, who raised his eyebrows and shook his head, then he led the man to one of the downstairs interview rooms. He was in his mid-thirties, Gristhorpe guessed, dressed neatly in a grey suit, white shirt and blue and red striped tie, fair hair combed back, wire-framed gla.s.ses, and his chin thrust out. His complexion had a scrubbed and faintly ruddy complexion that Gristhorpe always, rightly or wrongly, a.s.sociated with the churchy crowd, and he smelled of Pears soap. When they sat down, Gristhorpe asked him what the problem was.

"My car's been stolen, that's what. Didn't the sergeant tell you?"

"You're here about a stolen car?"

"That's right. It's outside."

Gristhorpe rubbed his brow. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Can you explain it from the beginning?"

The man sighed and looked at his watch. "Look," he said, "I've been here twenty-two minutes already, first waiting to see the sergeant back there, then explaining everything to him. Are you telling me I have to go through it all again? Because if you are, you've got a nerve. I had trouble enough getting this time off from the office in the first place. Why don't you ask the other policeman what happened?"

Gristhorpe kept his silence throughout the tirade. He was used to impatient, precise and fastidious people like Mr Parkinson and found it best to let them carry on until they ran out of steam. "I'd rather hear it from you, sir," he replied.

"Oh, very well. I've been away for a while. When I-"

"Since when?"

"When what?"

"When did you go away?"

"Last Monday morning, a week ago. As I was saying, I left my car in the garage as usual, then I-"

"What do you mean, 'as usual'?"

"Exactly what I say. Now if-"

"You mean you were in the habit of doing this?"

"I think that's what 'as usual' means, don't you, Inspector?"

"Carry on." Gristhorpe didn't bother to correct him over rank. If the car turned out to be a useful lead, it would be important to find out how many people knew about Parkinson's habit of leaving his car for days at a time, and why he did so, but for now it was best to let him finish.

"When I returned this morning, it was exactly as I had left it, except for one thing."

"Yes?"

"The mileage. I always keep a careful record of how many miles I've done on each journey. I find it's important these days, with the price of petrol the way it is. Anyway, when I left, the mileometer stood at 7655. I know this for a fact because I wrote it down in the log I keep. When I got back it read 7782. Now, that's a difference of one hundred and twenty-seven miles, Inspector. Someone has driven my car one hundred and twenty-seven miles in my absence. How do you explain that?"

Gristhorpe scratched his bristly chin. "It certainly sounds as if someone borrowed it. If you-"

"Borrowed?" echoed Parkinson. "That implies I gave someone permission. I did no such thing. Someone stole my car, Inspector. Stole it. The fact that they returned it is irrelevant."

"Mm, you've got a point," said Gristhorpe. "Were there any signs of forced entry? Scratches around the door, that kind of thing?"

"There were scratches at the bottom of the cha.s.sis I'm positive weren't there before, but none at all around the door or windows. I imagine that today's criminal has more sophisticated means of entry than the wire coat-hanger some fools are reduced to when they lock themselves out of their cars?"

"You imagine right," said Gristhorpe. "Keys aren't hard to come by. And garages are easy to get into. What make is the car?"

"Make. I don't see-"

"For our records."

"Very well. It's a Toyota. I find the j.a.panese perfectly reliable when it comes to cars."

"Of course. And what colour?"

"Dark blue. Look, you can save us both a lot of time if you come and have a look yourself. It's parked right outside."

"Fine." Gristhorpe stood up. "Let's go."

Parkinson led. As he walked, he stuck his hands in his pockets and jingled keys and loose change. Outside the station, opposite the market square, Gristhorpe sniffed the air. His experienced dalesman's nose smelled rain. Already, clouds were blowing in from the northwest. He also smelled pub grub from the Queen's Arms, steak-and-kidney pie if he was right, and he realized he was getting hungry.

Parkinson's car was, indeed, a dark blue Toyota, illegally parked right in front of the police station.

"Look at that," Parkinson said, pointing to scratched paintwork on the bottom of the cha.s.sis, just behind the left front wheel. "Careless driving that is. Must have caught against a stone or something. Well? Aren't you going to have a look inside?"

"The fewer people do that, the better, sir," said Gristhorpe, looking to see what stones and dirt were trapped in the tread of the tires.

Parkinson frowned. "What on earth do you mean by that?" Gristhorpe turned to face him. "You say you left last Monday?" "Yes."

"What time?"

"I took the eight-thirty flight from Leeds and Bradford."

"To where?"

"I don't see as it's any of your business, but Brussels. EEC business."

Gristhorpe nodded. They were standing in the middle of the pavement and pa.s.sers-by had to get around them somehow. A woman with a pram asked Parkinson to step out of the way so she could get by. A teenager with cropped hair and a tattoo on his cheek swore at him. Parkinson was clearly uncomfortable talking in the street. A mark of his middle-cla.s.s background, Gristhorpe thought. The working cla.s.ses-both urban and rural-had always felt quite comfortable standing and chatting in the street. But Parkinson hopped from foot to foot, glancing irritably from the corners of his eyes as people brushed and jostled past them to get by. His gla.s.ses had slipped down his nose, and a stray lock of hair fell over his right eye.

"How did you get to the airport?" Gristhorpe pressed on.

"A friend drove me. A business colleague. It's no mystery, Inspector, believe me. Long-term parking at the airport is expensive. My colleague drives a company car, and the company pays. It's as simple as that." He pushed his gla.s.ses back up to the bridge of his nose. "It's not that I'm overly concerned about saving money, of course. But why pay when you don't have to?"

"Indeed. Do you always do it that way?"

"What way?"

"Don't you ever take it in turns?"

"I told you. He has a company car. Look, I don't see-"

"Please bear with me. Did n.o.body notice the car was gone?"

"How could they? It was in the garage, and the garage door was locked."

"Have you asked if anyone heard anything?"

"That's your job. That's why-"

"Where do you live, sir?"

"Bartlett Drive. Just off the Helmthorpe road."

"I know it." If Gristhorpe remembered correctly, Bartlett Drive was close to the holiday cottage the Manleys had so suddenly deserted. "And the car was replaced as if it had never been gone?"

"That's right. Only they didn't bargain for my record-keeping." "Quite. Look, I'll get someone to drive you home and take a full statement, then-"

"What? You'll do what?" A couple walking by stopped and stared. Parkinson blushed and lowered his voice. "I've already told you I've given up enough time already. Now why don't you-"

Gristhorpe held his hand up, palm out, and his innocent gaze silenced Parkinson just as it had put the fear of G.o.d into many a villain. "I can understand your feelings," Gristhorpe said, "but please listen to me for a minute. There's a chance, a very good chance, that your car was used to abduct a little girl from her home last Tuesday afternoon. If that's the case, it's essential that we get a forensic team to go over the car thoroughly. Do you understand?"

Parkinson nodded, mouth open.

"Now, this may mean some inconvenience to you. You'll get your car back in the same condition it's in now, but I can't say exactly when. Of course, we'll try to help you in any way we can, but basically, you're acting like the true public-spirited citizen that you are. You're generously helping us try to get to the bottom of a particularly nasty bit of business, right?"

"Well," said Parkinson. "Seeing as you put it that way." And the first drops of rain fell on their heads.

IV.

Banks and Susan stood at the bar in the Queen's Arms that Monday lunch-time, wedged between two farmers and a family of tourists, and munched cheese-and-onion sandwiches with their drinks. Banks had a pint of Theakston's bitter, Susan a Slimline Tonic Water. A song about a broken love affair was playing on the jukebox in the background, and somewhere by the door to the toilets, a video game beeped as aliens went down in flames. From what he could overhear, Banks gathered that the farmers were talking about money and the tourists were arguing about whether to go home because of the rain or carry on to the Bowes Museum.

"So you found the girl's parents?" Banks asked.

"Uh-uh." Susan put her hand to her mouth and wiped away some crumbs, then swallowed. "Sorry, sir. Yes, they were home. Seems like everyone except the Pakistanis around there is unemployed or retired."

"Get anything?"

Susan shook her head. Tight blonde curls danced over her ears.

Banks noticed the dangling earrings, stylized, elongated Egyptian cats in light gold. Susan had certainly brightened up her appearance a bit lately. "Dead end," she said. "Oh, it happened all right. Right charmer Carl Johnson was, from what I can gather. But the girl, Beryl's her name, she's been living in America for the past five years."

"What happened?"

"Just what his folks said. He got her in the family way, then dumped her. She came around to make a fuss, embarra.s.s him like, at his twenty-first birthday party. He was still living at home then, off and on, and his parents invited a few close relatives over. There was a big row and he stormed out. Didn't even take any of his clothes with him. They never saw him again."

Banks sipped at his pint and thought for a moment. "So they've no idea who he hung around with, or where he went?"

"No." Susan frowned. "They know he went to London, but that's all. There was a chap called Robert Naylor. Mrs Johnson saw him as bad influence."

"Has he got form?"

"Yes, sir. I checked. Just minor vandalism, drunk and disorderly. But he's dead. Nothing suspicious. He was riding his motorbike too fast. He lost control and skidded into a lorry on the M1."

"So that's that."

"I'm afraid so, sir. From what I can gather, Johnson was the type to fall in with bad company."

"That's obvious enough."

"What I mean, sir, is that both his parents and Beryl's mother said he looked up to tough guys. He wasn't much in himself, they said, but he liked to be around dangerous people."

Banks took another sip of beer. One of the tourists b.u.mped his elbow and he spilled a little on the bar. The woman apologized. "Sounds like the kind that hero-worships psychos and terrorists," Banks said. "He'd probably have been happy working for the Krays or someone like that back in the old days."

"That's it, sir. He was a weakling himself, but he liked to boast about the rough company he kept."