Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 25

Jenny held her hand up. "Say no more. I don't want to know anything about it. I can't understand why you like that man."

Banks shrugged. "Jim's all right. Anyway, back to Chivers. What if he committed the Carl Johnson murder out of self-preservation?"

"The method was still his choice."

"Yes." Banks lit another cigarette. "Look, I'll tell you what I'm getting at. Just before you arrived, I talked to my old friend Barney Merritt at the Yard, and he told me that Criminal Intelligence has got quite a file on Chivers. They've never been able to put him away for anything, but they've had reports of his suspected activities from time to time, and they've usually had some connection with organized crime. The closest they came to nabbing him was four years ago. An outsider trying to muscle in on a protection racket in Birmingham was found on a building site with a bullet in his brain. The police knew Chivers was connected with the local mob up there, and a couple of witnesses placed him with the victim in a pub near the site. Soon as things got serious, though, the witnesses started to lose their memories."

"What are you telling me, Alan, that he's a hit man or something?"

Banks waved his hand. "No, hold on, let me finish. Most of the information in the CI files concerns his suspected connection with criminal gangs in London and in Birmingham, doing hits, n.o.bbling witnesses, enforcing debt-collection and the like. But word has it that when business is slack, Chivers is not averse to a bit of murder and mayhem on the side, just for the fun of it. And according to Barney, his employers started to get bad feelings about him about a year ago. They're keeping their distance. Again, there's nothing proven, just hearsay."

"Interesting," said Jenny. "Is there any more?"

"Just a few details. He's prime suspect-without a sc.r.a.p of proof-in three murders down south, one involving a fair amount of torture before death, and there are rumours of one or two fourteen-year-old girls he's treated roughly in bed."

Jenny shook her head. "If you're getting at some kind of connection between that and Gemma, I'd say it's highly unlikely."

"But why? He likes his s.e.x rough and strange. He likes them young. What happens when fourteen isn't enough of a kick any more?"

"The fact that he likes having s.e.x with fourteen-year-old girls in no way indicates, psychologically, that he could be interested in seven-year-olds. Quite the opposite, really."

Banks frowned. "I don't understand."

"It was something else I discovered in my research. According to statistics, the younger the child, the older the paedophile is likely to be. Your Chivers sounds about the right age for an unhealthy interest in fourteen-year-olds, but, you know, if you'd given me no information at all about Gemma's abduction, I'd say you should be looking for someone over forty, most likely someone who knew Gemma-a family friend, neighbour or even a relative- who lives in the area, or not far away, and probably lives alone. I certainly wouldn't be looking for a young couple from Birmingham, or wherever."

Banks shook his head. "Okay, let's get back on track. Tell me what you think of this scenario. We know that plenty of psychopaths have found gainful employment in organized crime. They're good at frightening people, they're clever, and they make good killers. The problem is that they're hard to control. Now, what do you do with a psychopath when you find him more of a business liability than an a.s.set? You try to cut him loose and hope to h.e.l.l he doesn't bear a grudge. Or you have him killed, and so the cycle continues. His old bosses don't trust Chivers any more, Jenny. He's persona non grata. They're scared of him. He has to provide his own entertainment now."

"Hmm." Jenny swirled her gla.s.s and took another sip. "It makes some sense, but I doubt that it's quite like that. In the first place, if he's hard to control, it's more likely to mean that he's losing control of himself. From what you told me, Chivers must have been a highly organized personality type at one time, exhibiting a great deal of control. But psychopaths are also highly unstable. They're p.r.o.ne to deterioration. His personality could be disintegrating towards the disorganized type, and right now he might be in the middle, the mixed type. Most serial killers, for example, keep on killing until they're caught or until they lose touch completely with reality. That's why you don't find many of them over forty. They've either been caught by then, or they're hopelessly insane."

Banks stubbed out his cigarette. "Are you suggesting that Chivers could be turning into a serial killer?"

Jenny shrugged. "Not necessarily a serial killer, but it's possible, isn't it? He doesn't fit the general profile of a paedophile, and he's certainly changing into something. Yes, it makes sense, Alan. I'm not saying it's true, but it's certainly consistent with the information you've got."

"So what next?"

Jenny shuddered. "Your guess is as good as mine. Whatever it is, you can be sure it won't be very pleasant. If he is experiencing loss of control, then he's probably at a very volatile and unpredictable stage." She finished her drink. "I'll give you one piece of advice, though."

"What's that?"

"If it is true, be very careful. This man's a loose cannon on the deck. He's very dangerous. Maybe even more so than you realize."

III.

"Congratulations," said Banks. "I really mean it, Jim. I'm happy for you. Why the h.e.l.l didn't you tell me before?"

"Aye, well ... weren't sure." Sergeant Hatchley blushed. A typical Yorkshireman, he wasn't comfortable with expressions of sentiment.

The two of them sat in the large oak-panelled dining-room of the Red Lion Hotel, an enormous Victorian structure by the roundabout on the southern edge of Eastvale. Hatchley was looking a bit healthier than he had on his arrival that afternoon. Then the ravages of a hangover had still been apparent around his eyes and in his skin, but now he had regained his normal ruddy complexion and that tell-me-another-one look in his pale blue eyes. Just for a few moments, though, his colour deepened even more and his eyes filled with pride. Banks was congratulating him on his wife's pregnancy. Their first.

"When's it due?" Banks asked.

"I don't know. Don't they usually take nine months?"

"I just wondered if the doctor had given you a date."

"Mebbe Carol knows. She didn't say owt to me, though. This is a good bit of beef." He cut into his prime-rib roast and washed it down with a draught of Theakston's bitter. "Ah, it's good to be home again."

Banks was eating lamb and drinking red wine. Not that he had become averse to Theakston's, but the Red Lion had a decent house claret and it seemed a shame to ignore it. "You still think of Eastvale as home?" he asked.

"Grew up here," replied Hatchley around a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding. "Place gets in your blood."

"How are you liking the coast?"

"It's all right. Been a good summer." Sergeant Hatchley had been transferred to Saltby Bay, between Scarborough and Whitby, mostly in order to make way for Phil Richmond's boost up the promotion ladder. Hatchley was a good sergeant and always would be; Richmond, Banks suspected, would probably make at least Chief Inspector, his own rank, and might go even further if he kept on top of the latest computer technology and showed a bit more initiative and leadership quality. Susan Gay, their most recent DC, was certainly demonstrating plenty of initiative, though it didn't always lead where it should.

"Do I detect a note of nostalgia?" Banks asked.

Hatchley grinned. "Let me put it this way. It's a bit like a holiday. Trouble is-and I never thought I'd be complaining about this-it's a holiday that never b.l.o.o.d.y ends. There's not much goes on for CID to deal with out there, save for a bit of organized pickpocketing in season, a few Band-Es, or a spot of trouble with the bookies now and then. It's mostly paperwork, a desk job." Hatchley uttered those last two words with flat-vowelled Yorkshire contempt.

"Thought you'd be enjoying the rest."

"I might be a bit of a lazy sod, but I'm not b.l.o.o.d.y retiring age yet. You know me, I like a bit of action now and then. Out there, half the time I think I've died and gone to Harrogate, only by the sea."

"What are you getting at, Jim?"

Hatchley hesitated for a moment, then put his knife and fork down. "I'll be blunt. We're all right for now, Carol and me, but after the baby's born, do you think there's any chance of us getting back to Eastvale?"

Banks sipped some wine and thought for a moment.

"Look," Hatchley said, "I know the super doesn't like me. Never has. I knew that even before you came on the scene."

Three and a half years ago, Banks thought. Was that all? So much had happened. He raised his eyebrows.

"But we get on all right, don't we?" Hatchley went on. "I mean, it took us a while, we didn't have the best of starts. But I know my faults. I've got strengths, too, is all I'm saying."

"I know that," Banks said. "And you're right." He remembered that it had taken him two years to call Sergeant Hatchley by his first name. By then he had developed a grudging respect for the man's tenacity. Hatchley might take the easy way out, act in unorthodox ways, cut corners, take risks, but he generally got what he set out to get. In other words, he was a bit of a maverick, like Banks himself, and he was neither as thick nor as thuggish as Banks had first thought.

Apart from Gristhorpe, Banks felt most comfortable with Hatchley. Phil Richmond was all right, pleasant enough, but he always seemed a bit remote and self-absorbed. For G.o.d's sake, Banks thought, what could you expect from a man who read science fiction, listened to New Age music and spent half his time playing computer games? Susan Gay was too p.r.i.c.kly, too over-sensitive to feel really at ease with, though he admired her s.p.u.n.k and her common sense.

"It's not up to me," Banks said finally. "You know that. But the way Phil's going it wouldn't surprise me if he went in for a transfer to the Yard before long."

"Aye, well, he always was an ambitious lad, was Phil."

It was said without rancour, but Banks knew it must have hurt Hatchley to be shunted to a backwater so as not to impede a younger man's progress up the ranks. Transfer to CID was no more a "promotion" per se than transfer to Traffic and Communications- a sergeant was a sergeant, whether he or she had the prefix "detective" or not-though some, like Susan Gay, actually saw it that way, as a mark of recognition of special abilities. Some detectives were transferred back to uniform; some returned from choice. But Banks knew that Hatchley had no desire to walk the beat or drive the patrol cars again. What he wanted was to come back to Eastvale as a Detective Sergeant, and there simply wasn't room for him with Richmond at the same rank.

Banks shrugged. "What can I say, Jim? Be patient."

"Can I count on your support, if the situation arises?"

Banks nodded. "You can." He smiled to himself as the unbidden image of Jim Hatchley and Susan Gay working together came to mind. Oh, there would be fun and games ahead if Sergeant Hatchley came back to Eastvale.

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 gla.s.s 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.u.g.g.e.r. What about this Chivers bloke? Any leads?"

"According to Phil, we've already had sightings from St Austell, King's Lynn, c.l.i.theroe 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 s.h.i.t. According to what Barney could dig up, his full name's Jeremy Chivers, called Jem for short. He grew up in a nice middle-cla.s.s 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 appet.i.tes 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 cliche 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 n.o.ble 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?"