Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 9

"Something like that."

"He didn't look like a criminal type to me." She hugged herself and shuddered. "You just can't tell, can you?"

"What did you talk about, when you met on the stairs?"

"Oh, this and that. How expensive things are getting, the weather ... you know, just ordinary stuff."

"Did you ever meet any of his friends?"

"No. I don't really think he had any. He was a bit of a loner. I did hear voices a couple of times, but that's all."

"When? Recently?"

"Last couple of weeks, anyway."

"How many people do you think were talking?"

"Only two, I'd say."

"Could you describe the other voice?"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't really listening. I mean, it's m.u.f.fled anyway, you couldn't actually hear what anyone was saying. And I had the telly on. I could only hear them in the quiet bits."

"Was it a man?"

"Oh, yes, it was another man. I'm certain about that. At least, he had a sort of deep voice."

"Thank you, Mrs ... ?"

"Gerrard. Miss."

"Thank you, Miss Gerrard. Do you know if Mr Johnson owned a car?"

"I don't think he did. I never saw him in one, anyway."

"Do you have any idea what he did for a living?"

She looked away. "Well, he ..."

"Look, Miss Gerrard, I don't care if he was cheating on the social or the taxman. That's not what I'm interested in."

She chewed her lower lip a few seconds, then smiled. "Well, we all do it a bit don't we? I suppose even coppers cheat on their income tax, don't they?"

Bank smiled back and put a finger to the side of his nose.

"And an important detective like yourself wouldn't be interested in something as petty as that, would he?"

Banks shook his head.

"Right," she said. "I only know because he mentioned the weather once, how nice it was to have outdoor work."

"Outdoor work?"

"Yes."

"Like what? Road work, construction?"

"Oh, no, he weren't no ditch-digger. He was a gardener, Mr Johnson was, had real green fingers."

It was amazing the skills one could learn in prison these days, Banks thought. "Where did he work?"

"Like I say, I only know because we got talking about it, how some people are so filthy rich and the rest of us just manage to sc.r.a.pe by. He wasn't no communist, mind you, he-"

"Miss Gerrard, do you know who he worked for?"

"Oh, yes. I do go on a bit, don't I? It was Mr Harkness, lives in that nice old house out Fortford way. Paid quite well, Mr Johnson said. But then, he could afford to, couldn't he?"

The name rang a bell. There had been a feature about him in the local rag a year or two ago. Adam Harkness, Banks remembered, had come from a local family that had emigrated to South Africa and made a fortune in diamonds. Harkness had followed in his father's footsteps, and after living for a while in Amsterdam had come back to Swainsdale in semi-retirement.

"Thank you," Banks said. "You've been very helpful."

"Have I?" She shrugged. "Oh well, always a pleasure to oblige." Banks walked out into the street and mulled over what he had learned from Miss Gerrard. Johnson had been working for Adam Harkness, probably for cash in hand, no questions asked. That might explain the thousand or so pounds in the envelope. On the other hand, surely gardening didn't pay that much? And why did he hide the money? To guard against thieves, perhaps? Having sticky fingers himself, Johnson would probably be all too aware of the danger of leaving large sums of money lying around the place. Maybe he didn't have a bank account, was the kind who hid his fortune in a mattress or, in this case, under the cistern lid. But it still didn't ring true. Banks looked at his watch. Almost four in the afternoon. Time to pay Adam Harkness a visit before dinner.

IV.

Detective Sergeant Philip Richmond's eyes were beginning to ache. He saved his data, then stood up and stretched, rubbing the small of his back. He'd been at it for four hours, much too long to sit staring at a screen. Probably get cancer of the eyeb.a.l.l.s from all the radiation it emitted. They were all very well, these computers, he mused, but you had to be careful not to get carried away with them. These days, though, the more courses he took, the more he learned about computers, the better his chances of promotion were.

He walked over to the window. Luckily, the new computer room faced the market square, like Banks's office, but the window was tiny, as the place was nothing but a converted storage room for cleaners' materials. Anyway, the doctor had told him to look away from the screen into the distance occasionally to exercise his eye muscles, so he did.

Already many of the tourists were walking back to their cars-no doubt jamming up many of Eastvale's side streets and collecting a healthy amount in tickets-and some of the market stalls were closing.

He'd knock off soon, and then get himself ready for his date with Rachel Pierce. He had met her last Christmas in Barnard Castle, at the toy shop where she worked, while checking an alibi on a murder case, and they had been going steady ever since. There was still no talk of wedding bells, but if things continued going as well as they had been for much longer, Richmond knew he would seriously consider tying the knot. He had never met anyone quite as warm and as funny as Rachel before. They even shared a taste for science fiction; they both loved Philip K. d.i.c.k and Roger Zelazny. Tonight they would go and see that new horror film at the Crown-new for Eastvale, anyway, which was usually a good few months behind the rest of the country. Rachel loved scary films, and Richmond loved the way they made her cling to him. He looked at his watch. Barring emergencies, he would be with her in a couple of hours.

The phone rang.

Richmond cursed and answered it. The switchboard operator told him it was someone calling for Superintendent Gristhorpe, who was out, so she had put the call through to Richmond.

"h.e.l.lo?" a woman's voice came on the line.

Richmond introduced himself. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," she said hesitantly, "I really wanted the man in charge. I called that temporary number, you know, the one you mentioned in the paper, and the constable there told me to call this number if I wanted to talk to Superintendent Gristhorpe."

Richmond explained the situation. "I'm sure I can help you," he added. "What's it about?"

"All right," she said. "The reason I'm calling you so late is that I've only just heard it from the woman who does the cleaning. She does it once a week, you see, on Sat.u.r.day mornings."

"Heard what?"

"They've gone. Lock, stock and barrel. Both of them. Oh, don't get me wrong, it's not as if they aren't fully paid up or anything, and I wouldn't say they looked exactly like the couple the papers described, but it is funny, isn't it? People don't usually just take off like that without so much as a by-your-leave, not when they've paid cash in advance."

Richmond held the receiver away from his ear for a moment and frowned. Why didn't this make any sense? Was he going insane? Had the computer radiation finally eaten its way into his frontal lobes?

"Where are you calling from?" he asked.

She sounded surprised. "Eastvale, of course. My office. I'm working late."

"Your name?"

"Patricia. Patricia c.u.mmings. But-"

"One thing at a time. You said your office. What kind of office?"

"I'm an estate agent. Randall and Palmer's, just across the square from the police station. Now-"

"All right," Richmond said. "I know the place. What are you calling about?"

"I thought I'd made myself perfectly clear, but apparently you need it spelled out."

Richmond grinned. "Yes, please. Spell it out."

"It's about that girl who disappeared, Gemma Scupham. At least it might be. That's why I wanted to speak to the man in charge. I think I might know something about the couple you're looking for, the ones who did it."

"I'll be right over," Richmond said, and hung up. He left a message at the front desk for Gristhorpe and dashed out into the market square.

FIVE.

I.

As Banks drove west towards Fortford again, the low sun silhouetted the trees ahead. Some of them, stripped bare by Dutch elm disease, looked like skeletal hands clawing their way out of the earth. An evening haze hung over Fortford and softened the edges of the hills beyond the village. It muted the vibrant greens of the ryegra.s.s on the lower dalesides and washed out the browns and greys of the upper pastures.

Banks drove into the village and pa.s.sed the green, to his left, where a group of elderly locals sat gossiping and pa.s.sing the time on a bench below the partially excavated Roman fort on the round hillock opposite. Smoke from their pipes drifted slowly on the hazy evening air.

It felt like a summer evening, Banks thought, and wondered just how long the fine weather would last; not long, if you believed the forecasters. Still, at least for now he could drive with his window down and enjoy the fresh air, except when it was permeated by the overripe tang of manure. Sometimes, though, a different smell would drift in, a garden bonfire, burning vegetation acrid on the air. He listened to Gurney's "Preludes" and felt that the piano music possessed the same starkly beautiful quality as the songs, unmistakably Gurney, heart-rending in the way it s.n.a.t.c.hed moments of order from chaos.

At the corner, by the whitewashed sixteenth-century pub, he turned right onto the Lyndgarth road. Way ahead, about halfway up the daleside, he could see Lyndgarth itself, limestone cottages cl.u.s.tered around a small green, and the stubby, square tower of St Mary's. About half a mile north of the village, he could make out Gristhorpe's old grey farmhouse. Just to the left of Lyndgarth, a little lower down the hillside, stood the dark ruin of Devraulx Abbey, partially hidden by trees, looking eerie and haunted in the smoky evening light.

Banks drove only as far as the small stone bridge over the River Swain and turned left into a gravelled drive. Sheltered on all sides but the water by poplars, "Leasholme" was an ideal, secluded spot for a reclusive millionaire to retire to. Banks had phoned Adam Harkness earlier and been invited that very evening. He doubted he would find out much from Carl Johnson's employer, but he had to try.

He parked at the end of the drive beside Harkness's Jaguar. The house itself was a mix of Elizabethan and seventeenth-century styles, built mostly of limestone, with grit-stone lintels and cornerstones and a flagged roof. It was, however, larger than most, and had clearly belonged to a wealthy landowner. Over the door, the date read 1617, but Banks guessed the original structure had been there earlier. The large garden had little to show but roses that time of year, but it looked well designed and cared for. Carl Johnson's green fingers, no doubt.

Finally, irritated by the cloud of gnats that hung over him, Banks rang the bell.

Harkness opened the door a few moments later and beckoned him inside, then led him along a cavernous hallway into a room at the back of the house, which turned out to be the library. Bookcases, made of dark wood, covered three walls, flanking a heavy door in one and a stone hearth in another. A white wicker armchair faced the fourth wall, where french windows opened into the garden. The well-kept lawn sloped down to the riverbank, fringed with rushes, and just to the left, a large copper beech framed a view of the Leas, with Lyndgarth and Aldington Edge beyond, just obscuring Devraulx Abbey behind its thick foliage. The river possessed a magical quality in the fading light; slow-moving, mirror-like, it presented a perfect reflection of the reeds that grew by its banks.

"It is spectacular, isn't it?" Harkness said. "It's one of the reasons I bought the place. It's much too big for me, of course. I don't even use half the rooms."

Banks had noticed the dust in the hall and a certain mustiness to the atmosphere. Even the library was untidy, with a large desk littered with papers, pens, rubber bands and a few books placed in small piles on the floor beneath the shelves.

"How long have you been here?" Banks asked.

"Two years. I still travel a fair bit. I'm not retired yet, you know, still got a lot of life in me. But I thought it was time I deserved to take things easy, put in a bit more golf."

Harkness looked about fifty-five. He was Banks's height, with silver hair and that brick-red, lined complexion peculiar to the Englishmen who have spent years in warmer climates. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and navy-blue trousers. The pot-belly and sagging b.r.e.a.s.t.s showed he wasn't a man who took much exercise off the golf course.

"Drink?"

"A small Scotch, please," Banks said.

"Sit down." Harkness offered Banks the wicker chair and pulled a swivel chair for himself from behind the desk.

Banks sat. Music played softly in the background: the Radio Three Dvorak concert, by the sound of it. He glanced at the books on the shelves and, for some reason, got the impression they were more for show than use, bought by the yard. A full set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, some Book Club editions of Jane Austen and d.i.c.kens, a mail-order "Great Writers" series.

Harkness pa.s.sed Banks the drink in a heavy crystal gla.s.s then joined him, carefully tugging up the creases of his trousers before he sat. "You didn't tell me very much on the telephone," he said. "How can I help you?"

"I'd just like to ask you a few questions about Carl Johnson."

Harkness shook his head slowly. "I still find it hard to believe such a thing could happen. We live in dangerous times." His accent was an odd mix of South African and public-school English, his manner relaxed. A man used to being in charge, Banks guessed.

"Did you know much about Mr Johnson? About his life, his background?"

Harkness shook his head. "I rarely saw him. He would come and put in his hours whether I was here or not. That was our arrangement. I'm afraid I know nothing at all about his personal life."

"Did you know he had a criminal record?"

Harkness raised an eyebrow and looked at Banks over the top of his gla.s.s. "I know he'd been in jail, if that's what you mean."

"How did you find out?"

"He told me when he came for the interview." Harkness allowed a brief smile. "In fact, he told me that's where he learned the job."

"And that didn't bother you?"

"The man had served his time. He was obviously honest enough to let me know about his past right from the start. Besides, I believe in giving everyone another chance. Everyone's capable of change, given the right conditions. Carl was a good, hard worker. And he was always very open and honest in his dealings with me. Anyway, I'm not an easy man to defraud."

"I thought you hardly ever talked to him."

"We had to discuss his work occasionally."

"How much did you pay him?"

"Five pounds an hour. I know that's not very much for a skilled worker, but he seemed grateful enough. And it was ... how shall I say? ... cash in hand."