Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 22

"I suppose so. That's what I did. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"I wouldn't do that, Les."

"What?"

"Hope to die. Look what happened to Carl Johnson."

Poole swallowed. "That's got nothing to do with me."

"But we don't know why he was killed, do we? Let's just take a hypothetical scenario, all right? A sort of falling out among thieves. Say Carl was involved in the Fletcher's warehouse job, and say there were two or three others in on it as well. Now, maybe Carl got too greedy, or maybe he tried to stick away a few pieces of merchandise for himself-like one of his accomplices might have done, too-you know, a nice new telly, and maybe a stereo. Follow my drift so far?"

Poole nodded.

"Good. So let's say one of these thieves doesn't have much regard for human life. He gets mad at Carl, arranges to meet him to discuss the problem, persuades him to go for a ride, then guts him. Now, what do you think this bloke, who's already killed once, might do if he gets wind there's a problem with another of his accomplices?"

Poole's jaw dropped.

"What's wrong, Les? Cat got your tongue?"

Poole shook his head. "Nothing. I ain't done nothing."

"So you keep saying. Say it often enough and you might believe it, but I won't. Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me, Les? Maybe you met this bloke, or maybe Carl talked about him. I'd hate to have to hang around some filthy old lead mine while the doc tried to stuff you into a body sack without spilling your guts all over the dirt."

Poole put his hands over his ears. "Stop it!" he yelled. "It's not b.l.o.o.d.y fair. You can't do this to me!"

Banks slammed the desk. "Yes, I b.l.o.o.d.y well can," he said. "And I'll go on doing it until I find out the truth. If I have to, I'll lock you up. More likely I'll just let you go and tell the press you were kind enough to give us a few tips on the warehouse job. What's it to be, Les? Your choice."

Poole looked around the office like a caged animal. Seeing no way out, he sagged in his chair and muttered, "All right. You're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you know."

Banks glanced over at Susan Gay. She turned a page in her notebook.

"Look, about this 'ypo-whatsit story of yours," Poole said.

"Hypothetical."

"That's right. I mean, you can't pin owt on anyone for just telling an 'ypothetical story, can you?"

Banks grabbed his coffee mug, pushed his chair back, put his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette. "Maybe, maybe not," he said. "Just tell us about the bloke, Les. Talk to me. I'm listening."

"Yeah, well, I did b.u.mp into Carl a couple of times, accidental like. We had a jar or two now and then, talked about old times. There was this mate he mentioned. I didn't want to say before because I didn't want to get involved, not now that I'm going straight and all-What's up with you?"

"Sorry, Les," Banks said. "Just a bit of coffee went down the wrong way. Carry on. Tell me about this mate of Carl's."

Poole scowled. "Anyway, I remembered from the time inside, like, this bloke he used to talk about sometimes, like it was his hero or something. I never met him myself, but just hearing about him gave me the creeps. Funny that, like Carl seemed to get some kind of kick out of telling me about this bloke and what he did and all that, but to me it was a bit over the top. I mean, I'm no f.u.c.king angel, I'll admit that, but I've got my limits. I never hurt anyone. Remember, this is all 'ypothetical."

"The man, Les."

"Hold on, I'm getting to him. Anyways, as I was saying Carl said he was here in Eastvale. Well, that's when I cut out. I didn't want nothing to do with them. I didn't want to get mixed up in anything."

"What didn't you want to get mixed up in, Les?"

"You know, anything, like, criminal."

"I see. Were they in on the Fletcher's warehouse job? Johnson and this other bloke."

"I think so. But like I said, I stayed well away after I heard this bloke was in town."

"Tell me about him."

"Not much to tell. Like I said, I never met him. According to Carl, he's never been inside, yet he's been up to more evil than many as have."

"What kind of evil?"

"You name it. If what Carl says is right, this bloke worked with some of the London mobs, you know, peddling p.o.r.n and hurting people who wouldn't pay up, but now he's gone freelance. Bit of a rover. Never stays in one place very long. Got lots of contacts."

"And he's never been inside?"

"Not as anyone knows of." Poole leaned forward. "Look, Mr Banks," he said, licking his lips. "This bloke's really nasty, know what I mean? Carl told me he was in a fish-and-chip shop once and got arguing with the woman in front. She was carrying a dog with her, like, one of those little Pekinese things, and this bloke just plucked it out of her arms and flung it in the frier then walked out cool as a cuc.u.mber. He's a nutter. I didn't want nothing to do with him."

"Can't say I blame you," said Banks. "What's his name?"

"Dunno. Carl never said."

"Les!"

"Look, I don't want anyone knowing I-"

"Just between you and me, Les. Off the record."

"You promise?"

"I'm in the business of preventing crime, remember? It'd hardly be in my interests to have another murder on my patch, would it? And you've no idea how much I'd miss you."

"Huh. Even so ..."

"Les."

Poole paused. "All right, all right. I'll trust you-still 'ypothetical, like. All I know is his name is Chivers. It's p.r.o.nounced with a 'sh', like in s.h.i.+vers. I don't know if it's his real name or a nickname."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know. I told you, I never met him."

Banks wasn't convinced. For a start, he was certain that Poole had been connected with the Fletcher's warehouse job, and now it seemed a good bet that Johnson and this Chivers person had been involved, too, along with John Fairley, the junk-shop owner. He could understand Poole's not wis.h.i.+ng to implicate himself, of course, especially as it was now a matter of murder.

The thing to remember about Les Poole was that he had spent time inside; he knew the value of information and of silence. He knew how to get as much slack as he could while giving as little as possible in return. Maybe he was a small-time crook, a coward and a bully, not too bright, but he knew the ropes; he knew how to duck and dodge to save his own neck, how to measure out exactly enough co-operation to get himself out of trouble. Banks sensed that he was holding back, that he had met this Chivers, but there was no percentage in pus.h.i.+ng him yet. They needed more leverage, and Poole was right about one thing: impounding Brenda Scupham's television would look very bad indeed.

"Is he still in Eastvale?"

"Dunno. Don't think so."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about him?"

"No. 'Cept I'd stay out of his way if I were you. Carl said he had this bird and-"

"What bird's this, Les?"

"This bird Chivers had with him. Some blonde bint. Apparently, he always has a bit of spare with him. The la.s.ses like him. Must be his unpredictable, violent nature."

They liked Les, too, Banks remembered, and wondered if there had been a spot of bother about this blonde. Maybe Les had made a pa.s.s and Chivers put a scare in him. Or maybe Carl Johnson had. It wasn't so difficult, he thought, to fill in the rest from the sc.r.a.ps Poole dished out.

"What did Carl say about Chivers's girlfriend?" he asked.

"Just that Chivers knifed a bloke once for looking at her the wrong way. Didn't kill him, like, just cut him up a bit. Anyway, like I said, he never had any shortage of birds. Not scrubbers either, according to Carl. Quality goods. Maybe it was his smile," Les added.

"What smile?"

"Nothing. Just that Carl said he had this really nice smile, like. Said his mates called him 'Smiler' Chivers."

When Banks heard Poole's last comment, the warning bells began to ring. "Susan," he said, looking over Poole's shoulder. "Do you know if the super's still here?"

II.

Brenda Scupham couldn't concentrate on the television programme. For a moment she thought of going out, maybe to the pub, but decided she couldn't stand the questions and the looks people would give her. She hadn't enjoyed going out much at all since Gemma had gone. For one thing, people had given her dirty looks when they saw her, as if they blamed her or she wasn't obeying the proper rules of mourning or something. Instead, she took another tranquillizer and poured herself a small measure of gin. Again she wondered what the h.e.l.l was going on.

All she knew was that the police had called at her house earlier that evening looking for Les. He'd been out of course, and she hadn't known where, though she was sure the policeman hadn't believed her. When she asked what they wanted, they wouldn't tell her anything. Surely, she thought, if it had anything to do with Gemma, they should tell her?

She looked over at the television and video. Maybe that's what it was all about? She knew they were stolen. She wasn't that stupid. Les hadn't said so, of course, but then he wouldn't; he never gave away anything. He had dropped them off in John's van one afternoon and said they were bankrupt stock. All the time the police had been coming and going because of Gemma, Brenda had been worried they would spot the stolen goods and arrest her. But they hadn't. Perhaps now they had some more evidence and had decided to arrest Les after all.

How her life could have changed so much in just one week was beyond her. But it had, and even the tranquillizers did no real good. She had enjoyed going on television with Lenora Carlyle- that had been the high spot of her week-but nothing had come of it. Just as nothing had come of the police search, the "Crimewatch" reconstruction, or her appeals through the newspapers. And now, as she sat and thought about the police visit, she wondered if Les might have been involved in some way with Gemma's disappearance. She couldn't imagine how or why- except he hadn't got on very well with Gemma-but he had been acting strangely of late.

And the more she thought about it, the more she lost faith in Lenora's conviction that Gemma was still alive. She couldn't be. Not after all this time, not after the bloodstained clothing they had brought for her to identify. And apart from that one statement, Lenora had come up with nothing else, had she? Surely she ought to be able to picture where Gemma was if she was any good as a psychic? But no, nothing. And what if Gemma was alive somewhere? It didn't bear thinking about. She felt closer to her daughter now she was gone than she ever had while Gemma had been around.

Time after time her thoughts circled back to Mr Brown and Miss Peterson. Should she have known they weren't who they said they were? And if she hadn't felt so guilty about not loving Gemma the way a good mother should and about shaking her the week before, would she have let her go so easily? They had been so convincing, kind and understanding rather than accusing in their approach. They had looked so young, so official, so competent, but how was she to know what child-care workers were supposed to look like?

Again she thought of the police officers who had come to her house earlier. Maybe they had found Gemma and some clue had led them to Les. But still she couldn't imagine what he could possibly have to do with it. He had been out when the child-care workers called. Still, there was no denying the police were after him. If he had anything to do with Gemma's abduction, Brenda thought, she would kill him. d.a.m.n the consequences. It was all his fault anyway. Yes, she thought, reaching for the gin bottle again. She would kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. For now, though, she was sick of thinking and worrying.

The only thing that worked, that took away the pain, even though it lasted such a short time, was the video. Slowly, she got up and went over to the player. The ca.s.sette was still in. All she had to do was rewind and watch herself on television again. She had been nervous, but she was surprised when she watched the playback that it didn't show so much. And she had looked so pretty.

Brenda poured herself another generous measure, turned on one element of the fire and reclined on the sofa with her dressing-gown wrapped around her. She had watched the video once and was rewinding for a second viewing when she heard Les's key in the door.

III.

"You don't believe for a moment he told you everything, do you?" Gristhorpe asked Banks later in the Queen's Arms. It was a quiet Wednesday evening, a week since the first news of Gemma Scupham's disappearance-and despite the helicopters and search tactics learned from the North American a.s.sociation of Search and Rescue, she still hadn't been found. Banks and Gristhorpe sat at a table near the window eating the roast beef sandwiches that they had persuaded Cyril, the landlord, to make for them.

Banks chewed and swallowed his mouthful, then said, "No. For a start, I'm sure he's seen this Chivers bloke, but he couldn't really admit to it without implicating himself in the warehouse job. We let him walk. For now. Les won't stray far. He's got nowhere to go."

"And then?"

Banks grinned. "Just an idea, but I'd like to find out if Les really does know anything about Gemma's abduction. I had a phone call just after I'd finished with Poole. Jim Hatchley's coming into town. Seems his mother-in-law's commissioned him to install a shower-"

Gristhorpe slapped the table. One of the customers at the bar turned and looked. "No, Alan. I'm not having any of Hatchley's interrogation methods in this one. If Gemma's abductors get off because we've bent the rules I'd never b.l.o.o.d.y forgive myself. Or Sergeant Hatchley, for that matter."

"No," said Banks, "that's not what I had in mind." He outlined his plan and both of them ended up laughing.

"Aye," said Gristhorpe, nodding slowly. "Aye, he'd be the best man for that job, all right. And it might work, at that. Either way, we've nothing to lose."

Banks washed his sandwich down with a swig of Theakston's bitter and lit a cigarette. "So where do we go now?" he asked.

Gristhorpe leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Let's start with a summary. I find it helps to get everything as clear as possible. In the first place, we know that a couple who called themselves Chris and Connie Manley rented a cottage and changed their appearance. Then they 'borrowed' a dark blue Toyota from Bruce Parkinson, pa.s.sed themselves off as social workers called Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, and conned Brenda Scupham into handing over her daughter on Tuesday afternoon. After that, they drove a hundred and twenty-seven miles before returning the car to its owner.

"As far as we know, they left the cottage on Thursday in a white Fiesta. We don't have the number, and Phil's already checked and re-checked with the rental outlets. Nothing. And it hasn't been reported stolen. We could check the owners.h.i.+p of every white Fiesta in the country, and we b.l.o.o.d.y well will if we have to, but that'll take us till doomsday. They might not be registered as owners, anyway. n.o.body saw them with the child in Eastvale, and there was no evidence of a child's presence in the cottage, but she could have been there-the whitewash supports that-and we found her prints in Parkinson's car. Why they took her, we don't know. Or where. All we know is they most likely didn't bring her back, which to me indicates that she could well be lying dead and buried somewhere in a hundred-and-twenty-mile radius. And that includes the area of the North York Moors where we found the bloodstained clothes. Vic says there wasn't enough blood on them to cause death, but that doesn't mean the rest didn't spill elsewhere, or that she might not have died in some other way. Poole told you that this Chivers person was involved in the p.o.r.n trade in London, so that's another ugly possibility to consider. I've been onto the paedophile squad again, but they've got nothing on anyone of that name or description.

"Anyway. Next we find Carl Johnson's body in the old lead mine on Friday morning. Dr Glendenning says he was probably killed sometime after dark on Thursday. You follow all the leads you can think of in the Johnson murder, and we arrive at this same man called Chivers with a smile that people notice, a blonde girlfriend and a nasty disposition. You think Poole knows a bit more. Maybe he does. There are too many coincidences for my liking. Chivers and the girl are the ones who took Gemma. Maybe one or both of them also killed Carl Johnson. Chivers, most likely, as it took a fair bit of strength to rip his guts open. But why? What's the connection?"

"Johnson could have double-crossed them on the warehouse job, or maybe he knew about Gemma and threatened to tell. Whatever Johnson was, he wasn't a paedophile."

"a.s.suming he found out they'd taken her?"

"Yes."

"That's probably our best bet. Makes more sense than killing over a b.l.o.o.d.y TV set, though stranger things have happened."

"Or it could have been over the girlfriend," Banks added. "Especially after what Poole told me about the knifing."

"Aye," said Gristhorpe. "That's another strong possibility. But let's imagine that Carl Johnson found out Chivers and his girlfriend had taken Gemma and ... well, done whatever they did to her. Now Johnson's no angel, and he seems to have an unhealthy fascination with bad 'uns, from what you tell me, but somehow, they've gone too far for him. He doesn't like child-molesters. He becomes a threat. They lure him out to the mine. Maybe the girl does it with promises of s.e.x, or Chivers with money, I don't know. But somehow they get him there and ..." Gristhorpe paused. "The mine might be a connection. I know the area's been thoroughly searched already, but I think we should go over it again tomorrow. There's plenty of spots around there a body could be hidden away. Maybe the clothes on the moors were just a decoy. What do you think, Alan?"

Banks frowned. "It's all possible, but there are still too many uncertainties for my liking. I'd like to know more about the girl's part in all this, for a start. Who is she? What's in it for her? And we've no evidence that Chivers killed Johnson."

"You're right, we don't have enough information to come to conclusions yet. But we're getting there. I thought you fancied Adam Harkness for the Johnson murder?"

"I did, though I'd no real reason to. Looks like I might have been wrong, doesn't it?"

Gristhorpe smiled. "Happens to us all, Alan. You always did have a chip on your shoulder when it came to the rich and influential, didn't you?"

"What?"

"Nay, Alan, I'm not criticizing. You're a working-cla.s.s lad. You got where you are through brains, ability and sheer hard slog. I'm not much different myself, just a poor farm-boy at heart. I've no great love for them as were born with silver spoons in their mouths. And I don't mind sticking up for you when Harkness complains to the ACC about police hara.s.sment. All I'm saying is be careful it doesn't blur your objectivity."

Banks grinned. "Fair enough," he said. "But I haven't finished with Mr Harkness yet. I called the Johannesburg police and set a few enquiries in motion. You never know, there might be something to that scandal yet. And I called Piet in Amsterdam to see if he can track down Harkness's ex-wife. There's still a chance Harkness might have been involved somewhere along the line. What about your black magician, Melville Westman?"

"Nothing," said Gristhorpe. "The lads did a thorough job. He looks clean. It's my bet that Gemma was in the Manleys' cottage at some point, and that's where the whitewash on her clothes came from. That's not to say I won't be having another word with Mr Westman, though." Gristhorpe smiled. His own feelings about people like Melville Westman and Lenora Carlyle were not so different from Banks's feelings about the rich and powerful, he realized: different chip, different shoulder, but a prejudice, nonetheless.

"I'm going to call my old mate Barney Merritt at the Yard first thing in the morning," Banks said. "He ought to be able to get something out of Criminal Intelligence about Chivers a d.a.m.n sight quicker than the formal channels. The more we know about him, the more likely we are to be able to guess at the way he thinks. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d might never have been nicked but I'll bet a pound to a penny he's on the books somewhere."

Gristhorpe nodded. "Oh, aye. No doubt about it. And it looks as if we're all working on the same case now. You'd better get up to date on the Gemma files, and we'd better let Phil know so he can access his databases or whatever he does. I want this bloke, Alan. I want him bad. I mean I want him in front of me. I want to see him sweat. Do you know what I mean?"

Banks nodded and finished his drink. From the bar, they heard Cyril call time. "It's late," he said quietly. "Time we were off home."