Wednesday's Child ib-6

by Peter Robinson

  “Did you meet them?”

  “Just in passing.”’

  “Did they introduce themselves?”

  “The Manleys. Chris and Connie. That’s what they said. They seemed pleasant enough. Always had a smile

  and a hello whenever we bumped into one another. Look, what’s wrong? Nothing’s happened to them, has it?”

  “When did you last see them?”

  Tony frowned. “Let me see … It was a couple of days ago. Thursday, I think. Thursday morning. They were going off in the car.”

  “Did they say where?”

  “No. I didn’t ask.”

  “Had they packed all their stuff, as if they were leaving?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t notice. Sorry. I was out walking most of the time.”

  “It’s all right,” Gristhorpe said. “Just try and remember what you can. Did you see or hear them after that time?”

  “Come to think of it, I don’t reckon I did. But they never made much noise anyway. Maybe a bit of telly in the evenings. That’s about all.”

  “Did they ever have any visitors?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You never heard them arguing or talking with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Were they out a lot?”

  “A fair bit, I’d say. But so was I. I’ve been doing a lot of walking, meditating, writing. I’m really sorry, but I honestly didn’t pay them a lot of attention. I’ve been pretty much lost in my own world.”

  “That’s all right,” Gristhorpe said. “You’re doing fine. What did they look like?”

  “Well, he … Chris … was about medium height, with light, sandy-coloured hair brushed back. Receding a bit. He looked quite fit, wiry, you know, and he had a pleasant, open kind of smile. The kind you could trust.”

  “Any distinctive features?”

  “You mean scars, tattoos, that kind of thing?”

  “Anything.”

  Tony shook his head. “No. He was quite ordinary looking, really. I just noticed the smile, that’s all.”

  “How old would you say he was?”

  “Hard to say. I’d guess he was in his late twenties.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “Connie?” Tony blushed a little. “Well, Connie’s a blonde. I don’t know if it’s real or not. Maybe a year or two younger than him. Very pretty. A real looker. She’s got lovely blue eyes, a really smooth complexion, a bit pale …”

  “How tall?”

  “An inch or two shorter than him.”

  “What about her figure?”

  Tony blushed again. “Nice. I mean, nice so’s you’d notice in the street, especially in those tight jeans she wore, and the white T-shirt.”

  Gristhorpe smiled and nodded. “Did you notice what kind of car they drove?”

  “Yes. It was parked outside often enough. It was a Fiesta.”

  “What colour?”

  “White.”

  “Did they always dress casually?”

  “I suppose so. I never paid much attention, except to her, of course. Now I think of it, Chris was a bit more formal. He usually wore a jacket and a tie. You don’t think anything’s happened to them, do you?”

  “Don’t worry, Tony,” Gristhorpe said. “I’m sure they’re fine. Just one more thing. Did you ever hear sounds of a child there at all?”

  Tony frowned. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’d have noticed. Yes, I’m sure. They didn’t have any

  children.”

  “Fine. Thanks very much, Tony,” Gristhorpe said. “We’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your holiday in peace.”

  Tony nodded and accompanied them to the door.

  “You’ll let me know, will you, if they’re all right? I mean, I didn’t really know them, but they were neighbours, in a way.”

  “We’ll let you know,” said Gristhorpe, and followed Richmond to the car.

  “Will you be needing me any more?” asked Patricia Cummings.

  Gristhorpe smiled at her. “No, thanks very much, Mrs Cummings. You can go home now. Just one thing, could you leave that set of keys with us?”

  “Why?”

  “So we can let the scene-of-crime team in.”

  “But—”

  “This is important, Mrs Cummings, believe me. I wouldn’t ask it otherwise. And don’t rent the place out again until we give the OK.”

  Her cheeks quivered a bit, then she dropped the keys into Gristhorpe’s outstretched hand, climbed into her car and drove off with a screech of rubber. Gristhorpe got into the police Rover beside Richmond. “Well, Phil,” he said, “what do you think?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. The description doesn’t fit.”

  “But it would if they dyed their hair and got dressed up in business clothes, wouldn’t it? Both descriptions were vague enough—Brenda Scupham’s and Tony Roper’s.”

  “That’s true. But what about the car?”

  “They could have stolen one for the abduction, or rented one.”

  “A bit risky, isn’t it? And we’ve checked all the rental

  agencies.”

  “But we used the descriptions Brenda Scupham gave us.” Gristhoipe scratched his ear. “Better get back to the rental agencies and find out about any couples their general age and appearance. Mention the man’s smile. That seems to be a common factor. And the woman is clearly attractive. Someone might remember them.”

  Richmond nodded. “You think it was this Manley couple, sir?”

  “I’m not saying that, but I think we’d better treat them as serious contenders for the moment.”

  “It certainly seems odd the way they left the place in such a hurry.”

  “Yes,” Gristhorpe muttered. “And that cleaning job. Why?”

  “Just a fastidious couple, maybe?”

  “Maybe. But why did they leave in a hurry?”

  “Could be any number of reasons,” Richmond said. “A family emergency, maybe?”

  “Did you notice a phone in the cottage?”

  “No. I suppose that’s part of the rustic peace.”

  “Mm. There is one thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that they did have to leave because of a family emergency. Nobody could have phoned them, but they could have used the nearest phonebox if they had to keep checking on someone who was ill.”

  “You mean they wouldn’t have stayed behind to clean up the place, sir?”

  “There’s that, aye. But there’s something odder. The money. They paid cash in advance. How much do these places go for?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I forgot to as…”

  “It doesn’t matter, but it must be a fair whack. Say a

  hundred and fifty a week.”

  “Something like that. And probably a deposit, too.’r

  “Then why didn’t they ask for some of their money back?”

  “They might have had a hard time getting it.”

  “Perhaps. But they didn’t even try. That’s three hundred quid we’re talking about, Phil. Plus deposit.”

  “Maybe they were loaded.”

  Gristhorpe fixed Richmond with the closest his benign features could get to a look of contempt. “Phil, if they were loaded, theßrst thing they would do is ask for their money back. That’s how the rich get that way, and that’s how they stay that way.”

  “I suppose so,” Richmond mumbled. “What do we do now?”

  “We get the forensic team in, that’s what we do,” Gristhorpe said, and reached for the radio.

  Ill

  The house was in darkness when Banks got home from

  the station around ten o’clock that Saturday evening.

  Tracy, he remembered, was at a dance in Relton with her

  friends. Banks had grilled her thoroughly about who was

  going and who was driving. He had been undecided,

  loath to let her go, but Sandra had tipped the
balance.

  She was probably right, Banks admitted. Barring a

  punch-up between the Eastvale lads and the Relton lads,

  a fairly regular feature of these local dances, it ought to

  be a harmless enough affair. And Tracy was a big girl

  now.

  So where was Sandra? Banks turned the lights on, then went into the kitchen thinking he might find a note. Nothing. Feeling anxious and irritated, he sat down,

  turned on the television and started switching channels: an American cop show, a documentary on Africa, a pirate film, a quiz show. He turned it off. The silence in the house closed in on him. This was absurd. Normally he would change into jeans and a sports shirt, pour a drink, put some music on, perhaps even smoke a cigarette if both Sandra and Tracy were out. Now all he could do was sit down and tap his fingers on the chair arm. It was no good. He couldn’t stay home.

  Grabbing his jacket against the evening chill, he walked along Market Street past the closed shops and the Golden Grill and the Queen’s Arms. The light through the red and amber coloured windows beckoned, and he could see people at tables through the small clear panes, but instead of dropping in, he continued along North Market Street, quiet under its old-fashioned gas-lamps, window displays of gourmet teas, expensive hiking gear, imported shoes and special blends of tobacco.

  The front doors of the community centre stood open. From the hall, Banks could hear a soprano struggling through Schubert’s “Die Junge Nonne” to a hesitant piano accompaniment. It was Saturday, amateur recital night. He took the broad staircase to his left and walked up to the first floor. He could hear voices from some of the rooms, mostly used for the meetings of local hobby clubs or for committees of various kinds. The double glass doors of the gallery were closed, but a faint light shone from behind the partition at the far end of the room.

  Banks walked softly down the carpeted gallery, its walls bare of pictures at the moment, and stopped outside the cramped office at the end. He had already heard Sandra’s voice, but she was unaware of his presence.

  “But you can’t do that,” she was pleading. “You’ve already agreed—”

  “What? You don’t give a … Now look—” She moved the receiver away from her ear and swore before slamming it down in its cradle. Then she took two deep breaths, tucked loose strands of blonde hair behind her ears, and picked up the phone again.

  “Sandra,” Banks said as gently as he could.

  She turned round and put her hand to her chest. Banks could see the angry tears burning in her eyes. “Alan, it’s you. What are you doing here? You scared me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Look, it’s not a good time. I’ve got so damn much to do.”

  “Let’s go for a drink.”

  She started dialling. “I’d love to, but I—”

  Banks broke the connection.

  Sandra stood up and faced him, eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He took her arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  She shook him off. “What are you playing at?”

  Banks sighed and sat on the edge of the desk. “Look at you,” he said. “You’re frustrated as hell.” He smiled. “You look pretty close to murder, too. I think it’s time you took a break, that’s all. God knows, you’ve helped take my mind off my problems often enough when you’ve watched me beating my head against a brick wall. I’m just trying to return the favour.”

  Sandra bit her lower lip. Some of the anger left her eyes, but the tears still burned there. “It’s just that bloody Morton Canning,” she said. “He’s only pulled out of the show, that’s all.”

  “Well, bugger him,” Banks said.

  “But you don’t understand.”

  Banks took her coat from the rack by the office door. “Come on. You can tell me over a drink.”

  Sandra glared at him for a moment, then smoothed her

  skirt and walked over. Before she could put her coat on. Banks put his arms around her and held her close. At first she stood limp, then slowly, she raised her arms and linked them behind him. She buried her head in his shoulder, then broke free, gave him a playful thump on the arm and that cheeky smile he loved so much. “All right, then,” she said. “But you’re buying.”

  Ten minutes later, they managed to squeeze into a small corner table in the Queen’s Anns. The place was busy and loud with the jokes and laughter of the Saturday night crowd, so they had to put their heads close together to talk. Soon, though, the noise became a background buzz and they no longer had to strain to hear one another.

  “He’s the most famous of the lot,” Sandra was saying. “He’s got paintings in galleries all over the country. It was going to be a hell of a coup to get him, but now he’s backed out. He’s a real bastard.”

  “I thought the idea was to give locals a chance, the lesser-known ones?”

  “It is. But Canning would have drawn a damn good crowd. Indirectly, he’d have got them all more publicity, given them more chance of making a sale.”

  “For the right reasons’?”

  “That doesn’t matter. So what if they come to see his work? They’d see the others too.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Sandra sipped her gin and tonic. “I’m sorry to go on about it, Alan, really I am. It’s just that I’ve been so involved. I’ve put in so much bloody work it makes me boil.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  Her blue eyes hardened. “Yes it is. I can tell by your

  tone. You’re not complaining, are you? That I haven’t been doing my little wifely duties—cooking your meals, washing your clothes?”

  Banks laughed. “I didn’t marry you for your ‘little wifely duties’ as you call them. I can look after myself. No. If I am complaining at all, it’s about hardly seeing you over these past few weeks.”

  “Like I hardly see you when you’re on a case?”

  “Touché”

  “So what do you mean? You expect me to be there whenever you decide to come home?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “What is it then?”

  Banks lit a cigarette, playing for time. “It’s … well, just that the house seems so empty. You’re never there, Tracy’s never there. I feel like I’m living alone.”

  Sandra leaned back in her chair. She reached out and grabbed one of Banks’s cigarettes. “Hey,” he said, putting his hand over hers. “You’ve stopped.”

  She broke free. “And I’ll stop again tomorrow. What’s really bothering you, Alan?”

  “What I said. The empty house.”

  “So it’s not just me, what I’m doing?”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

  “But you take it out on me?”

  “I’m not taking anything out on you. I’m trying to explain what the problem is. For Christ’s sake, you asked rne.”

  “Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on. Maybe you need another pint.”

  “Wouldn’t mind.”

  Sandra held out her hand. “Money, then.”

  Banks looked gloomily into the last quarter-inch of deep gold liquid in his glass while Sandra threaded her way to the bar. She was right. It wasn’t just her at all. It

  was the whole damn situation at home. He felt as if his children had suddenly become different people overnight, and his wife hadn’t even noticed. He watched her coming back. She walked slowly, concentrating on not spilling the drinks. It was absurd, he felt, but even after all these years just seeing her made his heart speed up.

  Sandra placed the glass carefully on the beer-mat in front of him and he thanked her.

  “Look,” she said, “I know what you mean, but you have to accept things. Brian’s gone. He’s got his own life to lead. When did you leave home?”

  “But that’s not the same.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “It was stifling in Peterborough, with Dad always on at me and
Mum just taking it all. It wasn’t the same at all.”

  “Perhaps the circumstances weren’t,” Sandra allowed. “But the impulse certainly is.”

  “He’s got a perfectly good home with us. I don’t see why he’d want to go as far as bloody Portsmouth. I mean, he could have gone to Leeds, or York, or Bradford and come home on weekends.”

  Sandra sighed. “Sometimes you can be damned obtuse, Alan Banks, do you know that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s left the nest, flown the coop. For him it’s a matter of the farther the better. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love us any more. It’s just of part of growing up. You did it yourself. That’s what I mean.”

  “But I told you, that was different.”

  “Not all that much. Didn’t you used to get on at him all the time about his music?”

  “I never interfered with what he wanted. I even bought him a guitar.”

  “Yes. In the hope he’d start playing classical or jazz or something other than what he did.”

  “Don’t tell me you liked that bloody racket any more than I did?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Oh, what’s the use. What I’m trying to say is that we didn’t drive him away, no more than your parents drove you away, not really. He wants to be independent like you did. He wants his own life.”

  “I know that, but…”

  “But nothing. We still have Tracy. Enjoy her while you can.”

  “But she’s never home. She’s always out with that Harrison boy, getting up to God knows what.”

  “She’s not getting up to anything. She’s sensible.”

  “She doesn’t seem interested in anything else any more. Her schoolwork’s slipping.”

  “Not much,” Sandra said. “And I’ll bet yours slipped a bit when you got your first girlfriend.”

  Banks said nothing.

  “Alan, you’re jealous, that’s all.”

  “Jealous? Of my own daughter?”

  “Oh, come on. You know she was the apple of your eye. You never were as close to Brian as you were to her. Now she seems to have no time for you, you resent it.”