Wednesday's Child ib-6

by Peter Robinson

  “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, lass,” 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 under

  clothes flapped on a breeze that carried the fragrances of the east.

  Ill

  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 glasses, and his chin thrust out. His complexion had a scrubbed and faintly ruddy complexion that Gristhorpe always, rightly or wrongly, associated 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 chassis 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 Japanese 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 north-west. 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 chassis, 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 passersby 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-class background, Gristhorpe thought. The working classes—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 glasses 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 t
hat.” He pushed his glasses 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 nobody 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 God 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 lunchtime, 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, embarrass 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 Ml.”

  “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 bumped 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.”

  “It fits. Small-time con-man, wants to be in with the big boys. So you’re thinking that might give us somewhere to look for his killer?”

  “Well, there could be a connection, couldn’t there?” Susan said, pushing her empty plate away.

  Banks lit a cigarette, taking care that the smoke didn’t drift directly into Susan’s face. “You mean he might have been playing out of his league, tried a double-cross or something?”

  “It’s possible,” said Susan.

  “True. At least it’s an angle to work on, and there don’t seem very many. I dropped by The Barleycorn last night and found Les Poole. I just thought I’d mention Johnson to him, seeing as they’re both in the same business, so to speak.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Poole denied knowing him—well, of course he would—and he’s not a bad liar. No signs in his voice or his body language that he wasn’t telling the truth. But …” Banks shook his head. “I don’t know. There was something there. The only way I can describe it is as a whiff of fear. It came and went in a second, and I’m not

  sure even Les was aware of it, but it was there. Anyway, no good chasing wül-o’-the-wisps. Adam Harkness’s Golf Club alibi checks out. I still think we might bring South Africa up whenever we question someone, though. Johnson could have been blackmailing Harkness, and Harkness could afford to pay someone to get rid of him. Have you had time to ask around the other flats?”

  “Last night, sir. I meant to tell you, but I set off for Bradford so early. There’s a student on the ground floor called Edwina Whixley. She heard male voices occasionally from Johnson’s room. And she saw someone coming down the stairs one day she thought might have been visiting him.”

  “Did you get a description?”

  “Yes.” Susan fished for her notebook and found the page. “About five foot five, mid-thirties, cropped black hair and squarish head. He was wearing a suede zip-up jacket and jeans.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ring a bell?”

  Susan shook her head.

  “Me, neither. Maybe you can get her to come and look at some mugshots. And you might as well check into Johnson’s form, his prison mates, that kind of thing. See if you can come up with any local names, anyone fitting the description.”

  “Yes, sir.” Susan picked up her bag and left.

  She had a very purposeful, no-nonsense walk, Banks noticed. He remembered the trouble she had had not so long ago and decided it had actually done her good. Susan Gay wasn’t the kind to throw her hands
up in the air and surrender. Adversity strengthened her; she learned from her mistakes. Maybe that hardened her a bit, made her more cynical and less trusting, but perhaps

  they weren’t such bad qualities for a detective. It was hard not to be cynical when you saw so much villainy and human misery, but in many cases the cynicism was just a shell, as the sick jokes at crime scenes and postmortems were ways of coping with the horror and the gruesomeness of death, and perhaps, too, with the fact that it comes to us all at one time. The best coppers, Banks thought, are the ones who hang onto their humanity against all odds. He hoped he had managed to do that; he knew Gristhorpe had; and he hoped that Susan would. She was young yet.

  The tourists decided to go home, partly because their youngest child was making a fearful racket, and the farmers had moved on to discuss the prospects for the three-forty at Newmarket. Banks drained his pint, then headed back to the office. There was paperwork to be done. And he would make an appointment to meet with Linda Fish, from the Writers’ Circle, tomorrow, much as the thought made him wince, and see what light she could shed on Mr Adam Harkness.

  The strange woman called on Brenda Scupham shortly

  after Les had left for the pub that Monday evening. She

  was washing the dishes and lip-synching to a Patsy Cline

  record when the doorbell rang. Drying her hands with the

  lea towel, she walked through and opened the door.

  “Mrs Scupham? Brenda Scupham?”

  The woman stood there in the rain, a navy-blue raincoat buttoned up to her neck and a dark scarf fastened over her head. Wind tugged at the black umbrella she held. Beyond her, Brenda could see the nosy woman from number eleven across the street peeking through

  her curtains.

  Brenda hugged herself against the cold and frowned. “Yes. What do you want?”

  “I’m Lenora Carlyle,” the woman said. “You might have heard of me?”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  “No. Can I come in?”

  Brenda stood back, and the woman let down her umbrella and entered. Brenda noticed immediately in the hall light her intense dark eyes and Romany complexion. She unfastened her scarf and shook out her head of luxuriant, coal-black hair.