Wednesday's Child ib-6

by Peter Robinson

  “I suppose the Manleys could have kept Gemma there,” Banks said. “Perhaps they drugged her. She’s not very big. It wouldn’t be difficult to get her out of the cottage after dark.”

  “Aye, that’s true enough. Still, I’m getting a warrant and sending a few lads to give Westman’s place a good going-over.”

  “You don’t like him any better than 1 like Harkness, do you?”

  Gristhorpe grinned. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t.” He

  pushed his chair back. “Must be off. See you later, Alan.” And he walked out into Market Street.

  II

  Adam Harkness’s house clearly hadn’t been vacuumed or

  tidied since Banks’s last visit. At least a crackling fire

  took the chill out of the damp air in the library. The

  french windows were firmly closed. Beyond the streaked

  glass, drops of rain pitted the river’s surface. Lyndgarth

  and Aldington Edge were shrouded in a veil of low grey

  cloud.

  “Please, sit down,” Harkness said. “Now what can I do for you, Chief Inspector? Have you found Carl’s killer?”

  Banks rubbed his hands in front of the fire, then sat. “Not yet,” he said. “There’s a couple of points you might be able to help me clear up, though.”

  Harkness raised a challenging eyebrow and sat in the chair opposite Banks. “Yes?”

  “We’ve learned that Johnson might have met with a certain individual on a couple of occasions shortly before his murder. Did he talk to you about any of his friends?”

  “I’ve already told you. He was my gardener. He came a couple of times a week and kept the garden in trim. That’s all.”

  “Is it? Please think about it, Mr Harkness. Even if Johnson was only the hired help, it would be perfectly natural to have a bit of a chat now and then about innocuous stuff, wouldn’t it?” He felt that he was giving Harkness a fair chance to come up with something he may have forgotten or chosen not to admit earlier, but it did no good.

  Harkness folded his hands in his lap. “I knew nothing whatsoever about Carl Johnson’s private life. The moment he left my property, his life was his own, and I neither know nor care what he did.”

  “Even if it was of a criminal nature?”

  “You might believe he was irredeemably branded as a criminal. I do not. Besides, as I keep telling you, I have no knowledge of his activities, criminal or otherwise.”

  Banks described the man Edwina Whixley had seen coming down the stairs of Johnson’s building: thickset, medium height, short dark hair, squarish head. “Ever see or hear about him?”

  Harkness shook his head. “Carl always came here alone. He never introduced me to any of his colleagues.”

  “So you never saw this man?”

  “No.”

  “How did Johnson get here?”

  “What?”

  “Carl Johnson? How did he get here? He didn’t have a car.”

  “There are still buses, Chief Inspector, including a fairly regular service from Eastvale to Lyndgarth. There’s a bus-stop just by the bridge.”

  “Of course. Did Johnson ever mention any of his old prison friends?”

  “What? Not to me. It would hardly have been appropriate, would it?” Harkness picked up the poker and jabbed at the fire. “Look, why don’t you save us both a lot of wasted time and energy and accept that I’m telling the truth when I say I knew nothing about Carl’s private life?”

  “I don’t know what gives you the impression I don’t believe you.”

  “Your attitude, for a start, and the questions you keep on asking over and over again.”

  “Sir,” said Banks, “you have to understand that this is a murder investigation. People forget things. Sometimes

  they don’t realize the importance of what they know. All I’m doing is trying to jog your memory into giving up something that Johnson might have let slip in a moment of idle chatter. Anything. It might mean nothing at all to you—a name, a date, an opinion, whatever—but it might be vital to us.”

  Harkness paused. “Well … of course, yes … I suppose I see what you mean. The thing is, though, there really is nothing. I’m sure if he’d said anything I would have remembered it by now. The fact is we just didn’t talk beyond discussing the garden and the weather. Basically, we had nothing else in common. He seemed a reticent sort of fellow, anyway, kept himself to himself, and that suited me fine. Also, remember, I’m often away on business.”

  “Was there ever any evidence that Johnson had used the house in your absence?”

  “What do you mean, ‘used the house’? For what purpose?”

  “I don’t know. I assume he had a key?”

  “Yes. But…”

  “Nothing was ever out of place?”

  “No. Are you suggesting he might have been stealing things?”

  “No. I don’t think even Carl Johnson would have been that stupid. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m getting at.” Banks scratched his head and glanced at the river and the copper beech, leaves dripping, beyond the french windows. “This is a fairly out-of-the-way place. It could be suitable for criminal activities in any number of ways.”

  “I noticed nothing,” Harkness said, with a thin smile. “Not even a muddy footprint on my carpet.”

  “You see,” Banks went on, “Johnson’s life is a bit of a mystery to us. We’ve got his record, the bald facts. But

  how did he think? We don’t seem to be able to find anyone who was close to him. And there are years missing. He may have been to Europe, Amsterdam perhaps. He may even have had friends from South Africa.”

  Harkness sat bolt upright and gripped the arms of the chair. “What are you insinuating?”

  “I’ve heard rumours of some sort of a scandal. Something involving you back in South Africa. There was some sort of cover-up. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  Harkness snorted. “There are always scandals surrounding the wealthy, Chief Inspector. You ought to know that. Usually they derive from envy. No, I can’t say I do know what you’re talking about.”

  “But was there any such scandal involving you or your family out there?”

  “No, nothing that stands out.”

  Banks got that almost-infallible tingle that told him Harkness was holding back. He gave his man-of-the-world shrug. “Of course, I’m not suggesting there was any truth in it, but we have to investigate everything that comes up.”

  Harkness stood up. “It seems to me that you are spending an unusual amount of time investigating me when you should be looking for Carl Johnson’s killer. I suggest you look among his criminal cronies for your killer.”

  “You’ve got a point, there. And, believe me, we’re trying to track them down. Just out of interest, did Johnson ever mention South Africa to you?”

  “No, he did not. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re getting at. You’re suggesting he was blackmailing me over some secret or other, aren’t you, and that I killed him to silence him? Come on, is that what you’re getting at?”

  Banks stood up and spoke slowly. “But you couldn’t have killed him, could you, sir? You were dining at the Golf Club at the time of the murder. A number of very influential people saw you there.” He regarded Harkness, who maintained an expression of outraged dignity, then said, “Thank you very much for your time,” and left.

  As he drove down to the main road with the windscreen-wipers tapping time to Gurney’s “Sleep,” he smiled to himself. He had got at least some of what he had wanted: a sure sense that Harkness was holding something back; and the satisfying knowledge that the man, rich, confident and powerful notwithstanding, could be rattled. Time now to make a few overseas phone calls, then perhaps have another chat with Mr Adam Harkness.

  Ill

  “You think I acted dishonestly, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Irresponsibly is the word I had in mind,” Gristhorpe replied. He was sitting opposite Lenora Carly
le in a small interview room at the station. A WPC sat by the window to take notes. With her wild black hair, her high, prominent cheekbones and blazing dark eyes, Lenora certainly looked dramatic. She seemed composed as she sat there, he noticed, arms folded across her jumper, a slightly superior smile revealing stained teeth. It was the kind of smile, Gristhorpe thought, that she probably reserved for the poor, lost disbelievers with whom she no doubt had to deal now and then.

  “I do my job, Superintendent,” she said, “and you do yours.”

  “And just what is your job? In this case it seems to

  consist of giving a poor woman false hope.” Gristhorpe had just been to see Brenda Scupham, and he had noticed the fervour in her eyes when she spoke of what Lenora had told her.

  “I can tell there’s no convincing you, but I don’t happen to believe it’s false. Look, are you upset because Brenda criticized you on television? Is that why you’ve got me in here?”

  “What was the source of your information about Gemma Scupham?”

  “I’m a psychic. You know that already.”

  “So the ‘other side’ is the source?”

  “If you want to put it like that, yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Gristhorpe leaned back and rested his forearms on the table. “Ms Carlyle, we’re investigating the abduction of a child, a very serious crime, and one that happens to be especially odious to me. All of a sudden, you walk into Brenda Scupham’s house and tell her you know the child is still alive. I’d be a bloody idiot if I didn’t ask you how you know.”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “Aye. And, as you well know, I don’t happen to believe in convenient messages from the other side.”

  She smiled. “It’s stalemate, isn’t it, then?”

  “No, it isn’t. Are you aware that I could hold you if I wanted?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You profess to have information about a missing child, but you won’t reveal your source. As far as I know, you could have something to do with Gemma Scupham’s disappearance.”

  “Now look here—”

  “No. You look here. If that child is alive and you know

  something that could help us find her, you’d better tell me, because I’m getting tired of this.”

  “I only know what I told Brenda—that Gemma is alive, she’s scared and she wants her mother. You know, you’d do much better with an open mind. The police have used psychics to help them in the past.”

  And a fat lot of good it’s done, thought Gristhorpe, feeling himself being manipulated into the position of doing exactly that. The woman might know something, after all, and he couldn’t dismiss that possibility, even if it meant playing her game. “All right,” he sighed. “Did you get any impressions about where she is?”

  Lenora shook her head.

  “Any images, sounds, smells?”

  “Nothing like that. Just an overwhelming emotional sense of her presence somewhere. Alive. And her fear.”

  “Near or far?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Gristhorpe scratched his chin. “Not much to go on, is it?”

  “I can’t help that. I’m merely a medium for the messages. Do you want to consult me professionally? Do you want me to try and help you?”

  Gristhorpe noticed the smile of triumph. “Ms Carlyle,” he shot back, “if you fail to help us, I’ll make sure you’re thrown in jail. Do you know Melville Westman?”

  It was only fleeting, but he saw it, a split-second sign of recognition. It was second nature for him to notice the signs, the body language, the way eye-contact broke off. He could see her trying to decide how much to admit. “Well?” he prodded.

  “The name sounds vaguely familiar,” she said with a toss of her head. “I might have come across him.”

  “Let me fill you in. Melville Westman calls himself a magician. There have been incidents in the past few

  years of such groups using children in their rituals. Now, I don’t know what you’re up to, but if you and Westman have any involvement in Gemma’s disappearance, direct or indirect, I’ll find out about it.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Lenora said. “I’ve had enough of your accusations and insinuations.” She tried to push the chair back to get to her feet, but forgot it was bolted to the floor and she got stuck, half-standing, between it and the table.

  “Sit down.” Gristhorpe waved his hand. “I haven’t finished yet. What’s your connection with Westman?”

  She sat down, chewed on her lower lip for a moment, and answered, “I know him, that’s all. We’re acquaintances.”

  “Met at the magician’s circle, did you?”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic. It’s a small community for anyone interested in the occult. We’ve had discussions, loaned one another books, that’s all.”

  “I’m asking you if Westman has told you anything about Gemma Scupham’s whereabouts. Are you some kind of messenger, some salve to the conscience come to spare the mother a little pain until you’ve finished with the child? Or are you just tormenting her?”

  “Don’t be absurd. What would Melville want with the child?”

  “You tell me.”

  “He wouldn’t. He’s not that kind.”

  “What kind?”

  “The kind that performs elaborate rituals, sacrifices animals and …”

  “Children?”

  “Look, I’m not denying there are lunatic fringes around, but Melville Westman doesn’t belong to one.”

  “Is there anyone in the area you would associate with a lunatic fringe?”

  “No.”

  “Ever heard of the Manleys? Chris and Connie. Or Miss Peterson and Mr Brown?”

  “No.”

  “Did Melville Westman send you?”

  “No, he bloody well didn’t. I came forward to help the mother of my own free will,” Lenora said through clenched teeth. “And this is how you treat me. I thought the police would—”

  “You know nothing about the way we work, or you’d hardly have had Brenda Scupham shooting her mouth off on television.” • “That wasn’t my doing.”

  “It doesn’t matter whose doing it was. It happened. And if that child is dead, I want you to think of how much harm you’ve done her mother.”

  Lenora put her fist to her heart. “The child is alive, Superintendent. I’m convinced of it.”

  For a moment, Gristhorpe was taken aback by the passion in her voice. After everything he had accused her of, she was still clinging to her original story. He let the silence stretch for a while longer, holding her intense gaze. He could feel something pass across the air between them. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, a tingling sensation, the hackles on his neck rising, and he certainly had no idea whether or not she was right about Gemma. He did know, though, that she was telling the truth as far as she knew it. The damn woman was genuine in her beliefs. He could see, now, how Brenda Scupham had been convinced.

  “I want you to know,” he said slowly, “that I’ll check and double-check on everything you’ve told me.” Then he broke off the staring match and looked towards the bare wall. “Now get out. Go on, get out before I change my mind.” And he didn’t even turn to watch her go. He

  knew exactly the kind of smile he would see on her face.

  IV

  Armley Jail was built in 1847 by Perkin and Backhouse.

  Standing on a low hill to the west of the city centre, it

  looks like a structure from the Middle Ages, with its

  keep and battlements all in dark, solid stone—especially

  in the iron-grey sky and the rain that swept across the

  scene. Eastvale Castle seemed welcoming in comparison,

  Susan thought. Even the modern addition to the prison

  couldn’t quite overcome the sense of dank medieval dungeons

  she felt as she approached the gates. The architects


  could hardly have come up with a place more likely to

  terrify the criminals and reassure the good citizens, she

  thought, giving a shiver as she got out of the car and felt

  the rain sting her cheek.

  She showed her warrant card, and at four-thirty on that dreary September afternoon, the prison gates admitted her, and a uniformed attendant led her to a small office in the administrative block to meet Gerald Mackenzie. She had found herself wondering on her way what kind of person felt drawn to prison work. It must be a strange world, she thought, locked in with the malcontents. Like the police, the prison service probably attracted its share of bullies, but it also had an appeal, she guessed, for the reformers, for people who believed in rehabilitation. For many, perhaps, it was just a job, a source of income to pay the mortgage and help feed the wife and kids.

  Mackenzie turned out to be a surprisingly young man with thin brown hair, matching suit, a crisp white shirt and what she took to be a regimental or club tie of some kind. The black-framed glasses he wore gave him the look of a middle-management man. He was polite, of

  fered coffee, and seemed happy enough to give her the time and information she wanted.

  “From what I can remember,” he said, placing a finger at the corner of his small mouth, “Johnson was a fairly unassuming sort of fellow. Never caused any trouble. Never drew attention to himself.” He shook his head. “In fact, I find it very hard to believe he ended up the way he did. Unless he was the victim of some random crime?”

  “We don’t think so,” Susan said. “How did he spend his time?”

  “He was a keen gardener, I remember. Never went in much for the more intellectual pursuits or the team games.”