Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  “That’s enough of that.”

  “Then what? If I can’t stay there, where am I supposed to go?”

  “You might be better off at home.”

  “You mean I’m free to go back to London?”

  “Yes. It could be a while yet before your father’s body is released for burial. There’s no point your hanging around up here and wrecking our hotels.”

  “You should have seen Mad Dog wreck a hotel room. Gave Keith Moon a run for his money. He once threw a mattress from the sixth floor of a Holiday Inn. Anyway, the rates hotels charge, I think you should be entitled to do a bit of damage.” Poppy smiled at the memory.

  Annie had to think for a moment before she realized that Poppy was talking about Nate Maddock, her deceased rock-star boyfriend, and Keith Moon, The Who’s late drummer, who had a reputation for smashing up hotel rooms. Even she knew that.

  She approached Rivendell on the lane through the woods and saw the CSI and search team vans parked outside, as well as Poppy’s red sports car.

  “You probably shouldn’t be driving,” Annie said. “Not after the Valium and whatever you had to drink in the middle of the night. Not to mention the cognac.”

  “Only a couple of miserable minibar vodkas.”

  “Even so.”

  “No matter. I don’t feel like driving anyway. Too tired. Can I at least leave the car where it is?”

  “I don’t see why not. I can give you a lift to the station in Northallerton.”

  “Station? What do you mean?”

  “The train station.”

  “A train? You wouldn’t catch me dead on one of those bloody things. Can’t you drive me home?”

  “You must be joking.”

  Poppy folded her arms. “Fine. I’ll take a taxi, then.”

  Annie swallowed her surprise and parked beside the CSI van. A taxi to London. How the other half lived.

  “I don’t want to go in,” said Poppy. “Is it all right if I just stay out here in your car until you’re finished?”

  “As long as you don’t wreck anything.”

  Poppy looked around the car’s interior. “As if anyone would notice.”

  Annie laughed and got out. It wasn’t a bad day, now she finally got the chance to sniff the air. A bit cloudy, but not too cold. Annie crunched over the gravel and let herself in the open front door. It was easy to see what Frank had meant about CSIs being thin on the ground. There were only two of them painstakingly checking the large mansion for fingerprints and trace evidence, anything to show how and why Laurence Hadfield had been found dead on Tetchley Moor. There had been nothing up there, so now they had moved on to the house.

  Frank Naylor was in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of milky coffee from his vacuum flask. He turned when she walked in. “Ah, Annie,” he said.

  “And no more jibes.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. Good time last night?”

  Annie smiled. “Great time, thanks.”

  “Good. I’m sorry to drag you away. I suppose it could have waited, but everyone’s been stressing just how little there’s been to go on so far. I thought you should see this for yourself.” He reached for a plastic evidence bag on the island beside him and passed it to her. “What do you make of that?”

  Annie held up the bag and peered at the object. “Well, it’s pretty obvious,” she said.

  “Maybe to you, but not to me. Like I said, it looks like some sort of piece of jewelery.”

  “It is. It’s a charm.”

  “As in charm bracelet?”

  “Right. But not just any charm bracelet. It’s a charm from Pandora.”

  “Is that good? Rare?”

  Annie laughed. “I’m afraid not. Very popular. But it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing. For a start, it’s not the sort of thing you’d expect a man like Laurence Hadfield to be wearing, that’s for sure. Where did you find it?”

  “Bathroom. Round the back of the toilet. Any number of ways it could have got there, but most likely someone dropped it and it bounced or rolled and that’s where it ended up. They probably didn’t even notice.”

  Annie examined the charm again. “Interesting,” she said. “It’s a treble clef, silver encrusted with cubic zirconia.”

  “You never cease to amaze me,” said Frank. “Expert jeweller as well as ace detective. Are you going to be able to find out where it was sold and to whom?”

  “I told you, Frank, these things are very popular. You can buy them from lots of places, including online. No, I don’t think it’s going to lead us to a particular person, but it does tell us one thing we didn’t know before.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That Hadfield must have had at least one female friend in the house.”

  “A young woman?”

  “Not necessarily young. These Pandoras cross a number of age ranges. But that’s most likely. And we’ve no idea how long it’s been there, though I’m sure Adele Balter will swear she cleans behind the toilet every time she does for Mr. Hadfield. Even so, we’d better get the CSIs to give the rest of the bathroom a good going over. If someone lost a Pandora charm there, then there’s always a chance of hair or something down the plughole, stuck to the side of the bathtub, whatever. There may even be a possibility of DNA traces. Can I take it for a moment, Frank? Something I want to check.”

  “Course.”

  Annie walked back out to her car. Poppy was still in the passenger seat, and when she saw Annie, she guiltily flicked away her cigarette and put up the window. Annie got in beside her and decided to say nothing about the smoking. There was no point treating Poppy like a wayward child the whole time, even though that was exactly how she behaved. Instead, she sat down and showed her the charm. “Do you recognize this?” she asked.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a treble clef from a charm bracelet. Pandora. Is it yours?”

  Poppy handed it back as if it were contaminated. “Mine? Mine? What the fuck do you think of me? I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing that fucking bling.”

  Annie glanced at the bangles on her wrists and the chains around her neck and guessed they were not bling. Or Pandora.

  “So it’s definitely not yours?”

  “Definitely. Never seen it before.”

  “Have you any idea whose it might be? It was found in the bathroom here.”

  “No idea.”

  “A girlfriend of your father’s?”

  “I doubt that he’d be seen with anyone who wore that sort of thing, either, but there’s no accounting for taste. Anyway, I know nothing about the girls he hung out with.”

  Annie reached for her phone.

  Poppy looked nervous. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling you a taxi. Which part of London did you say you lived in?”

  8

  SUNDAY HAD BROUGHT NOTHING IN THE WAY OF DEVELOPMENTS in either case, and it was already lunchtime on Monday. Toxicology on the sleeping pills Adrienne Munro had taken still wasn’t ready. Though they were fortunate at Eastvale HQ in having a top-notch Scientific Support Department adjacent to the police station, and their Crime Scene Manager Stefan Nowak worked closely with the Scientific Support Manager Keith Atkinson, they still couldn’t make nature move any faster.

  Jazz Singh, their DNA, blood and toxicology specialist, had said on Friday that she could identify the kind of sleeping pills Adrienne Munro had been given, but that it might take a while. Knowing the specific brand could provide a useful lead; sleeping tablets of any kind were not that easy to get hold of without a prescription, and DS Steph Dobyns of the drugs squad might be able to trace a supplier or specific batch if she had more detailed information to go on.

  Banks had spent a relaxing Sunday catching up with the latest series of Black Mirror on Netflix, then taking his wine out to the conservatory to listen to his recent download of Thelonious Monk’s Piano Solo. As a consequence, he felt refreshed that Monday morning, but he also felt in need
of a lead, of something to fire him up before these cases went completely stale on him. It happened that way sometimes. Day after day of little or no progress, and he started not to care, bit by bit he began to shove it to the back of his mind without even realizing he was doing it, until he finally ground to a halt.

  Banks got up to stretch and looked out over the market square, where the citizens of Eastvale were going about their business, shopping, delivering, chatting with neighbors, a horde of schoolkids piling into Greggs for a pastry or WHSmith for the latest comics. A gang of workmen had cordoned off one area and were hammering away at the cobbles, which seemed to require a lot of maintenance these days. The usual group of elderly ladies was meeting for morning tea in Garfield’s Tea Room above the minimart on the corner of Market Street. There were enough patches of blue in the sky to give the appearance of a fine day, even if there was a damp winter chill in the air.

  Banks thought he would go over to the Queen’s Arms for a portion of Cyril’s scampi and chips for lunch, but just as he took his overcoat from the hook behind his door, his phone rang. He supposed he could ignore it, but he wasn’t that kind of person. Instead, he hurried over and picked up the receiver.

  “Alan?” a familiar voice said.

  “Ken? Good to hear from you.” It was DCI Ken Blackstone from the West Yorkshire Homicide and Major Inquiry Team, one of Banks’s oldest friends and colleagues.

  “Yeah. It’s been a while. Sorry.”

  “No matter. Busy?”

  “It never seems to end.”

  “It’s been pretty quiet up here until recently,” said Banks.

  “I heard about that. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Aha. Do tell.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it on the phone. Can you get down here?”

  “You know me, Ken. I never turn down a chance to visit the big city. Especially when an old mate is buying lunch.”

  Blackstone groaned theatrically. “If that’s what it takes. It’s twelve o’clock now. Can you get down in an hour?”

  “Should be able to.”

  “What do you fancy?”

  “Whitelock’s would suit me. Can you at least give me a hint?”

  “Your suspicious deaths. We’ve got one, too, and we might be able to help one another.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Banks hurried down the stairs. Winsome was out working on Adrienne Munro’s financial details, so he left a message at the front desk to say where he was going and that he wasn’t sure when he would be back, then he nipped out of the back door and into his increasingly ancient-looking Porsche.

  ANNIE HAD finally got Poppy settled in a taxi on Saturday after coming to a price arrangement with the stunned driver. Poppy had even flashed him a roll of twenties to assure him that she could pay. Though he hummed and hahed and acted like a put-upon, long-suffering oppressed working man, he had nothing to complain about, Annie thought, considering the sum. All he had to do was drive down the M1 and back, and he would be making a nice profit for his day’s driving, rather than hanging about on street corners hoping for a fare. Of course, there was Poppy to deal with. She had seemed to be on the verge of sleep when they set off, but Annie knew quite well that she could wake up at any moment and make the five- or six-hour drive feel like an eternity. Especially if the driver tried on his oppressed worker routine.

  Once Poppy was gone, Annie had gone straight home from Rivendell and phoned Carrie in Ripon to thank her for the party and accommodation, and apologize for dashing off without saying goodbye. Then she took a long bath, followed by a talent show on TV, a cup of camomile tea and an early night. Sunday morning she spent reading the papers and the rest of the day semicomatose on the sofa. Now it was Monday and back to work.

  Annie felt in a remarkably good mood as she drove along the narrow winding lane to Mossmoor past farmhouses, drystone walls and sheep grazing on the distant hillsides. Perhaps, she thought, it was because Poppy had gone home. Or maybe it was due to her dry Sunday and a Monday-morning lie-in.

  Adele Balter lived in an old farm laborer’s cottage in the village of Mossmoor, only a few miles east of Annie’s place in Harkside, so Annie had decided to head over there before going in to the station, then meet up with Gerry later in Eastvale to plan their strategy. They had already spoken on the phone and Gerry had a list of names from Laurence Hadfield’s mobile. The last calls either to or from it had come on the Saturday before last. There were three incoming calls, all from a Dr. Anthony Randall: one in the afternoon, lasting seven minutes, then another at 8:02 in the evening, this time for only four minutes, and finally at 11:26, when the call had gone through to Hadfield’s voicemail, but the caller hadn’t left a message. Gerry had also come up with an address for Dr. Randall, in Bramhope, between Leeds and Otley.

  It wasn’t much to go on, but it would be useful to know what Laurence Hadfield and Dr. Anthony Randall had been talking about that Saturday, and why Hadfield hadn’t answered that last call. Annie guessed that he must have gone out by then, perhaps to his death, and his phone had been lying on the desk in his study, as it was when Poppy and Adele Balter arrived a few days later.

  Annie finally came to the row of tiny old cottages that formed the village high street, along with a post office and general store, parked and went through the gate of the last cottage on the left. Adele, whom she had phoned in advance, opened the door before Annie had the chance to knock. She must have been watching through the net curtains.

  There was no Tardis effect in the cottage; it was just as tiny inside as it appeared from without. Adele also kept a very neat and tidy house, which didn’t surprise Annie at all. Surfaces sparkled, there wasn’t a speck of dust or a cobweb anywhere and the whole place smelled deliciously of fresh baking.

  “I’ve made some scones,” Adele said as she settled Annie on a flower-patterned armchair in front of the fire, where a couple of knotty logs gave off a soothing heat. Annie knew there was no use in protesting when Adele said she would just make a pot of tea and take the scones out of the Aga, so she relaxed in the armchair, admiring the oil painting of York Minster over the fireplace, and enjoyed the heat on her shins.

  She heard Adele puttering about in the kitchen, and a while later she came out with a tray. Annie hadn’t bothered with breakfast that morning, settling for a pot of coffee, so her stomach rumbled at the sight of the fresh-baked scones, tub of butter and a dish of strawberry jam.

  Adele put the tray on the table under the window. “Please, help yourself,” she said. “It’s not often I get the chance to bake for someone.”

  “Well,” said Annie, “I can guarantee you that this will be much appreciated. I’m starving.”

  “Then tuck in.”

  Annie did, and when she had filled her plate and her teacup, she returned to the armchair, and to business.

  “You said you wanted my opinion on something?” Adele asked.

  “Yes.” Annie managed to rest her cup and plate on the floor beside her without spilling anything and took the plastic evidence bag out of her briefcase. She would have to drop it off at the lab for forensic testing later, but it had seemed easier to come and show it to Adele at home rather than have her visit the station.

  Adele held up the transparent bag and stared. After a few moments, she asked, “What is it?”

  “You’ve never seen it before?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a charm for a bracelet.”

  “Oh, yes. I know what you mean. We used to have them when I was a little girl. And those ones with your name on. What did they call them?”

  Annie nodded. “Identity bracelets. Anyway, these charm bracelets are popular again.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why are you showing it to me?”

  Annie put the Pandora charm back in her briefcase and managed to balance her scone on her knees and hold the cup in her hand. She took a sip of tea and a bite of buttery, jammy scone. It was delicious. “You don’t recognize it at all
?” she asked again when she’d swallowed a mouthful.

  “No. I’d remember. Mr. Laurence would never wear anything like that.”

  “I don’t suppose he would,” Annie said with a smile. “But perhaps a visitor, or a guest might?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” said Adele. “Nobody ever visited when I was there. Except the postman. Would you like another scone?”

  “No. I’m still OK with this. It’s delicious.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You said you clean at Mr. Hadfield’s once a week, usually on a Thursday. Am I right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where do you clean?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s a big house. Three floors. You can’t get to every nook and cranny in a day, surely?”

  Adele Balter sat up straight in her chair and thrust her shoulders back. “I defy you to find one spot of dust in that house,” she said.

  “I know you’re proud of your work,” Annie said, “and rightly so, but let’s be realistic about this.”

  “Many of the rooms are never used, especially those up on the third floor. They don’t take long, since nothing’s been disturbed. Just a quick flick around with the feather duster and a couple of minutes with the vacuum.”

  “Fair enough. What about the bathroom?”

  “Which one?”

  Annie couldn’t for the life of her remember how many bathrooms there were. Three, perhaps, she guessed. “The big one upstairs. With the large hot tub on the platform and the bidet and everything.” She refrained from saying that it was about as big as her entire cottage. Adele’s, too.

  “That’s the main bathroom, the one Mr. Laurence uses most of the time, apart from the en suite in his bedroom, of course. But that’s just a walk-in shower and WC.”

  We should all be so lucky, thought Annie. “So the big bathroom is the most used?”

  “Well, Mr. Laurence likes a bath. I know that because he told me. ‘There’s nothing like a good long hot bath to wash away the cares of the world, Mrs. B,’ he said. A shower’s useful, of course, especially if you’re in a hurry, which he often is, but there’s nothing like a bath. Are you sure you won’t have another scone? I’ll never finish them all myself.”