Piece Of My Heart

by Peter Robinson

  “You did right,” said Banks. “Did you send a car?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. Don’t. Is there more than one person involved?”

  “Sounds like it to me.”

  “Thanks, Winsome,” said Banks. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He thanked Emilia for a wonderful dinner, made his apologies and left, saying he wasn’t sure how late he would be back. He didn’t think Brian minded too much, the way he was looking at Emilia and holding her hand in the candlelight.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, 19th September, 1969

  Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen called a meeting for Friday afternoon in the incident room at Brotherton House. The town hall dome looked dark and forbidding against the iron-gray sky, and only a few shoppers were walking up the Headrow toward Lewis’s and Schofield’s, struggling with their umbrellas. Chadwick was feeling a little better after a decent and nightmare-free sleep in his own bed, helped along considerably by the news that Leeds United beat SK Lyn Oslo 10-0 in the first round of the European Cup.

  Photos were pinned to the boards at the front of the room – the victim, the scene – and those present sat in chairs at the various scattered desks. Occasionally a telephone rang and a telex machine clattered in the distance. Present were McCullen, Chadwick, Enderby, Bradley, Dr. O’Neill and Charlie Green, a civilian liaison from the forensic laboratory in Wetherby, along with a number of uniformed and plainclothes constables who had been involved in the Lofthouse case. McCullen hosted the proceedings, calling first on Dr. O’Neill to summarize the pathology findings, which he did most succinctly. Next came the lab liaison man, Charlie Green.

  “I’ve been in meetings with our various departments this morning,” he said, “so I think I can give you a reasonable précis of what we’ve discovered so far. Which isn’t very much. Blood analysis determines that the victim’s blood is group A, a characteristic she shares with about forty-three percent of the population. As far as toxicology has been able to gather so far, there is no evidence to suggest the presence of illegal substances. I must inform you at this point, though, that we have no test for LSD, a fairly common drug among… well, the type of people we’re dealing with. It disappears from the system very quickly.

  “As you all know, the areas around where the body was found, and where the victim was stabbed, have both been searched exhaustively by our search teams and by specially trained police dogs. They turned up a small amount of blood at the scene, some on the ground and more on some nearby leaves. The blood matches the victim’s group and we submit that the killer used the leaves to wipe her blood from his hands and perhaps from the murder weapon, a narrow, single-edged blade, the kind you often find on a flick-knife. There are no footprints in the woods, and the footprints found near the sleeping bag were so muddled as to be useless.

  “Upon examination, the sleeping bag yielded traces of the victim’s blood, along with hair and… er… bodily fluids that contain the respective blood types of Ian Tilbrook and June Betts, neither group A, by the way, who claimed the sleeping bag was stolen from them while they sought out a better viewing position on the field.”

  “In all this, then,” said McCullen, “there are no traces of the killer? No blood? No hair?”

  “We still have unidentified hairs, some taken from the tree trunk near which the girl was killed,” said Green. “As you know, hair comparison is weak, to say the least, and it often doesn’t stand up in court.”

  “But you do have hairs, and they might belong to the killer?”

  “Yes. We also have some fibers, again some from the tree and some from the victim’s dress, but they’re common blue denim, which I’m sure just about everyone was wearing, and black cotton, which is also common. There’s a chance we might be able to make a match if we had the clothes, but I’m afraid these fibers aren’t going to lead us to anything you can’t get at Lewis’s or Marks amp; Spencer’s.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Just one more thing, really.”

  McCullen raised his eyebrows. “Do tell.”

  “We found stains on the back of the girl’s dress,” Green said, hardly able to stop the smile spreading across his large mouth. “They turned out to be semen, a secretor, type A blood, same as the victim. Hardly conclusive, of course, but certainly interesting.”

  McCullen turned back to Dr. O’Neill. “Doctor,” he said, “do we have any evidence of recent sexual activity on the part of the girl?”

  “As I said to DI Chadwick at the postmortem, the victim was menstruating at the time she was killed. Now, that doesn’t rule out sexual activity, of course, but vaginal and anal swabs reveal absolutely no signs of it, and the tissue shows no signs of tearing or bruising.”

  “Was she on the pill?” McCullen asked.

  “We did find evidence of oral contraception, yes.”

  “So perhaps,” Chadwick said, “our killer got his pleasure by ejaculating on the victim, not in her.”

  “Or perhaps he couldn’t help himself, and it happened as he was stabbing her. Was there a great deal of semen, Mr. Green?”

  “No,” said Green. “Minute traces. As much as might have seeped through a person’s underpants and jeans, say.”

  “So what do we know about our killer in total, Mr. Green?” he asked.

  “That he’s between five foot ten and six feet tall, left handed, wore blue denim jeans and a black cotton shirt or T-shirt, he’s a secretor, and his blood type is A.”

  “Thank you.” McCullen turned to Enderby. “I understand you’ve got something for us, Sergeant?”

  “It’s not much, sir,” said Enderby, “but DI Chadwick asked me to track down the girl who was doing the body painting backstage at Brimleigh. It seems there’s some question about the flower painted on the victim’s face, whether it was pre-or postmortem.”

  “And?”

  “Robin Merchant, one of the members of the Mad Hatters, told DI Chadwick that he saw her with a painted flower on her face late that evening. Her friend Tania Hutchison can’t remember. Hayes was also uncertain. If she did have one, we were wondering if the killer did it for some reason, sir.”

  “Did he?”

  “I’m afraid we still don’t know for certain. The body painter was a bit… well, not so much stupid as sort of lost in her own world. She couldn’t remember who she painted and who she didn’t. I showed her the victim’s photograph, and she thought she recognized her. Then I showed her the design, and she said it could have been one of hers, but she didn’t usually paint cornflowers.”

  “Wonderful,” said McCullen. “Do any of these people have the brains they were born with, I wonder?”

  “I know, sir,” said Enderby, with a grin. “It’s very frustrating. Should I continue my inquiries?”

  McCullen looked at Chadwick. “Stan? You’re in charge.”

  “I’m not sure if it’s relevant at all,” Chadwick said. “I simply thought that the drawing of such a flower by the killer indicated a certain type of mentality.”

  “A nutcase, you mean?” said McCullen.

  “To put it bluntly, yes,” said Chadwick. “And while I’m not saying our killer didn’t do it, I’m beginning to think that if he did, it’s simply another clumsy attempt at sleight of hand, like moving the body.”

  “Explain.”

  Chadwick took Green’s place at the front by the boards. “Yesterday in London, with the permission of the local police at West End Central, I questioned Rick Hayes, the festival promoter. He’s lied to me on a couple of occasions, and when I confronted him with this, he admitted to knowing the victim previous to the festival. He denies any sexual involvement – and I must add that a couple of other people I have spoken with regard this as highly unlikely, too – but he did know her. He’s also the kind of man who asks just about every girl he meets to hop into bed with him, so I’m thinking there’s a chance that if he was attracted to Linda and she rejected him… well, I thin
k you can see where I’m going.”

  “What about his alibi?” McCullen asked.

  “Shaky, to say the least. He was definitely onstage at one o’clock to introduce the last group. After that, who knows? He claims he was in the backstage enclosure paying people – I gather a lot of this sort of thing operates on a cash-in-hand basis, probably to avoid income tax – and seeing to various problems that came up. We can reinterview everyone who was there, but I don’t think that’ll get us anywhere. The point is that things were so chaotic back there when Led Zeppelin were playing that Hayes could easily have followed Linda out of the compound, stayed away for long enough to kill her and get back without really being missed. Don’t forget, it was dark as well as noisy, and most people were at the front of the stage watching the band. The drugs they take also make them rather narcissistic and inward-looking. Not a very observant lot, by and large.”

  “Have we enough to hold him?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Chadwick. “With West End Central’s help we searched his Soho office and his flat in Kensington and turned up nothing.”

  “Is he left-handed?”

  “Yes.”

  “The right height?”

  “Five foot eleven.”

  “So it’s all circumstantial?”

  “We’ve had worse cases, but there’s nothing to directly link him to the murder, without the weapon, except that he knew the victim, he fancied her, he had a bit of a temper, he’s left-handed and his alibi’s weak. He’s not a nutcase, so if he did paint the flower on her cheek, he did so to make us think it was the work of a nutcase.”

  “I see your point,” said McCullen. “He still sounds like the best bet we’ve got so far. He could have ditched the knife anywhere. Talk to the kid who found the body again, ask him at what point Hayes turned up and what sort of state he was in. And organize another search of the woods.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chadwick. “What do we do about him in the meantime?”

  “We’ve got enough to hold him, haven’t we? Let’s bring him back up here and treat him to a bit of Yorkshire hospitality. Arrange it with West End Central. I’m sure there must be someone down there looking for a chance to come up and watch tomorrow’s game.”

  “Which game would that be, sir?”

  McCullen looked at him as if were mad and said, “Which game? There is only one game, as far as I know.”

  Chadwick knew he meant the Yorkshire Challenge Cup at Headingley, knew McCullen was a rugby man, so he was teasing. The others knew it, too, and they were grinning behind cupped hands.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Chadwick. “I thought you meant Leeds and Chelsea.”

  McCullen grunted. “Football?” he said with scorn. “Nothing but a bunch of sissies. Now enough of your cheek and get on with it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chadwick.

  The end cottage was quiet when Banks walked up to the door at around nine o’clock. He had called on Jean and Susan Murray, who shared the flat above the post office, just to let them know that he was there and they weren’t to worry. Jean Murray’s account of events in person was no more coherent than what Winsome had repeated on the phone. Noise. Lights. Things breaking. A domestic tiff, Banks would have guessed, except that he was certain Vic Greaves had been alone when he left, and he wasn’t in any kind of shape to argue coherently with anyone. Banks had also considered calling in Annie, but there was no point in dragging her in all the way from Harkside for what might turn out to be nothing.

  He had parked his car by the green again, next to a silver Merc, because it wouldn’t fit up the lane. He looked at the Merc again and remembered it was the same one he had seen when he left Lyndgarth in the late afternoon. Wind thrashed the bare branches in the streetlights, casting eerie shadows over the cottage and the road. The air smelled of rain that hadn’t started falling yet.

  The front curtains were closed, but Banks could see a faint light shining inside. He walked down the path and knocked on the door. This time, it was answered quickly. The man who stood there, framed by the light, had a red complexion, and his thinning gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which gave the effect of his having a bulbous, belligerent face, as if Banks were seeing it through a fish-eye lens. He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he said. “Are you the bastard who came round earlier upsetting Vic? Can’t you sick bastards just leave him alone? Can’t you see he’s ill?”

  “He did look rather ill to me,” said Banks, reaching inside his pocket for his warrant card. He handed it over, and the man examined it before passing it back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, running his hand over the top of his head. “Excuse me. Come in. I’m just used to being so protective. Vic’s in a hell of a state.”

  Banks followed him in. “You’re right, though,” he said. “It was me who was here earlier, and he did get upset. I’m sorry if I’m to blame.”

  “You weren’t to know.”

  “Who are you, by the way?”

  The man stuck out his hand. “Name’s Chris. Chris Adams.”

  Banks shook. Adams had a firm grasp, although his palm was slightly sweaty.

  “The Mad Hatters’ manager?”

  “For my sins. You understand the situation, then? Sit down, sit down.”

  Banks sat on a cracked vinyl armchair of some indeterminate yellow-brown color. Adams sat at an angle to him. All around them were stacks of papers and magazines. The room was dimly lit by two table lamps with pink-and-green shades. There didn’t seem to be any heat, and it was chilly in the cottage. Banks kept his coat on. “I wouldn’t say I understand the situation,” he said. “I know Vic Greaves is living here, and that’s just about all I know.”

  “He’s resting at the moment. Don’t worry, he’ll be okay,” said Adams.

  “You take care of him?”

  “I try to drop by as often as I can when I’m not away in London or L.A. I live just outside Newcastle, near Alnwick, so it’s not too long a journey.”

  “I thought you were all living in America?”

  “That’s just the band – most of them, anyway. I wouldn’t live there if you paid me a fortune in gold bullion. Right now, there’s plenty to do at this end, organizing the forthcoming tour. But you don’t want to know about my problems. What exactly can Vic do for you?”

  Now that he was here, Banks wasn’t entirely sure. He hadn’t had time to plan an interview, hadn’t even expected to see Chris Adams this evening; he had come in response to Jean Murray’s call. Perhaps that was the best place to start.

  “I’m sorry I upset Mr. Greaves earlier,” he began, “but I had a phone call a short while ago from someone in the village complaining about shouting and things breaking.”

  Adams nodded. “That would have been Vic. When I got here it must have been shortly after you left. I found him rolled up in a ball on the floor counting. He does that when he feels threatened. I suppose it’s sort of like sheep turning their backs on danger and hoping it will go away.”

  “I thought maybe he was on drugs or something.”

  Adams shook his head. “Vic hasn’t touched drugs – at least nonprescription drugs – in over thirty years or more.”

  “And the noise, the breakages?”

  “I got him to sleep for a while, then, when he woke after dark, he got disoriented and frightened. He remembered your visit, and he got hysterical, had one of his tantrums and smashed a couple of plates. It happens from time to time. Nothing serious. I managed to calm him down eventually, and he’s sleeping again now. Small village. Word gets around.”

  “Indeed,” said Banks. “I’ve heard stories, of course, but I had no idea he was so fragile.”

  Adams rubbed at his lined forehead, as if scratching an itch. “He can function well enough on his own,” he said, “as you’ve no doubt seen. But he finds interaction difficult, especially with strangers and people he doesn’t trust. He tends to get angry, or to just shut down. It can
be very distressing, not just for him, but for whoever is trying to talk to him, as you no doubt found out, too.”

  “Has he been getting any professional help?”

  “Doctors? Oh, yes, he’s seen many doctors over the years. None of them have been able to do much except prescribe more and more drugs, and Vic doesn’t like to take them. He says they make him feel dead inside.”

  “How does he get in touch with you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “If he needs you or wants to see you. Has he got a phone?”

  “No. Having a telephone would only upset him.” Adams shrugged. “People would find out his number. Crazy fans. That’s what I thought you were, at first. He gets enough letters as it is. Like I said, I just drop by whenever I can. And he knows he can always get in touch with me. I mean, he knows how to use a phone, he’s not an idiot, and sometimes he’ll phone from the box by the green.”

  “Can he get around?”

  “He doesn’t drive, if that’s what you mean. He does have a bicycle.”

  A bicycle wasn’t much good for many of these steep country roads, Banks thought, unless you were especially fit, and Greaves didn’t look that healthy. But Fordham, he reminded himself, was only about a mile away, and you didn’t need a car, or even a bicycle, to cover that sort of distance.

  “Look, what’s going on?” Adams asked. “I don’t even know what you’re doing here. Why do you want to know about Vic?”

  “I’m investigating a murder,” said Banks, eyes on Adams to judge his reaction. There wasn’t one, which was odd in itself. “Ever heard of a man called Nicholas Barber?”

  “Nick Barber? Sure. If it’s the same man, he’s a freelance music journalist. Been writing about the Hatters on and off for the past five years or so. Nice bloke.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Is he dead, then?”

  “He was murdered in a cottage a little over a mile from here.”