Detective Superintendent Gervaise had called another progress meeting in the incident room, as the boardroom had now become known, for early Wednesday morning. The team lounged around the polished table sipping coffee from styrofoam cups and chatting about last night’s television, or Boro’s prospects for the weekend’s football. The corkboards had acquired more crime scene photographs, and the names and details of various people connected with the victim were scrawled across the whiteboard.
Annie Cabbot sat next to Winsome and DC Galway, on loan from Harrogate CID, and tried to digest what Banks had told her over an early breakfast in the Golden Grill. The presence in the area of two people connected with the Mad Hatters, the band on whom Nick Barber had been writing a major feature, seemed too much of a coincidence for her, too. She knew far less about the group and its history than Banks did, but even she could see there were a few skeletons in those closets worth shaking up a bit.
Detective Superintendent Gervaise clicked in on her shiny black heels, smoothed her navy pinstripe skirt and sat down at the head of the table, gracing everyone with a warm smile. A chorus of “Good morning, ma’am” rose up from the assembled officers.
She turned first to Stefan Nowak and asked if there was anything more from forensics.
“Not really,” said Stefan. “Naturally, there are numerous fibers and hairs remaining to be analyzed. The place was supposed to be thoroughly cleaned after each set of guests, but nobody’s that thorough. We’ve got a list of the last ten renters from the owner, so we’ll check against their samples first. It was a busy summer. Some of them live as far afield as Germany and Norway. It could take a long time.”
“Prints?”
“The poker was wiped clean, and there are nothing but blurs around the door and conservatory entrance. Naturally, we’ve found almost as many fingerprints as we have other trace evidence, and it’ll all have to be sifted, compared to existing records. As I said, it will take time.”
“What about DNA?”
“Well, we did find traces of semen on the bedsheets, but the DNA matches that of the victim. We’re trying to separate out any traces of female secretion, but no luck so far. Apparently, he used condoms and flushed them down the toilet.” He glanced toward Annie for confirmation. She nodded.
“We know who this… companion… was, don’t we, DI Cabbot?”
“Yes,” said Annie. “Unless there was someone else, which I’d say he hardly had time for, Kelly Soames admits to sleeping with the victim on two occasions: Wednesday evening, which was her night off, and Friday afternoon, between the hours of two and four, when she rearranged a dental appointment so she could visit his cottage.”
“Resourceful girl,” Superintendent Gervaise reflected. “And Dr. Glendenning estimates time of death between six and eight on Friday?”
“He says he can’t be any more precise than that,” replied Stefan.
“Not earlier?”
“No, ma’am.”
“All right,” said Superintendent Gervaise. “Let’s move on. Anything from the house-to-house?”
“Nothing positive, ma’am,” said Winsome. “It was a miserable night even before the blackout, and most people shut their curtains tight and stayed in.”
“Except the killer.”
“Yes, ma’am. In addition to the couple in the Cross Keys and the New Zealander in the youth hostel who thought she saw a light-colored car heading up the hill, away from Moorview Cottage, between seven-thirty and seven-forty-five, we have one sighting of a dark-colored four-by-four going up the same lane at about six-twenty, before the power cut, and a white van at about eight o’clock, while the electricity was off. According to our witnesses, though, neither of these stopped by the cottage.”
“Not very promising, is it?” said Gervaise.
“Well, one of them could have stopped further up the lane and walked back. There are plenty of passing places.”
“I suppose so,” Superintendent Gervaise conceded, but it was clear her heart wasn’t in it.
“Oh,” Winsome added, “someone says he saw a figure running across a field just after dark, before the lights went out.”
“Any description?”
“No, ma’am. He was closing his curtains, and he thought he saw this dark figure. He assumed it was someone jogging and ignored it.”
“Fat, thin, tall, short, child, man, woman?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Just a dark figure.”
“Which direction was the figure running?” Banks asked.
Winsome turned to face him. “The shortcut from Fordham to Lynd-garth, sir, across the fields and by the river. It’s a popular jogging route.”
“Yes, but probably not after dark. Not in that sort of weather.”
“You’d be surprised, DCI Banks,” said Superintendent Gervaise. “Some people take their exercise very seriously indeed. Do you know how many calories there are in a pint of beer?”
Everyone laughed. Banks wasn’t convinced. Vic Greaves didn’t drive, so Adams had said, but it wasn’t very far from his cottage to Fordham, and that would have been the best route to take. It cut the journey almost in half. He made a note to get Winsome to talk to this witness again, or to do it himself.
“What about this Jack Tanner character?” Gervaise asked. “He sounded like a possible.”
“His alibi holds water,” said Templeton. “We’ve talked to six members of his darts team and every one of them swears he was in the King’s Head playing darts from about six o’clock until ten.”
“And I don’t suppose he was drinking Britvic Orange, either,” said Gervaise. “Maybe we ought to get Traffic to keep an eye on Mr. Tanner.”
Everyone laughed.
“So do we have any promising lines of inquiry yet?” Gervaise asked.
“Chris Adams suggested that Nick Barber had a cocaine problem,” Banks said. “I’m not convinced, but I’ve put in a request for the Met drugs squad to look into it. But there’s something else.” He told her about Vic Greaves’s breakdown and the drowning death of Robin Merchant at Swainsview Lodge thirty-five years ago, and the feature Nick Barber had been writing for MOJO.
“It’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t?” said Gervaise, when he had finished. “I’ve always been a bit suspicious of events from so far in the past reaching forward into the present. Sounds like the stuff of television. I’m more inclined toward the most obvious solution – someone closer to hand, a jilted lover, cheated business partner, whatever. In this case, perhaps some disgruntled drug dealer. Besides, I take it this Merchant business was settled at the time?”
“After a fashion,” said Banks.
“What are you suggesting?”
“DS Templeton dug up the paperwork, and it looks to have been a rather cursory investigation,” Banks said. “After all, a major rock star and a peer of the realm were involved.”
“Meaning?”
Christ, Banks thought, do I have to spell it out for you? “Ma’am, I should imagine nobody wanted a scandal that might in any way touch the establishment and make it to the House,” he said. “There’d been enough of that sort of thing over the previous few years with Profumo, Kim Philby and the rest. As it was, the tabloids no doubt had a field day. Sex and drug orgies at Lord Jessop’s country manor. A deeper investigation might have unearthed things nobody wanted brought to the surface.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Banks, this is paranoid conspiracy rubbish,” said Superintendent Gervaise. “Honestly, I’d have thought better of you.”
“Well,” Banks went on, unfazed, “the victim’s personal belongings are all missing, including his laptop and mobile, and he was definitely silenced for good.”
“We do know that he had a laptop and mobile?”
“The girl, Kelly Soames, says she saw them when she visited him, ma’am,” said Annie.
Gervaise frowned as if she had a bad taste in her mouth and tapped her pen on the blank pad in front of her. “People have been killed or beaten up for a mobile
phone or less. I’m still not convinced about this girl, DI Cabbot. She could be lying. Talk to her again, see if her story’s consistent.”
“Surely you don’t really believe that she might have killed him?” Annie asked.
“All I’m saying is that it’s possible.”
“But she was working in the pub at the time. There are plenty of witnesses to vouch for her.”
“Except when she was supposed to be going to the dentist’s on Friday afternoon, but was in actuality in bed with a man she’d only just met, a man who was found dead not long after. The girl can obviously lie with the best of them. All I’m saying is it’s suspicious, DI Cabbot. And the MO fits. Crime of passion. Maybe he slighted her, asked her to do something she found repugnant? Perhaps she found out he had another girlfriend. Maybe she left the pub for a few moments later on, in the dark. It wouldn’t have taken long.”
“That would involve some premeditation, not a crime of passion, ma’am,” said Annie, “and the odds are that she would have also got some blood on her.”
“Perhaps this sense of being wronged built up in her until she snapped when the lights went out, and seized her opportunity before they got organized with candles? I don’t know. All I’m saying is that it’s possible, and that it makes a good deal more sense than any conspiracy rooted deep in the past. Either way, push her a bit harder, DI Cabbot. Do I make myself clear? And, DS Nowak?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Have a word with the pathologist, Dr. Glendenning. See if you can push him a bit on time of death, find out if there’s any possibility that the victim could have been killed around four rather than between six and eight.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Stefan gave Annie a quick glance. They both knew Dr. Glendenning could not be pushed on anything.
“And let’s have the girl’s father in,” Superintendent Gervaise went on. “He disappeared for long enough around the time of the murder. If he found out that this Barber character was having casual sex with his daughter, he might have taken the law into his own hands.”
“Ma’am?” said Annie.
“What, DI Cabbot?”
“It’s just that I sort of promised. I mean, I indicated to the girl, to Kelly, that is, that we had no need to tell her father about what happened. Apparently he’s a bit of a disciplinarian, and it could go badly for her.”
“All the more reason to have a close look at him. It might already have gone badly for Nicholas Barber. Have you thought of that?”
“No, ma’am, you don’t understand. It’s her I’m worried about. Kelly. He’ll hit the roof.”
Superintendent Gervaise regarded Annie coldly. “I understand perfectly well what you’re saying, DI Cabbot. It serves her right for jumping into the bed with every man she sees, then, doesn’t it?”
“With all due respect, there’s no evidence to suggest that she does anything of the kind. She just happened to like Nick Barber.”
Superintendent Gervaise glared at Annie. “I’m not going to argue sexual mores, especially with you, DI Cabbot. Ask around. Find out. The girl must have had other partners. Find them. And find out if anyone’s ever paid her for it.”
“But, ma’am,” Annie protested. “That’s an insult. Kelly Soames isn’t a prostitute, and this case isn’t about her sex life.”
“It is if I say it is.”
“I talked to Calvin Soames,” Banks cut in.
Superintendent Gervaise looked over at him. “And?”
“In my opinion, he didn’t know what was going on between the victim and his daughter.”
“In your opinion?”
“Yes,” said Banks.
“He couldn’t have been hiding it?”
“He could, I suppose,” Banks admitted, “but if we’re assuming that he did it out of anger or righteous indignation, I think he would have been far more likely to be wearing his heart on his sleeve. He would have been angry when I was questioning his daughter about Barber, but he wasn’t.”
“Did you suggest they had slept together?”
“No,” said Banks. “I merely asked her about her dealings with Barber as a customer in the Cross Keys. While her father was watching us, I was watching him, and I believe that if he’d known there was more to it than that, it would have shown in his expression, his behavior, or in something he said. In my opinion, he’s not the sort of man accustomed to being sly.”
“And it didn’t?”
“No.”
“Very well. I’d be more convinced, however, if I could witness his reaction to being told what his daughter had been up to.”
“But, ma’am-”
“That’s enough, DI Cabbot. I want you to pursue this line of inquiry until I’m satisfied there either is or isn’t something to it.”
“It’ll be too late for Kelly Soames then,” Annie muttered under her breath.
“DS Templeton?” said Banks.
Templeton sat up. “Sir?”
“Did you manage to locate Detective Sergeant Enderby?”
Templeton shifted uneasily in his chair. “Er… yes, sir, I did.” He looked at Superintendent Gervaise while he was speaking.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Well, ma’am,” Templeton said, “DCI Banks asked me to track down the detective who investigated the Robin Merchant drowning.”
“This is the drug addict who fell into the swimming pool thirty-five years ago?”
“Yes, ma’am, though I’m not certain that he was actually an addict. Not technically speaking.”
Superintendent Gervaise sighed theatrically, ran her hand over her layered blond hair, then looked at Banks. “Very well, DCI Banks. I see you’re hell-bent and determined on following this up, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I’ll bear with you for the moment and assume there might be something in it. But DI Cabbot sticks with the Soameses. Okay?”
“Fine,” said Banks. He turned to Templeton. “Well, then, Kev. Where is he?”
Templeton glanced at Superintendent Gervaise again before answering. “Er… he’s in Whitby, sir.”
“That’s nice and handy, then, isn’t it?” Banks said. “I quite fancy a day at the seaside.”
The sun was out again when Banks began his descent from the North York Moors down into Whitby. It was a sight that always stirred him, even in the most gloomy weather, but today the sky was milky blue, and the sun shone on the ruined abbey high on the hill and sparkled like diamonds on the North Sea beyond the dark pincers of the harbor walls.
Retired Detective Inspector Keith Enderby lived in West Cliff, where the houses straggled off the A174 toward Sandsend. At least his fifties pebbledash semi had a sea view, even if it was only a few square feet between the houses opposite. Other than that, it was an unremarkable house on an unremarkable estate, Banks thought, as he pulled up behind the gray Mondeo parked at the front. “Mondeo Man.” A journalistically contrived representative of a certain kind of middle-class Briton. Was that what Enderby had become?
On the phone, Enderby had indicated that he was keen enough to talk about the Robin Merchant case, and in person he welcomed Banks into his home with a smile and handshake, introduced his wife, Rita, a small, quiet woman with a halo of pinkish-gray hair. Rita offered tea or coffee and Banks went for tea. It came with the requisite plate of chocolate digestives, arrowroots and Kit Kats, from which Banks was urged to help himself. He did. After a few pleasantries, at a nod from her husband, Rita made herself scarce, muttering something about errands in town, and drove off in the gray Mondeo. “Mondeo Woman,” then, Banks thought. Enderby said something about what a wonderful woman she was. Banks agreed. It seemed the polite thing to do.
“Nice place to retire to,” Banks said. “How long have you been here?”
“Going on for ten years now,” Enderby said. “I put in my twenty-five years and a few more besides. Finished up as a DI in South Yorkshire Police, Doncaster. But Rita always dreamed of living by the seaside and we used to come here for our hol
idays.”
“And you?”
“Well, the Costa del Sol would have suited me just fine, but we couldn’t afford it. Besides, Rita won’t leave the country. Foreigners begin at Calais and all that. She doesn’t even have a passport. Can you believe it?”
“You probably wouldn’t have liked it there,” Banks said. “Too many villains.”
“Whitby’s all right,” said Enderby, “and not short of a villain or two, either. I could do without all those bloody Goths, mind you.”
Banks knew that Whitby’s close association with Bram Stoker’s Dracula made the place a point of pilgrimage for Goths, but as far as he knew they were harmless enough kids, caused no trouble, and if they wanted to wear black all the time and drink a little of one another’s blood now and then, it was fine with him. The sun flashed on the square of sea through the houses opposite. “I appreciate your agreeing to talk to me,” Banks said.
“No problem. I just don’t know that I can add much you don’t already know. It was all in the case files.”
“If you’re anything like me,” Banks said, “you often have a feeling, call it a gut instinct or whatever, that you don’t think belongs in the files. Or a personal impression, something interesting but that seems irrelevant to the actual case itself.”
“It was a long time ago,” Enderby said. “I probably wouldn’t remember anything like that now.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Banks. “It was a high-profile case, I should imagine. Interesting times back then, too. Rubbing shoulders with rock stars and aristos and all that.”
“Oh, it was interesting, all right. Pink Floyd. The Who. I met them all. More tea?”
Banks held out his cup while Enderby poured. His gold wedding band was embedded deeply in his pudgy finger, surrounded by a tuft of hair. “You’d have been how old then?” Banks asked.
“In 1970? Just turned thirty that May.”
That would be about right, Banks guessed. Enderby looked to be in his mid-sixties now, with the comfortable paunch of a man who enjoys his inactivity and a head bereft of even a hint of a hair. He made up for the lack with a gray scrubbing-brush mustache. A delicate pink pattern of broken blood vessels mapped his cheeks and nose, but Banks put it down to blood pressure rather than drink. Enderby didn’t talk or act like a boozer, and his breath didn’t smell of Trebor Extra-Strong mints.
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