Piece Of My Heart

by Peter Robinson

  Bradley was almost ten years older than Banks, and he was in good physical shape. There was no extra flab on him the way there had been on Enderby, and he still had a fine head of hair. He was wearing white trousers and a shirt with a gray V-neck pullover, a bit like a cricketer, Banks thought, or the way cricketers used to look before they became walking multicolored advertisements for everything from mobile phones to trainers.

  “Did you get on well with DI Chadwick?” Banks asked, remembering Enderby’s description of “Chiller” as cold and hard.

  “After a fashion,” said Bradley. “DI Chadwick wasn’t an easy man to get close to. He’d had certain… experiences… during the war, and he tended toward long silences you didn’t dare interrupt. He never spoke about it – the war – but you knew it was there, defining him, in a way, as it did many of that generation. But yes, I suppose I got along with him as well as anyone.”

  “Do you remember the Linda Lofthouse case?”

  “As if it were yesterday. Bound to happen eventually.”

  “What was?”

  “What happened to her. Linda Lofthouse. Bound to. I mean, all those people rolling in the mud on LSD and God knows what. Bound to revert to their primitive natures at some point, weren’t they? Strip away that thin but essential veneer of civilization and convention, of obedience and order, and what do you get – the beast within, Mr. Banks, the beast within. Someone was bound to get hurt. Stands to reason. I’m only surprised there wasn’t more of it.”

  “But what do you think it was about Linda Lofthouse that got her killed?”

  “At first, when I saw her there in the sleeping bag, you know, with her dress bunched up, I must confess I thought it was probably a sex murder. She had that look about her, you know?”

  “What look?”

  “A lot of young girls had it then. As if she’d invite you into her sleeping bag as soon as look at you.”

  “But she was dead.”

  “Well, yes, of course. I know that.” Bradley gave a nervous laugh. “I mean, I’m not a necrophiliac or anything. I’m just telling you the first impression I had of her. Turned out it wasn’t a sex crime after all, but some madman. As I said, bound to happen when you encourage deviant behavior. She’d had an illegitimate baby, you know.”

  “Linda Lofthouse?”

  “Yes. She was on the pill when we found her, like most of them, of course, but obviously not when she was fifteen. Gave it up for adoption in 1967.”

  “Did anyone find out what became of the child?”

  “It didn’t concern us. We tracked down the father, a kid called Donald Hughes, garage mechanic, and he gave us a couple of ideas as to the sort of life Linda was leading and where she was living it, but he had an alibi, and he had no motive. He’d moved on. Got a proper job, wanted nothing to do with Linda and her hippie lifestyle. That was why they split up in the first place. If she hadn’t been seduced by that corrupt lifestyle, the baby might have grown up with a proper mother and father.”

  The child’s identity might be an issue now, Banks thought. A child born in the late sixties would be in his late thirties now, and if he had discovered what had happened to his birth mother… Nick Barber was thirty-eight, but he was the victim. Banks was confusing too many crimes: Lofthouse, Merchant, Barber. He had to get himself in focus. At least the connection between Barber and Lofthouse was something he could check into and not come away looking too much of a fool if he was wrong.

  “What was the motive?”

  “We never found out. He was a nutcase.”

  “That being the technical term for a psychopath back then?”

  “It’s what we used to call them,” Bradley said, “but I suppose psychopath or sociopath – I never did know the difference – would be more politically correct.”

  “He confessed to the murder?”

  “As good as.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He didn’t deny it when faced with the evidence.”

  “The knife, right?”

  “With his fingerprints and Linda Lofthouse’s blood on it.”

  “How did this person – what’s his name, by the way?”

  “McGarrity. Patrick McGarrity.”

  “How did this McGarrity first come to your attention?”

  “We found out that the victim was known at various houses around the city where students and dropouts lived and sold drugs. McGarrity frequented these same places, was a drug dealer, in fact, which was what we first arrested him for after a raid.”

  “And then DI Chadwick became suspicious?”

  “Well, yes. We heard that McGarrity was a bit of a nutcase, and even the people whose houses he frequented were a bit frightened of him. There was a lot of tolerance for weird types back then, especially if they provided people with drugs, which is why I say I’m surprised these things didn’t happen more often. This McGarrity clearly had severe mental problems. Dropped on the head at birth, for all I know. He was older than the rest, for a start, and he also had a criminal record and a history of violence. He had a habit of playing with this flick-knife. It used to make people nervous, which was no doubt the effect he wanted. There was also some talk about him terrorizing a young girl. He was a thoroughly unpleasant character.”

  “Did this other young girl come forward?”

  “No. It was just something that came up during questioning. McGarrity denied it. We got him on the other charges, and that gave us all we needed.”

  “You met him?”

  “I sat in on some of the interviews. Look, I don’t know why you want to know all this now. There’s no doubt he did it.”

  “I’m not doubting it,” said Banks, “I’m just trying to find a reason for Nick Barber’s murder.”

  “Well, it’s got nothing to do with McGarrity.”

  “Nick Barber was writing about the Mad Hatters,” Banks went on, “and Vic Greaves was Linda Lofthouse’s cousin.”

  “The one that went bonkers?”

  “If you care to put it that way, yes,” said Banks.

  “How else would you put it? Anyway, I’m afraid I never met them. DI Chadwick did most of the North Riding side of the investigation with a DS Enderby. I do believe they interviewed the band.”

  “Yes, I’ve talked to Keith Enderby.”

  Bradley sniffed. “Bit of a scruff, and not entirely reliable, in my opinion. Rather more like the types we were dealing with, if you know what I mean?”

  “DS Enderby was a hippie?”

  “Well, not as such, but he wore his hair a bit long, and on occasion he wore flowered shirts and ties. I even saw him in sandals once.”

  “With socks?”

  “No.”

  “Well, thank the Lord for that,” said Banks.

  “Look, I know you’re being sarcastic,” said Bradley with a smug smile. “It’s okay. But the fact that remains is that Enderby was a slacker, and he had no respect for the uniform.”

  Banks could have kicked himself for letting the sarcasm out, but Bradley’s holier-than-thou sanctimony was starting to get up his nose. He felt like saying that Enderby had described Bradley as an arse-licker, but he wanted results, not confrontation. Time to hold back and stick to relevant points only, he told himself.

  “You say you think this writer was killed because he was working on a story about the Mad Hatters, but do you have any reason for assuming that?” Bradley asked.

  “Well,” said Banks, “we do know about the story he was working on, that he mentioned to a girlfriend that it might involve a murder, and we know that Vic Greaves now lives very close to the cottage in which Nick Barber was killed. Unfortunately, all Barber’s notes were missing, along with his mobile and laptop, so we were unable to find out more. That in itself is also suspicious, though, that his personal effects and notes were taken.”

  “It’s not very much, though, is it? I imagine robbery’s as common around your patch as it is everywhere these days.”

  “We try to keep an op
en mind,” said Banks. “There could be other possibilities. Did you have any other suspects?”

  “Yes. There was a fellow called Rick Hayes. He was the festival promoter. He had the freedom of the backstage area and he couldn’t account for himself during the period we think the girl was killed. He was also left-handed, as was McGarrity.”

  “Those were the only two?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it was the knife that clinched it?”

  “We knew we had the right man – you must have had that feeling at times – but we couldn’t prove it at first. We were able to hold him on a drugs charge, and while we were holding him we turned up the murder weapon.”

  “How long after you first questioned him?”

  “It was October, about two weeks or so.”

  “Where was it?”

  “In one of the houses.”

  “I assume those places were searched as soon as you had McGarrity in custody?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t turn up the knife then?”

  “You have to understand,” said Bradley, “there were several people living in each of these houses at any one time. They were terribly unsanitary and overcrowded. People slept on the floors and in all kinds of unlikely combinations. There was all sorts of stuff around. We didn’t know what belonged to whom, they were all so casual in their attitudes toward property and ownership.”

  “So how did you find out in the end?”

  “We just kept on looking. Finally, we found it hidden inside a cushion. A couple of the people who lived there said they’d seen McGarrity with such a knife – it had a tortoiseshell handle – and we were fortunate enough to find his prints on it. He’d wiped the blade, of course, but the lab still found blood and fiber where it joined the handle. The blood matched Linda Lofthouse’s type. Simple as that.”

  “Did the knife match the wounds?”

  “According to the pathologist, it could have.”

  “Only could have?”

  “He was in court. You know what those barristers are like. Could have been her blood, could have been the knife. A blade consistent with the kind of blade… blah blah blah. It was enough for the jury.”

  “The pathologist didn’t try to match the knife with the wound physically, on the body?”

  “He couldn’t. The body had been buried by then, and even if it had been necessary to exhume it, the flesh would have been too decomposed to give an accurate reproduction. You know that.”

  “And McGarrity didn’t deny killing her?”

  “That’s right. I was there when DI Chadwick presented him with the evidence and he just had this strange smile on his face, and he said, ‘It looks like you’ve got me, then.’”

  “Those were his exact words. ‘It looks like you’ve got me, then’?”

  Bradley frowned with annoyance. “It was over thirty years ago. I can’t promise those were the exact words, but it was something like that. You’ll find it in the files and the court transcripts. But he was sneering at us, being sarcastic.”

  “I’ll be looking at the transcripts later,” said Banks. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with the investigation into Robin Merchant’s death?”

  “Who?”

  “He was another member of the Mad Hatters. He drowned about nine months after the Linda Lofthouse murder.”

  Bradley shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

  “Mr. Enderby was able to tell me a bit about it. He was one of the investigating officers. I was just wondering. I understand DI Chadwick had a daughter?”

  “Yes. I only ever saw her the once. Pretty young thing. Yvonne, I think she was called.”

  “Wasn’t there some trouble with her?”

  “DI Chadwick didn’t confide in me about his family life.”

  Banks felt a faint warning signal. Bradley’s answer had come just a split second too soon and sounded a little too pat to be quite believable. The clipped tones also told Banks that he perhaps wasn’t being entirely truthful. But why would he lie about Chadwick’s daughter? To protect Chadwick’s family and reputation, most likely. So if Enderby was right and this Yvonne had been in trouble, or was trouble, it might be worth finding out exactly what kind of trouble he was talking about. “Do you know where Yvonne Chadwick is now?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Grown up and married, I should imagine.”

  “What about DI Chadwick?”

  “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for years, not since the trial. I should imagine he’s dead by now. I mean, he was in his late forties back then and he wasn’t in the best of health. The trial took its toll. But I transferred to Suffolk in 1971, and I lost touch. No doubt records will be able to tell you. More coffee?”

  “Thanks.” Banks held his mug out and gazed at the spines of the books. Nice hobby, he thought, collecting first editions. Maybe he’d look into it. Graham Greene, perhaps, or Georges Simenon. There were plenty of those to spend a lifetime or more collecting. “So even after confessing, McGarrity pleaded not guilty?”

  “Yes. It was a foolish move. He wanted to conduct his own defense, too, but the judge wasn’t having any of it. As it was, he kept getting up in court and interrupting, causing a fuss, making accusations that he’d been framed. I mean, the nerve of him, after he’d as good as admitted it. Things didn’t go well for him at all. We got the similar fact evidence about the previous stabbing in. The bailiffs had to remove him from the court at least twice.”

  “He said he’d been framed?”

  “Well, they all do, don’t they?”

  “Was he more specific about it?”

  “No. Couldn’t be really, could he, seeing as it was all a pack of lies? Besides, he was gibbering. There’s no doubt about it, Patrick McGarrity was guilty as sin.”

  “Perhaps I should have a chat with him.”

  “That would be rather difficult,” said Bradley. “He’s dead. He was stabbed in jail back in 1974. Something to do with drugs.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Is it just me, or do I sense a bit of an atmosphere around here?” Banks asked Annie in the corridor on Thursday morning.

  “Atmosphere would be an understatement,” said Annie. Her head still hurt, despite the paracetamol she had taken before leaving Winsome’s flat that morning. Luckily, she always carried a change of clothes in the boot of her car. Not because she was promiscuous or anything, but because once years ago, a mere DC, when she had done a similar thing, got drunk and stayed with a friend after a breakup with a boyfriend, someone in the station had noticed and she had been the butt of unfunny sexist jokes for days. And after that, her DS had come on to her in the lift after work one day.

  “You look like shit,” said Banks.

  “Thank you.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  Annie looked up and down the corridor to make sure no one was lurking. Great, she thought, she was getting paranoid in her own station now. “Think we can sneak over the road to the Golden Grill without setting too many tongues wagging?”

  “Of course,” said Banks. He looked as if he was wondering what the hell she was talking about.

  The day was overcast and chilly, and most of the people window-shopping on Market Street wore sweaters under their Windcheaters or anoraks. They passed a couple of serious ramblers, kitted out in all the new fancy gear, each carrying the two long pointed sticks, like ski poles. Well, Annie supposed, they might be of some use climbing up Fremlington Edge, but they weren’t a lot of use on the cobbled streets of Eastvale.

  Their regular waitress greeted them and soon they were sitting over hot coffee and toasted tea cakes, looking through the misted window at the streams of people outside. Annie felt a sudden rush of nausea when she took her first sip of black coffee, but it soon waned. It was always there, though, a low-level sensation, in the background.

  Annie and Winsome had certainly made a night of it, shared more confidences than Annie could ever have imagined. It made her realize
when she thought about it in the cold hangover dawn, that she didn’t really have any friends, anyone to talk to like that, be silly with, do girly things with. She had always thought it was a function of her job, but perhaps it was a function of her personality. Banks was the same, but at least he had his kids. She had her father, Ray, down in St. Ives, of course, but they only saw one another rarely, and it wasn’t the same; for all his eccentricities and willingness to act as a friend and confidant, he was still her father.

  “So what were you up to last night that’s left you looking like death warmed up? Feeling like it, too, by the looks of you.”

  Annie pulled a face. “You know how I love it when you compliment me.”

  Banks touched her hand, a shadow of concern passing over his face. “Seriously.”

  “If you must know, I got pissed with Winsome.”

  “You did what?”

  “I told you.”

  “But Winsome? I didn’t think she even drank.”

  “Me, neither. But it’s official now. She can drink me under the table.”

  “That’s no mean feat.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “How was it?”

  “Well, a bit awkward at first, with the rank thing, but you know I’ve never held that in very great esteem.”

  “I know. You respect the person, not the rank.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, by the end of the evening we’d got beyond that, and we had quite a giggle. It was ‘Annie’ and ‘Winsome’ – she hates Winnie. She’s got a wicked sense of humor when she lets her hair down, does Winsome.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Mind your own business. It was girl talk.”

  “Men, then.”

  “Such an ego. What makes you think we’d waste a perfectly good bottle of Marks and Spencer’s plonk talking about you lot?”