Piece Of My Heart

by Peter Robinson

  He walked up the short path and knocked on the door. The front curtains were closed. No answer. He remembered the last time, how it had taken Greaves a while to answer, so he knocked again. When he still got no answer, he walked around to the back, where there was a small cobbled yard and a storage shed. He peeked through the grimy kitchen window and saw that things were in pretty much the same spotless order as they had been when he had first visited Greaves.

  Curious, Banks tried the back door. It opened.

  He was treading on dangerous ground now, he knew, entering a suspect’s premises alone, without a search warrant. But he thought that, if he had to, he could justify his actions. Vic Greaves was mentally unstable, and Banks feared that he might have come to some harm, or harmed himself in some way. Even so, he hoped he didn’t stumble across the one piece of vital evidence that linked Greaves inextricably with Barber’s murder, or with Linda Lofthouse’s, or he might have a hard time getting it admitted in court. What he would do, he decided, was not touch anything and return with full authorization if he had to.

  As he entered, Banks felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. Annie had been right in her warning. If he indicated that he was at all close to the truth, then Greaves might lash out, as Banks thought he had done at Nick Barber. He might already know who was at his door, might be lying in wait, armed and ready to attack. Banks moved cautiously through the dim kitchen. At least all the knives were in their slots in the wooden block where Greaves kept them. Banks stood still in the doorway that led through to the living room and listened. Nothing but the wind whipping the tree branches and the distant sounds of a car starting and a dog barking.

  From what he could make out in the pale light that filtered through the curtains, the living room was just as it had been, too, with newspapers and magazines piled everywhere. Banks stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out Greaves’s name again. Still no answer.

  Tense and alert, he started to walk up the stairs. They creaked as he moved. Every once in a while he would pause, but still he heard nothing. He stood on the upstairs landing and listened again. Nothing. It was a small cottage, and in addition to the toilet and bathroom there were only two bedrooms. Banks checked the first and found it almost as full of newspapers and magazines as the living room. Then he went into the second, which was obviously Greaves’s bedroom.

  In one corner lay a mattress heaped with sheets and blankets. It reminded Banks of nothing so much as a nest of some kind. Carefully, he poked around with his toe in the bedsheets, but no one was there, either hiding or dead. Though the sheets were piled in an untidy mess, they were clean and smelled of apples. There was nothing else in the room except a wardrobe and a dresser full of old, but clean and neatly folded, clothes and underwear.

  After a cursory glance in the toilet and bathroom, which told him nothing, Banks went back downstairs into the living room. It was an ideal opportunity for him to poke around, but it didn’t seem as if Greaves had anything worth poking around for. There were no mementos, no Mad Hatters memorabilia, no photos or keepsakes of any kind. In fact, as far as Banks could tell, the cottage contained nothing but a few basic toiletries, clothes, kitchenware and newspapers.

  Idly, he started looking at some of the papers on the top of the pile: Northern Echo and Darlington amp; Stockton Times, along with the Yorkshire Evening Post dating back about three years, as far as he could tell. The magazines covered just about everything from computing, though Greaves had no computer as far as Banks had seen, to coin collecting, though there were none on the subject of rock music, or music of any kind. Many of the magazines still had free gifts stuck to their covers, and some hadn’t even been removed from their cellophane wrapping.

  Finding nothing of interest among the papers, Banks headed for the shed in the backyard. It had a padlock, but it was already open, just hanging there loosely on the hasp. Banks opened the door. He expected more newspapers, at the very least, but the shed was empty. It had no particular smell except for soil and wood. Spiders went about their webs in the corners and one particularly large specimen scuttled across the window. Banks shuddered. He had hated spiders ever since he had found one under his pillow when he was about five.

  Banks closed the door behind him and left it as it was. There was one thing, he guessed, that should have been there but wasn’t: Vic Greaves’s bicycle. So had Greaves gone rideabout, or had he gone somewhere specific?

  Banks went back to his car and took out his mobile. The signal was poor, but at least there was one. Chris Adams answered almost immediately.

  “Mr. Adams,” said Banks. “Where are you?”

  “At home. Why?”

  “Do you have any idea where Vic Greaves is?”

  “I’m not his keeper, you know.”

  “No, but you’re the closest he’s got to one.”

  “Sorry, no. I don’t know. Why?”

  “I’ve just been to see him and his bike’s not there.”

  “He does go out from time to time.”

  “Anywhere in particular?”

  “He just rides. I don’t know where he goes. Look, are you telling me there’s some reason to be worried?”

  “Not at all. I’m just trying to find him to ask him a few more questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Things seem to be coming to a head. I think we’re almost there.”

  “You know who killed Nick Barber?”

  “Not yet, but I think I’m getting close.”

  “And Vic knows this?”

  “I don’t know what he knows. I’ll bet he can be remarkably perceptive at times, though.”

  “You never know with Vic. What goes in, what goes straight through.”

  “Any idea where he might go?”

  “No. I told you. He goes for bike rides from time to time. Helps keep him in shape.”

  “If you hear from him, please let me know.”

  “Okay.”

  “One more thing, Mr. Adams.”

  “Yes?”

  “The night Robin Merchant drowned. Were you up and around at the time?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Were you?”

  “Of course not. I was fast asleep.”

  “You and I both know that’s a load of bollocks, Mr. Adams, and the police probably knew it even then. They just didn’t have any evidence to suggest Robin Merchant might have been murdered, or that his death might have been caused by someone else in some way.”

  “This is absurd. Is it Tania? Have you been talking to Tania?”

  “Why would that make a difference?”

  “Because she was pissed. If you’ve talked to her, she’s no doubt told you we were what they call an item at the time. Her drug of choice was alcohol. Vodka mostly. She was probably so drunk she didn’t know her arse from her elbows.”

  “So you weren’t up and about?”

  “Of course not. Besides, Tania’s got it in for me. We haven’t exactly been on the best of terms these past few years.”

  That wasn’t exactly what Tania had told him, Banks remembered. Who was lying? “Oh. Why’s that?”

  “A mixture of business and personal matters. And none of your business, really. Now, look, this connection’s getting worse and worse. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “I’d like to talk to you again. Can you come by the station?”

  “I’ll be passing nearby on my way to London next week. I’ll try to drop in if I have the time.”

  “Try to make time. And ring first.”

  “I will if I can remember. Good-bye, Mr. Banks.”

  As Banks was putting his mobile away, he noticed he had voice mail waiting. Curious, he pressed the button and after the usual introduction heard Annie’s voice. “I hope things are going well with Vic Greaves,” she said. “Winsome and I seem to be making some progress here and we’d like to have a chat with you about the possibilities we’ve raised. Can you come back to the station as soon as you have a moment? It could
be important. Cheers.”

  Well, Banks thought, turning his car toward Eastvale and slipping in an old Roy Harper CD, Flashes from the Archives of Oblivion, at least someone was making progress.

  Winsome said she didn’t need to use the online computer anymore, so they adjourned to the privacy of Banks’s office. The market square was busy with tourists and shoppers coming in and out of the narrow streets that radiated from it. The day was warming up, so Banks opened his window about six inches to let some fresh air in. The noise of the cars, snatches of music, laughter and conversations all sounded distant and muffled. A whiff of diesel fumes from the revving coaches drifted in.

  “You’ve been busy, by the looks of it,” Banks said as Winsome dropped a pile of paper on his desk.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ve been on the telephone or the Internet over three hours now, and I think you’ll find the results very interesting.”

  “Go ahead.”

  They sat in a semicircle around Banks’s desk so they could all see. “Well,” Winsome began, pulling out the first sheet, “let’s start with twelfth January, 1969. Top Rank Suite, Cardiff.”

  “What happened there?” Banks asked.

  “Nothing. At least not at the Top Rank Suite.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Hold your horses a minute,” said Annie. “Let Winsome tell it her own way.”

  “I spoke with the archivist at one of the big newspapers down there,” Winsome went on, “the South Wales Echo, and he seemed surprised that somebody else was asking him about that particular date.”

  “Somebody else?”

  “Exactly,” Winsome went on. “It seems that Nick Barber did quite a bit of background work before he went up to Yorkshire, specifically into the Mad Hatters tour dates between the Brimleigh Festival and Robin Merchant’s death.”

  “Which makes me wonder why he needed to check the web sites at Eastvale Computes and jot what he found down in the back of his book,” said Annie.

  “John Butler, the editor at MOJO, told me that Barber was meticulous about checking his facts,” said Banks. “He checked everything at least twice before he went after a story. I should imagine he was getting it right, preparing for another chat with Vic Greaves.”

  “Makes sense,” said Annie. “Go on, Winsome.”

  “Well, sometimes he had to contact the local papers to see if they kept back issues, but mostly he didn’t need to. Most of what he wanted is available at the British Library Newspapers Catalogue, and he could read the papers on microfilm at the library’s newspaper reading room. His London phone records, by the way, show quite a few calls to the library, as well as to the local newspapers concerned, in Plymouth, Cardiff and Brighton.”

  “What did he discover?”

  “In the first place,” Winsome went on, “I should guess that he was simply looking for reviews of Mad Hatters performances. Maybe a few little quotes from the time to spice up his article. As you said, sir, he was thorough. And it looks as if he was also trying to get a broader context of the times, you know, little local snippets about what was going on that day in Bristol or Plymouth, what was of interest to the people there, that sort of thing. Background.”

  “Nothing unusual in that, either,” Banks said. “He was a music journalist. I imagine he was also scrounging around for any old photos or live bootleg recordings he could find.”

  “Yes, sir,” Winsome said. “Obviously he couldn’t research every gig – they played over a hundred towns and cities during that period – but he did cover a fair bit of ground in the reading room. I’ve spoken to the librarian he dealt with down there, and she was able to give me a list of what he did get around to and fax me prints from the microfilm reader of the newspapers for the three dates in question. She was very helpful. Sounded quite excited to be part of a police investigation. Actually, it was the issues on the days after the gigs that interested Barber, of course.”

  “Because that was when the reviews appeared,” said Banks.

  “Exactly. Well,” Winsome went on, there’s nothing especially interesting in the reviews. Apparently they were in good form that night, even Vic Greaves. It’s another item of news that I suspect was more interesting to Nick Barber.” She picked a sheet from her pile and turned it on the desk so that Banks could read it. “I’m sorry about the quality, sir,” she said, “but it was the best she could do at short notice.”

  The print was tiny and Banks had to take out his reading glasses. The story was about a young woman called Gwyneth Harris, who was found dead in Bute Park, near the city center of Cardiff, at six o’clock in the morning of thirteenth January, by an elderly man walking his dog. Gwyneth had, apparently, been held from behind and stabbed five times in the heart with a blade resembling that of a flick-knife. There were no more details.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Banks. “Linda Lofthouse.”

  “There’s more,” said Annie, nodding to Winsome, who slipped out another sheet.

  “Monday, twentieth April, 1970. The Brighton amp; Hove Gazette, the day after the Mad Hatters played at the Dome there. Not very well, apparently. The reviewer mentioned that Greaves in particular seemed barely conscious, and at one point Reg Cooper had to go over to him and direct his fingers to the right keys for the chords. But there’s a piece about a young girl called Anita Higgins found dead on a stretch of beach not far from the West Pier.”

  “Stabbed?” said Banks.

  “Yes, sir. This time from the front.”

  “And I suppose the same thing happened at the third circled gig?”

  “Western Evening Herald, Wednesday, twentieth May, 1970, a review of the Mad Hatters gig and an item about Elizabeth Tregowan, aged seventeen, found dead in Hoe Park, Plymouth. This one was strangled.”

  “So if it was the same person,” said Banks, “he was getting bolder, more daring, more personal. The first two he didn’t even want to see him, the third he stabbed from the front and the last he strangled. Is that all?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Winsome. “There may be more, but these are the only three Nick Barber got around to uncovering. It must have been enough for him.”

  “It’s enough for anyone,” said Banks. “If you count Linda Lofthouse at Brimleigh, that’s four girls been murdered within close proximity to a Mad Hatters gig. Were any of them at the concerts? Had they any connection with the group?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Annie said. “Winsome thought it best to bring you up-to-date as soon as possible on this, and we’ve still got a lot of legwork to do. We need follow-up stories, if any are available, and we need to get on to the local forces, see what they’ve got in their archives. You know we never give everything out to the newspapers.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Winsome said. “It might be of interest, I don’t know, but the Mad Hatters were on tour in France most of August 1969.”

  “So?” said Banks.

  “The flick-knife,” said Winsome. “They’re illegal here, but you can get them easily enough in France. And I don’t think they had metal detectors all over the place back then.”

  “Right,” said Banks. “Excellent work. So where does this lead us? Before he left for Yorkshire, Nick Barber found out about a trail of bodies after Mad Hatters gigs in the late sixties and early seventies, starting with that of his birth mother. Clearly the local forces at the time had no communication about these killings, which isn’t surprising. Even as late as the eighties lack of inter-force communications botched the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. Stanley Chadwick thought he’d got his man, for good reason, so he had no further interest in the case. He also had problems of his own to deal with. Yvonne. Besides, one of the victims was strangled, not stabbed. Different MO. Even if Chadwick had come across the story, which is unlikely, it wouldn’t have meant anything to him. And who’d be looking at the Mad Hatters as a common denominator?”

  “Clearly Nick Barber was,” said Annie. “Before his second interview with Vic Greaves, on the day of his m
urder, Friday, he went to Eastvale Computes in the morning to verify his dates, and he made a note of what he found – what he already knew – in the back of a book he was carrying. We already know from the landlord of the Cross Keys that Barber was in the habit of carrying a book with him when he went for a drink or a meal.”

  “Lucky for us he was so thorough,” said Banks, “seeing as all his other research material was stolen.”

  “So you think Vic Greaves is the killer?” Annie asked.

  “I don’t know. When you put it like that, it does sound a bit absurd, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, somebody killed those girls,” Annie argued. “And Vic Greaves was definitely around for each one.”

  “Why did he stop?” Banks asked.

  “We don’t know that he did,” Annie answered. “Though I’d guess he just became too disorganized to function. Obviously Chris Adams’s been shielding him, protecting him.”

  “You think Adams knows the truth?”

  “Probably,” Annie said.

  “Why would he shield Greaves?”

  “They’re old friends. Isn’t that what you said Tania Hutchison told you? They grew up together.”

  “What about Robin Merchant?”

  “He might have found out.”

  “So you think Greaves killed him, too?”

  “It wouldn’t have been difficult. Just a little nudge.”

  “Trouble is,” said Banks, “we’re not likely to get much sense out of Greaves.”

  “At least we can try.”

  “Yes.” Banks stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Great work, Winsome. Carry on with the follow-up. Get all you can from the locals.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I think I know where Vic Greaves is,” said Banks. “I’m going to have a word with him.”

  “Don’t you think you should take backup, sir?” said Winsome. “I mean, if he really is the one, he could be dangerous if you corner him.”

  “No,” said Banks, remembering that Annie had given him the same warning. “That’s one thing that’ll likely lose him to us for good. He can’t handle social interaction, and he’s especially afraid of strangers. I can only imagine how he’ll react if a few carloads of coppers turn up. At least he’s seen me before. I don’t think I’ve got anything to fear from him.”