Liam grinned. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, old boy. There’s nothing illegal or exciting. No kiddie porn, thank God, nor sheep-shagging or what have you. Is sheep-shagging illegal, by the way?’
‘There are probably laws against it,’ said Banks. ‘Though I can’t say as I’ve ever had to enforce any. The animal rights people might have a thing or two to say about it, mind you. I mean, how would you know if the sheep said yes or no?’
“I thought baaa always meant yes, your Honour? Anyway, I’m all for Sheep-Shaggers Liberation, if there is one. To move on … we have the usual free porn sites – boringly hetero, I’m afraid – and from what I can gather, his tastes run from the so-called normal to the slightly fetishistic.’
‘As in?’
‘Nylons and lingerie. American cheerleader uniforms, or at least professional ladies dressed in said uniforms. Apart from a few MILFs, he seems to like them young, teens and college girls, or what passes for young on these websites. He’s not fussy about type or ethnic origin, quite happy with blondes, brunettes, blacks and Asians, as long as they’re young.’ Liam scratched his chin. ‘There seem to be a lot more Eastern Europeans on these sites these days.’
‘Some of the girls are forced or tricked into it,’ said Banks. ‘Trafficked. It goes in waves. These days most of them are trafficked from ex-Soviet bloc countries in Eastern Europe. It used to be South-east Asia. Africa before that.’
‘Three cheers for good old capitalism, eh?’ said Liam. ‘Opening up new markets all the time. Anyway, you’ll be happy to hear that there are no dwarves or ladyboys. Doggy style, but not doggies. One on one, rather than threesomes or gangbangs. No fisting or machines of ass destruction.’
‘Ouch,’ said Banks.
‘My apologies. I’ve been reading too many American magazines. I have to say, your Mr Miller is disappointingly normal. No leads there. No Internet plots to murder anyone, or buy drugs. Not even Viagra. He certainly didn’t appear to buy any online medications.’
‘Who among us could stand such scrutiny of his computer?’
Liam narrowed his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t mind an hour or two with your hard drive one day, old boy,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got a more interesting range of browsing than Mr Miller.’
‘You’d be disappointed, I’m afraid,’ said Banks. ‘It’s mostly music and emails. Sorry.’
‘So you say. Anyway, in my experience, it’s where many people live their secret lives these days, no matter how public it all is. That’s the irony, I suppose. People assume it’s private, but in reality it’s wide open. It’s also easy to hide there, to take on other identities, become anyone you want. You can stalk and slander to your heart’s content. You can praise your own work to the skies and piss on everyone else’s. Perverts and cowards love it. Then there’s Facebook and Twitter, the narcissist’s Elysian Fields. Bloody baby pictures and bad restaurant reviews because the waiter didn’t bow and scrape enough for your liking. It’s worse than those dreadful people who start talking on their mobile phones the minute they take their seat on a train. “I’m on the train, darling. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. It’s still raining here.” I mean, who bloody cares?’
Banks laughed. ‘So why do you spend so much of your time working with computers then, Liam?’
‘Because I love them! I love their purity, their simplicity. And because it’s just about all I can do to make a living. It’s not computers that’s the problem, it’s people. Not the machines, but the people who build them and run them. By the way, do you happen to be a connoisseur of fine champagne?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but I enjoy the odd glass now and then as much as the next man.’
‘The odd glass? The next man?’
‘Stop being so arch, Liam. I like champagne. I just don’t have anyone to share it with as often as I’d like.’
‘Ah … yes, I see. Well, short of introducing you to a friend of mine I think would like you very much, if you think you can find your way to polish off the odd bottle by yourself now and then, without any help from the next man, I have a reliable source of decently priced Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill. Various vintages. The 1979 will be well out of a policeman’s price range, but there are less expensive alternatives, if no parallels. Interested?’
‘I might be. Depends on the price.’
‘I’ll send you an email.’
‘Thanks. Did Gavin Miller have a Facebook page?’
‘No. He did contribute occasional reviews and articles to a number of fanzines and movie fan sites. Unpaid, I should imagine. I suppose you’ve heard of the Grateful Dead, too?’
‘Indeed I have. I was listening to them just last night. Great band.’
‘Well, there was a lot of web activity connected with them, including set lists for all the concerts they’ve ever played along with quite a lot of downloads. I must say I was quite astounded when I saw how many there were. In fact, Mr Miller seemed quite addicted to rock and roll in general, with a real passion for vinyl music sites.’
The emphatic distaste with which Liam pronounced the words ‘rock and roll’ was hard to miss. Music began and ended with opera, as far as he was concerned, and he and Banks had had a number of disagreements on the subject. Luckily, Colin was a bit more broad-minded and was at least fond of some jazz, just as long as it didn’t get too adventurous or discordant. Early, not late, John Coltrane. Cool Miles, not funky. Bix and Louis even better. ‘What do you mean by web activity?’ Banks asked.
‘The usual. Downloads, file sharing, discussion groups, blogs, tweets, chatrooms, threads, message boards, eBay, Craigslist, esoteric memorabilia sites, you name it. Nothing illegal, unless you count the file sharing and the occasional illegally downloaded bootleg recording.’ Liam passed him a print of the screen capture. ‘This was the page that was showing when he last closed the lid of the laptop. I don’t know whether it means anything.’
Banks took the photo from Liam. ‘Any idea what time?’
‘He logged off the desktop at 7.45 Sunday evening, but that doesn’t mean he went out immediately to meet his death.’
‘Point taken,’ said Banks. ‘We think it was later than that, anyway, and someone was seen leaving the car park in Coverton around half past ten. It just helps us pinpoint the timing a bit more accurately.’
‘Ah, one of those detective thingies.’
‘That’s right.’ Banks read the printed sheet. It was a simple Wikipedia article about the music of 1972, listing the albums released in that year. Banks remembered 1972. He had been living in Notting Hill and attending London Polytechnic, studying for his Higher National Diploma in Business Studies. Glancing down the page, he was surprised to find that Credence, Them and the Velvet Underground had all split up that year, and that the first album to be released was Jamming With Edward. He handed the sheet back to Liam. ‘Jamming With Edward, indeed,’ he said.
‘I assume you’ve heard of it?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘It was something to do with the Rolling Stones.’
‘There’s a lot of late 1971 and early 1972 in his recent memory. Top movies, current events, bestselling LPs, politics, what books were being read, that sort of thing. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Be Here Now, The Dice Man. Specific searches on movies such as A Clockwork Orange, Get Carter, 10 Rillington Place. And vinyl LPs like Rainbow Bridge, Harvest, Tupelo Honey. Whatever they are.’
‘Music, Liam. Music.’
‘If you say so. And what does all this add up to, oh great detective?’
‘Wish I knew,’ said Banks. ‘That he was interested in 1972? I’ve had a quick look around his home and his vinyl and DVD collections, too. It’s similar to what you found on his computer. I get the impression that our Mr Miller lived in a bit of a fantasy world since he lost his job. Or in the past. He satisfied his needs with DVDs and online porn and chatrooms. Definite loner. Anorak.’
‘No wonder he was a loner if he was sitting around at home listening to rock and roll records and watching
porn. Who’d want to share that with him?’
‘Everyone needs a hobby, Liam. If he was searching all this 1972 stuff on his computer, maybe he was on a nostalgia fishing trip, searching for something from his past, reminding himself what happened back then? He certainly didn’t seem to have much going for him in his life around the time he died. He would have been at university back then. He was at Essex from 1971 to 1974, so 1971 to 1972 would have coincided with his first year. Maybe it was his annus mirabilis? His first great love? Or he could have been doing research for something. A book, or an article, maybe? You said he wrote pieces for fanzines and what have you now and then?’
‘Some film review sites and book reviews, yes.’
‘Were there any visits to suicide sites, assisted death, that sort of thing?’
‘None.’
‘Any other recent searches?’
‘Much of the same, really, music, current events, film, books, including a few for ’73 and ’74. Could they have any connection with his death?’
‘If they do,’ said Banks, ‘I’ve no idea what it might be yet, but I’ll make a note of it. As I said, those were the years he was at university.’
‘Perhaps he met an old friend who stirred it all up?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Or maybe he was meeting someone to buy or sell some sort of rare, forbidden Grateful Dead bootleg recording?’
‘I doubt that there are any. The Grateful Dead have put out just about every concert they ever played in one format or another, mostly for free. It’s a novel idea, though, Liam, someone murdered in a rare Grateful Dead bootleg deal gone wrong. I like it.’
‘Well, what would I know? I’m just a civilian.’
‘Let’s leave the speculation behind for the time being. Have you had a chance to work on the mobile yet?’
‘We’re still processing the SIM card, but I wouldn’t expect too much more. We did get a list of the recent calls made and received, along with the scratch pad numbers. It’s just a cheap phone, not a smartphone, or anything fancy like that, so there’s no email or web browsing. He didn’t seem to do texts, and there aren’t very many calls, which makes our job a lot easier.’ He passed Banks a sheet of paper. In the week before his murder he had made only three calls and received two. Before that, there were a few more to or from different numbers scattered about but, as Stefan Nowak had said, not very many.
‘Not much to go on, is it?’ Banks said.
‘I guess you could say our Mr Miller was definitely not a party animal. It’s a pay-as-you-go mobile, and his last top-up was five months ago, for a tenner. He’s still got four pounds sixty pence left. I know people who would go through that in an hour.’
‘So he lived his life online?’
‘So it appears. What there was of it. Sorry.’
‘And the photos?’
‘Just photos. I can’t say exactly how old they are, but they’re not digital. Some of them look to be late sixties or early seventies to me, judging by the architecture and what people were wearing. As far as we can tell so far, they’re all over twenty years old, anyway. The last ones were probably taken outside some college or other in the late eighties. Maybe where he got his first teaching job. Anyway, we’re getting them scanned, and you’ll have copies as soon as we can. We’ll be checking the originals for prints, of course, like the envelope and the money, but I wouldn’t expect too much.’
‘Too bad,’ said Banks. He held up the sheet. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘It’s your copy. Take this, too. We got it from the computer. It might come in useful.’
It was a head-and-shoulders shot of Miller. From the background, it was clearly taken by the computer’s built-in camera: straggly goatee, slightly hostile, lined face, deep-set eyes, thinning, longish hair. Banks thanked Liam and headed back to his office.
3
There weren’t many shops on Coverton High Street. On one side stood a row of detached houses set back behind low stone walls or fences and hedges, most with trees and well-tended gardens. Each house was unique; and one even had an octagonal clock tower attached. Banks guessed it was probably an old converted schoolhouse. All were built from local limestone, with the occasional dark seam of gritstone in a lintel or a cornice. Where the row of houses ended, across from the entrance to the car park, there was about six feet of grass before the narrow drive that led down to the Old Station. The station, empty for years, had recently been converted into a combination café and gift shop, the kind of place that smells of potpourri and scented candles, and some of its wall space had been given over to exhibitions of works by local artists. Behind the station, on the road that ran at a right angle to the high street, stood the Star & Garter, a low-roofed, whitewashed building. No doubt, in spring and summer, hanging baskets of geraniums would festoon its facade, but in the grip of a wet and chilly November, it was noticeably bare and unwelcoming.
There was one TV van in the car park, Banks noticed, and a few media types sniffing about, but not very many. Gavin Miller’s death wasn’t especially sensational, and the only reason it had drawn any interest at all was that it had happened in such an out-of-the-way spot. A press conference back in Eastvale later in the day should satisfy all their needs, at least for a while.
Before he had left Eastvale, Banks had given the list of Miller’s mobile calls to Gerry Masterson and asked her to match names and addresses to the numbers. He had brought Winsome along with him to Coverton and dropped her off down the road to talk to Mrs Stanshall, the woman who had said she had seen someone get into a car at 10.30 p.m. Sunday evening. They would meet up later in the mobile unit, parked in the car park over the road.
A smattering of lunchtime drinkers clustered around the bar, and one or two of the tables were taken by out-of-season tourists, but other than that, the Star & Garter was a quiet enough place. Banks ordered bangers and mash and an orange juice and asked the landlord if he would come over and join him when he had a free moment.
‘I suppose it’s about Gavin, isn’t it?’ said the balding, broad-shouldered man who joined him a few minutes later, bringing Banks’s lunch with him. ‘Mind if I talk to you while you eat?’
The use of the victim’s first name didn’t pass Banks by. ‘Not at all. Friend of yours, was he, Gavin Miller?’
The landlord, Bob Farrell, pulled out a chair, sat down and pushed forward until his belly touched the edge of the table. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call him a “friend”,’ he said. ‘But I knew him. It’s terrible, what happened. Someone said they thought he might have been murdered. Is that true, or did he jump?’
‘We don’t know for certain, yet, Mr Farrell. Did he ever give you any reason to think he might harm himself?’
‘No. I’m just saying, like. Who knows what goes on in his fellow man’s mind, when you get right down to it?’
‘Who, indeed. Was he a regular here?’
‘When he could afford to be. He was usually a bit strapped for cash.’
‘Did he ever pester anyone for a loan, for a drink?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. He always paid his way.’
‘Gambling?’
‘I don’t hold by it. You might have noticed, we don’t even have any one-armed bandits in here, no matter how much the brewery puts the pressure on. A man has to stand by his principles.’
‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘I was just wondering if Gavin Miller ever mentioned a flutter on the ponies, fiver on a cup match, that sort of thing.
‘I never heard him. I don’t think Gavin was a gambler. If he ever had any money, he spent it on his record and DVD collection. The rest went on booze and fags.’
‘Did he drink a lot?’
Farrell considered the question for a moment, then said, ‘He wasn’t what I’d call a real serious boozer. And I’ve seen a few of those in my time. Never caused any trouble, if that’s what you mean. On the other hand, he could put it away when he wanted to. And I think he drank a fair bit at home, too. A lot do, these
days, you know. It’s cheaper. Killing the local pub trade.’
Banks was aware how many of the Dales pubs had closed down over the past few years, victims of recession, cheap canned lager and drink-driving laws. ‘How much would he drink on an evening here? On average?’
‘Five pints was his limit. I’ve rarely seen him have more than that. But he wasn’t in here more than once every two weeks or so. And he’d always walk out as straight as he walked in.’
‘Did he usually drink alone?’
‘Mostly. He did come with another bloke from time to time. Not very often, though. About the same age. Dressed a bit too young for his age, if you know what I mean. Earring. Hair over the collar. Probably thought he looked trendy.’
‘Did you catch his name?’
‘Jim, I think.’
Annie had told Banks that Trevor Lomax had mentioned someone called Jim Cooper, a friend of Miller’s from Eastvale College. Perhaps it was him? It would be easy enough to find out. ‘What about your regulars? Did he mix with them?’
‘Some of the other locals would join him every now and then. He wasn’t exactly unsociable, you understand, but he didn’t seek out company. You’d have to approach him, then he’d be happy enough to have a chat for a while. He wasn’t stand-offish, really, but he wasn’t very good at small talk, at blethering, you know what I mean? People didn’t usually like to spend very long talking to him. He wasn’t interested in football or rugby, and he didn’t seem to watch telly much, either, which I must say form the main topics of conversation in here of an evening. He was a bit of an egghead. He was more interested in those foreign films of his.’
‘So that’s what he talked about?’
‘Nobody here’s interested in that stuff. People like things you can watch without having to read the bottom of the screen.’
‘But people tolerated him?’
‘Oh, aye. He were harmless enough, were Gavin. I mean, they might have had a bit of a laugh at him, but he’d no side, Gavin hadn’t, and he took it all in good humour. And he knew his stuff. Arts, really. Films, music, books, that sort of thing. If ever there was a trivia question needed answering, Gavin was your man. He could be funny, too, sometimes. He did a passable imitation of that old Monty Python philosophers song. Mind you, he’d have to be well in his cups before that. And then there were times he’d tell stories about travelling around in the States, too, hitchhiking and going to Grateful Dead concerts, and they were quite interesting, I must admit.’
Children of the Revolution Page 6