‘You’ll remember about my time off for cooperating, won’t you, man?’ Kyle said as the warder led him away. ‘You can’t say I wasn’t cooperative.’
‘No,’ said Banks. ‘I sure as hell can’t say that.’
‘Oh, it’s you again. Come in,’ said Lisa Gray, managing a weak smile when Winsome and Annie turned up at her door. It was marginally more welcoming than the greeting Dayle Snider had given them earlier, but not much. Lisa gave Annie a suspicious glance, and Winsome introduced them.
‘Not interrupting anything, are we?’ Winsome asked. Annie had agreed that her partner should do most of the questioning, as she already seemed to have created some sort of bond with Lisa. Annie would jump in as and when she felt like it.
‘Not at all. I was just reading.’
It was a small flat just off the western edge of the campus. Close enough, but not part of it. You could see the concrete and glass low-rises through her second-floor window, the students wandering about with their backpacks or briefcases. A knobby cactus stood in a pot on the windowsill. The room was painted a sort of creamy orange, the lighting was dim, from shaded lamps, and framed movie, exhibition and concert posters and art prints hung on the walls: Cat People, Salvador Dalí, Joy Division. One showed a beautiful but decadent and dangerous-looking young man, long wavy hair, shirtless, wearing leather trousers, holding on to a microphone stand as if it were the only thing keeping him on his feet. ‘The Doors’ was written aslant across the top.
The room was thinly carpeted and furnished with a charity-shop three-piece suite, whose frayed arms and faded red rose pattern had seen better days. There was an old black-leaded fireplace, or imitation lead, Winsome sincerely hoped, complete with hob and andirons. Lisa had a wood fire burning, and it took the chill off the air nicely. There was a hint of sandalwood incense mixed with the slightly damp, musty smell of the room. Winsome didn’t recognise the music that was playing, repetitive strings spiralling on and on, reaching a crescendo, then shifting abruptly, changing key. It was hypnotic. She saw the name ‘Glass’ on a CD cover. Banks would probably know them. He knew all sorts of trivia; he ought to be on Pointless. Lisa’s book, A Tale for the Time Being, by Ruth Ozeki, lay open face down on the coffee table.
‘Tea?’ Lisa said.
‘As a matter of fact, we’re just about all tea-ed out,’ said Winsome.
‘I think I’d like some. Mind if I put the kettle on?’
‘Fine. Go ahead.’
Lisa disappeared into the kitchen. The music continued, quietly insistent, in the background, She heard a tap running and a gas ring flare, then Lisa returned and sat, lifting up her legs and wrapping her arms around her knees. ‘What can I help you with this time?’
The pink and yellow streaks were gone from her blonde hair, which fell in a ragged fringe over her forehead. Winsome wanted to lean forward and brush away a lock that covered one eye. Lisa was wearing loose-fitting jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, so that it was still impossible to see what sort of a figure she had, except that she was frail and slender, certainly not capable of throwing Gavin Miller over the side of the railway bridge without help. Her face was clean of make-up, and there was a sort of innocence about it that belied her experience.
‘Same as before, really,’ Winsome said. ‘We just want to clarify one or two points.’
‘If I can.’
‘The last time I talked to you,’ Winsome said, ‘you were a bit vague about a few things. One of them being what problems you were going through at the time, what it was that made Trevor Lomax disbelieve you when you came forward. He told us you were neurotic, abusive, delusional, behind in your work, on drugs, and a trollop.’
To Winsome’s surprise, Lisa laughed. ‘Well, he’s just about got all the exits covered, hasn’t he? What about alcoholic? Didn’t he mention that?’
Winsome grinned. ‘He might have done. Something about turning up for a class while intoxicated.’
‘Thought so. He’s a prick. He believed me. He just didn’t want to get involved.’
‘But he got involved before, at first, when the charges were brought against Gavin. He was one of the few people to defend him. Why the sudden change of heart?’
‘Do you actually know for a fact how much he did for Mr Miller? Or exactly what he did? I shouldn’t think the change of heart was all that sudden. I imagine he got his fingers burned the first time, and he wasn’t inclined to put them in the fire again. The powers that be wouldn’t have taken kindly to anyone stirring up the past all over again. And I was well aware that I’d probably make a less than satisfactory witness.’
‘But you still thought there was a chance?’
‘Hoped. You have to try, don’t you?’ A shrill whistling came from the kitchen. Lisa excused herself and disappeared for a moment. Winsome and Annie exchanged glances. When Lisa came back she was carrying a steaming mug.
‘So Trevor Lomax never said exactly what it was he did to try to help Gavin in the first place?’ Winsome asked.
‘Not to me. Maybe you should ask him.’
‘And you take that to mean that he didn’t do very much at all?’
‘Well, given that he wasn’t present when the alleged incident occurred,’ Lisa said, ‘I should imagine his defence consisted of a character reference, and perhaps a slur against Beth and Kayleigh.’
‘But he couldn’t have known anything else at the time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He didn’t know about Kyle. The connection. The reason why Beth and Kayleigh conspired to frame Gavin Miller. Neither did you.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So this was really all between you and Gavin Miller?’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’
‘It’s simple, really,’ Annie chipped in. ‘What DS Jackman really wants to know is how did Gavin Miller find out about Kyle McClusky’s illegal activities?’
‘Someone must have told him.’
‘Was that someone you?’ Winsome asked.
Lisa pointed her thumb at her chest. ‘Me?’
‘That’s what I said. You seem to be unusually involved in the whole business, and when I ask myself why, I find myself thinking it was because you started it. You tipped Gavin Miller off about Kyle McClusky’s illegal activities in the first place, so when you saw him in trouble, and you found out it was related to what he did to Kyle, you felt responsible. That’s fair enough. Am I right?’
There was a long pause. Lisa blew on the surface of her tea and took a sip. The scent of camomile drifted towards Winsome. Immediately it reminded her of home, though camomile didn’t grow there. Perhaps all exotic scents reminded her of home. She liked camomile tea, wished she’d said yes when it was on offer. ‘What if I did?’ Lisa said, lifting her eyes from the mug to look directly at Winsome, rather than Annie.
‘Did you?’ Winsome asked.
Lisa held her gaze for several seconds. It felt like minutes to Winsome. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I’d seen what Kyle was doing, what was going on. One or two people had told me about the effects of the stuff he sold. A friend of mine nearly OD’d, and one girl thought she’d been raped, but she couldn’t remember anything. I didn’t like to do it, but it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? Tell on him?’
‘It was a brave decision,’ said Winsome. ‘But why did you tell Gavin Miller?’
‘Because he was the only adult who took me seriously about anything. The only person in authority I trusted. And he knew Kyle from one of his classes. He could have a private word with him.’
‘Why not go to the college authorities, or to us?’ Annie asked. ‘I mean, here’s someone who’s selling drugs – very nasty drugs, not that nice hippy-trippy stuff you got for Gavin Miller – and you know about it, you see the results for yourself. Why not go to the police instead of some ineffectual lecturer?’
‘Gavin wasn’t ineffectual. I … I just couldn’t.’
‘Why not, Lisa?’ Winsome asked gently
to offset what she thought of as Annie’s aggression. Not that it couldn’t be effective – she could be hard on interviewees herself – but she felt unusually protective of Lisa, perhaps because she seemed so vulnerable. But there was something she wasn’t telling them.
Lisa chewed on her lip. ‘They’d never have believed me. I just wasn’t in great shape. I couldn’t have handled all the questions, the lawyers, court.’
‘What was wrong with you?’ Winsome pressed.
‘Nothing, for fuck’s sake. I just couldn’t do it. All right?’
‘So you went to Gavin Miller?’
‘Yes. He dealt with the problem, didn’t he?’
‘But he didn’t put Kyle McClusky in jail, where he belonged,’ said Annie.
‘Jail’s not the answer to everything.’
‘No, but it’s a bloody good start for some people.’
‘He’d only have become more of a criminal in there, learn more tricks, let his hatred of society curdle.’
‘Very poetic,’ Annie said, ‘but not our business. We’re in the business of putting away villains, not babysitting them or making excuses for them. You don’t get rid of rats by catching them in a cage then taking them next door and letting them out. Thanks to you, Kyle McClusky’s stayed out there, on the streets, helping more boys dose girls with roofies so they could have their evil way. And I’ve got news for you. He’s in jail now learning more tricks and letting his hatred curdle. Pity it’s too late for some.’
Lisa stared down into her lap. Winsome could tell she was crying. She gave Annie a warning glance. Her harsh approach wasn’t helping matters; it was making Lisa clam up. Annie slid her finger across her lips in a sealing gesture.
‘So Gavin Miller told Kyle to get out of Dodge?’ Winsome said, trying to break the tension.
Lisa paused for a while, sniffed, then she looked up. ‘Something like that. An ultimatum. Drugs dealing or college.’
‘So because you initiated this, when Gavin was later charged with sexually intimidating Kayleigh, then Beth came forward, you wanted to help him, right?’
‘I didn’t realise the connection then. I just wanted to help him because he was good to me, but there was nothing I could do at first. Then when I heard them talking about it in the toilets later, boasting and laughing, I went to Mr Lomax. He was the head of department, after all, and he was supposed to be Mr Miller’s fucking friend.’
‘How much later?’ Annie asked.
‘I told you, I don’t know exactly. A few weeks. Three weeks, a month, maybe, at the most. Before the end of term, anyway.’
‘So why would Beth and Kayleigh be crowing over what they’d done to Gavin Miller in the ladies’ toilets a month after they’d done it?’ Annie butted in. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
Lisa turned to Winsome, as if expecting her to leap to her defence. She didn’t. ‘I don’t know, do I? All I know is what I heard.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the committee the truth at the time?’ Annie went on.
‘What do you mean? How could I know the truth then? I’ve told you. It was only later when I heard them.’
‘But you knew that Beth and Kayleigh were friends with Kyle.’
‘No, I didn’t. Not from the start, I didn’t. I didn’t see any connection between Mr Miller’s problems and Kyle’s activities until later, when I overheard Beth and Kayleigh in the ladies’. They said something about what he’d done to their friend Kyle. It was only then that I found out and realised what it meant. Besides, what difference would it have made?’
‘Oh, come on, Lisa,’ said Annie, ‘you can’t have known what the committee did and didn’t know. And isn’t it funny that all of a sudden you remember a very important part of their conversation you neglected to mention earlier? You’re making it up as you go along, aren’t you? You can’t expect us to believe you were so out of it you couldn’t even get them to put two and two together, to have another go at the girls. They probably couldn’t have stood up to a proper interrogation. Beth Gallagher came clean pretty quickly when we talked to her.’
‘Only because it happened so long ago. Only because she knows there’s nothing you can do to her. Only because Mr Miller is dead. Only because it doesn’t fucking matter any more. And because you’re … you’re … you bullied her.’
Winsome saw the tears form in Lisa’s eyes again and start to make tracks down her cheeks. ‘But it does matter, Lisa,’ she said. ‘It matters precisely because he’s dead.’
‘But surely you can’t think I had anything to do with that?’ Lisa pleaded. ‘Why won’t you just leave me alone?’ The tough streetwise chick Winsome had met only days ago was gone now, replaced by a confused and frightened young girl.
‘But it may all be connected,’ Winsome said. ‘And there may be something you can tell us that might not seem important or relevant to you but that will help us. Can’t you see that? We don’t always travel by direct routes.’
‘I still don’t see how I can help you.’
Winsome had a definite sensation that the channels of communication were closing down.
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Annie said, standing to leave. ‘We’re going round in circles.’
Sadly, Winsome agreed. When she looked at Lisa, she still felt for her, and she also still felt that she was missing something. Lisa was stubborn and secretive and private. It would take more than what they had right now to prise the truth out of her.
Banks had got to Leeds early, parked the car near the Merrion Centre and walked down to Browns, on the corner of the Headrow and Cookridge Street, where he was supposed to meet Ken Blackstone. Ken was usually a curry man, but he pleaded a dodgy stomach and suggested something a bit less spicy this time. It was an overcast evening, but warm enough. Banks was standing outside talking to Annie on his mobile, and as he talked, his eyes scanned the crowds of city workers going home, mingled in with legal types from the nearby courts and law chambers on Park Square, most carrying rolled-up umbrellas and briefcases, waiting for buses that came in clusters of two and three, in all colours – cream, purple, maroon, green – double-deckers or long bendy buses, bound for the suburbs and beyond, to such exotic destinations as Huddersfield, Halifax, Bradford, Cleckheaton and Heckmondwike.
Down the Headrow towards Westgate, Banks could see past the art gallery, set back behind its paved forecourt, to the great columns, lions and dome of the Victorian town hall, where the clock said it was twenty to six. Still ten minutes to wait. Annie had told him about the frustrating interview with Lisa Gray, and her sense that there had to be more to the story, but he still felt more focused on Lady Veronica Chalmers and her interesting past in the warm afterglow of his lunch with Oriana. In turn, he told Annie about his interview with Kyle McClusky, and how it had confirmed that the charges against Miller were a sham.
Gerry Masterson had gone to Stockton to talk to someone who remembered Veronica Bellamy from the old University of Essex days, so she might be able to pick up a connection with Gavin Miller. The Gray girl certainly hadn’t killed him, thought Banks. Neither had Veronica Chalmers. The connections still felt just beyond his grasp, like the networks of veins and arteries in the human body that needed special dyes to bring their problems to light. He felt the need for more information, for a special dye. Each new fact changed the whole pattern, and he knew from experience that, somewhere out there, was one as yet unforeseen change that would finally make it all make sense.
He ended the call with Annie and decided to go and wait for Ken inside the brasserie. The place was already bustling, but it was large enough, and he got a table by the Cookridge Street side, from where he could see the same scene through the window that he had just been watching from outside. He got menus and ordered a glass of Rioja. He would be driving back to Eastvale tonight, so that would have to be his only drink of the evening. Browns was a chain, but a relatively good one as these things went. Banks glanced over the menu. Whatever he ordered, it would be his second full meal of the day
. Most days, all he got was a cup of coffee, a sandwich or a Greggs pasty and a warmed-up takeaway. This was living high off the hog by comparison.
DCI Ken Blackstone arrived five minutes late. He didn’t offer an apology, any more than Banks expected him to. A copper’s life was unpredictable, and being late was part of the burden. Only five minutes late was pretty damn good, actually. Ever the snappy dresser, under his raincoat Ken wore a light wool suit, shirt and tie. The shirt was crisp white linen, and the tie was rather flamboyant for Banks’s taste. Banks felt shabby, in contrast, in his old Marks & Spencer suit and open-neck shirt. He had worn a tie with it for lunch with Oriana but had taken it off as soon as he got in his car to set off for Armley Jail. With the tufts of hair over his ears, and his wire-rimmed glasses, Blackstone had always reminded Banks more of an academic than a copper. In fact, the older he got, the more he came to resemble some of the photos Banks had seen of the poet Philip Larkin.
Banks had known Ken Blackstone for years, and considered him perhaps his closest friend, as well as a trusted colleague and a police officer he respected. He had spent many a drunken night on Blackstone’s sofa after his split from Sandra, working his way through the massive collection of torch songs on vinyl – Billie Holiday, Dinah Washington, Sarah Vaughan, Blossom Dearie, Keely Smith, Thelma Grayson – usually waking up with a massive hangover and somebody or other singing ‘It’s De-Lovely’. It was a lost half year, more or less, but he had come through it in the end.
A while later, he had found Annie – or rather, she had come to work with him on a case that started near her home village of Harkside – and they had become lovers for a while, until work got in the way, and Annie felt that it was no longer appropriate to be sleeping with her boss. She was ambitious, but cautious, and he didn’t blame her, but he did miss their intimate times together. No matter how well they worked together, and how well they got along off duty, there was always a hint of awkwardness about their relationship after that. As people do, Banks and Blackstone had drifted apart a little over the years, and he hadn’t done any crying on his friend’s shoulder over his recent split with Sophia, had hardly told him anything about her. He also realised that he knew nothing of Blackstone’s love life since the divorce years ago. Still, it was good to have dinner with an old friend, do some catching up and cover a bit of work ground at the same time. He had always found Blackstone good to bounce ideas off; he could listen and help Banks articulate half-formed notions, bring them to light. He was the dye.
Children of the Revolution Page 23