‘This is the life, eh, Alan?’ said Blackstone, sipping a gin and tonic. ‘Sometimes I wonder why we bother with the rest of it. We’ve both done our thirty, and more. Why don’t we just retire and keep bees or something?’
‘Because we’d get bored?’
‘Mm. Sometimes I think I could handle that,’ Blackstone said seriously, crossing his legs after pulling at the creases in his suit trousers. ‘Especially when I look in the eyes of another dead teenage junky, or a butchered prostitute, a seventy-year-old rape victim, another stab victim, or some unlucky passer-by caught in gang crossfire.’
‘The joys of city life. But seriously, Ken, what would you do? Wouldn’t you miss it all? Retirement terrifies me. I’m frightened I’d drop dead within a year.’
‘I’d find plenty to do. So would you. Maybe I’d get an allotment, for a start, take up growing marrows. Win prizes. You’ve got your music, books, travel, long country walks. Learn an instrument, a foreign language. Maybe you could work on your memoirs?’
‘About the only positive thing I can see in retirement is not having to write any more bloody reports,’ he said. ‘I’d never write another word as long as I live if I didn’t have to.’
‘Well, it’ll happen eventually, old mate. Bound to. I suppose if you think you’ll miss it so much, you could always get a job as a security guard.’
‘Sure. Lots of detection skills required for that.’
‘In a few years we’ll have no choice.’
The waiter came and took their orders. Banks went for the chicken, leek and mushroom pie, and Blackstone ordered the baked salmon, no sauce, and a salad.
‘Health kick?’ Banks asked.
‘Blood pressure and cholesterol.’
‘Take the statins. You can eat anything then. Except grapefruit.’
‘I’d rather stay off the pills. Doc says I can control it with exercise and diet.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Try not to sound so positive.’
‘Maybe I’ll go on a world cruise when they kick me out,’ Banks said. ‘Meet a rich widow. Just keep on sailing, round and round the world.’
‘There’s nobody in your affections right now?’
Banks immediately saw an image of Oriana in his mind, but he banished it at once. ‘Not at the moment. You?’
‘I’ve been seeing an admin assistant from the uni for a couple of months. We met online. I don’t know how serious it is.’
‘The kids must be all grown up now.’
‘I knew there was something I meant to tell you. Jackie’s pregnant. I’m going to be a grandfather. Can you believe it? Kevin’s still a waste of space. “Looking for his place in the world”, he calls it, but sponging off his dad and narrowly avoiding nick is about all it amounts to, really. But Jackie’s going great guns. Marriage, career, now kids.’
Banks clinked glasses. ‘Congratulations. But don’t be too hard on Kevin. We all need to find our place in the world. I don’t know whether to be grateful or not, but neither of mine is showing any signs of marriage yet, let alone child-rearing.’ Banks’s son Brian was touring in France, Holland and Germany with the Blue Lamps, and his daughter Tracy had recently moved to Newcastle, where she was working at the university and doing a part-time postgraduate degree in History, with a view to becoming a teacher, or a university lecturer.
‘I’ll let you know what it’s like.’
‘How’s Audrey?’ Audrey was Blackstone’s ex-wife.
‘Don’t know. I never hear from her. Jackie tells me she’s buggered off to the Dordogne with some retired chartered accountant.’
‘That’s one place to avoid when you do retire, then. It must be full of boring English émigrés. It’s funny you should bring up retirement,’ Banks went on. ‘Madame Gervaise mentioned it just the other day. Said if I keep my nose clean over the next while I might make super and not have to retire until I’m sixty-five.’
‘And can you?’
‘What?’
‘Keep your nose clean for a while?’
‘I’m not too sure about that. Something nasty’s brewing. I can feel it in my water.’
Their food arrived, and both paused while the waiter rearranged the cutlery and fussed about filling glasses from the bottled water they had ordered. When the flurry of activity had settled down, Blackstone took another sip of gin and tonic and said, ‘Do tell.’
‘I was just talking to Annie before you arrived,’ Banks said, ‘and she and Winsome re-interviewed a witness this afternoon. You know about the Gavin Miller case? A disgraced college lecturer chucked over the side of a railway bridge?’
‘I’ve read something about it, but you’d better fill me in on the details.’
Banks told him in as concise detail as possible about Gavin Miller’s death and their investigation into its circumstances, including his and Gerry Masterson’s foray into the life and times of Lady Veronica Chalmers and family. By the time he had finished, they had almost done with their main courses, and Blackstone was already halfway through his second drink. When the waiter asked if they wanted dessert, both declined and ordered coffees.
‘So what’s your problem?’ Blackstone asked, when the waiter had gone.
‘Too many suspects, but none that really stand out. Flimsy alibis, no forensics, one or two of our favourites not physically capable of chucking the victim over the bridge – the sides were quite high – too little in his life to help us track down useful connections. It’s all a bit of a jumble. I was telling Gerry Masterson just the other day that I’m beginning to wonder if they weren’t both Russian sleeper agents called back to action and something went wrong.’
‘That bad, is it? But you seem to have narrowed it down to two lines of inquiry,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘The Lady and the college crowd.’
‘That’s true. But there are too many suspects in the college crowd, and the Lady’s been ruled off limits.’
‘Since when did that stop you?’
‘It doesn’t. Usually.’ Banks grinned. ‘You’re right. It hasn’t.’
‘And that’s why you can’t see yourself keeping your nose clean for a while?’
Banks leaned forward. ‘She’s got something to do with it, I’m certain of it, Ken. Maybe she didn’t kill him, in fact I’m almost certain she didn’t kill him, but there’s a connection beyond all the things we’ve learned already, and I just can’t seem to grasp it.’
‘That’s usually because there are vital pieces missing. This is what you have your DC Masterson running around after?’
‘She’s keen.’
‘She won’t be so keen if your chief constable finds out. Or even AC Gervaise.’
‘Let me worry about that.’
‘Fair enough. And what exactly do you expect her to find out?’
‘Primarily, some connection between Veronica Bellamy, as she then was, and Gavin Miller from their university days.’
‘And if there isn’t one?’
‘Back to the drawing board. Drugs are still a possibility. But I’m certain there is.’
‘OK. Let’s say for the sake of argument that there is. So what? What could it possibly have to do with his murder forty years later?’
‘You know how these things go, Ken. A buried secret, perhaps? A shared crime? I won’t know until Gerry comes up with something solid, will I?’
‘By which time you’ll have pissed off the bosses so badly that you might as well start applying for that security guard’s job right now. And take your DC with you, for what career she’ll have left.’
‘I knew I could always depend on you to cheer me up, Ken.’
Blackstone sipped some coffee and grinned. ‘You wouldn’t want it any other way.’
‘But if I’m right, then nobody’s career is damaged, and we’ve caught a criminal. A rich one, perhaps, but a criminal nonetheless.’
‘But you said she couldn’t possibly have done it.’
‘She could afford to have it done.’
‘Why not? It beats the passing tramp trick. Come on, Ken, you know it happens.’
‘And just how is Lady Veronica Chalmers going to find a hired assassin to do her bidding? In the local pub?’
‘If I knew the answer to that, I’d have her in custody. I’m not saying the whole thing makes sense yet.’
‘You’re telling me it doesn’t. Honestly, Alan, you’ve met her, talked to her a couple of times, poked into her past. Do you really see her as the kind of woman who would hire someone to kill someone?’
‘How do I know?’
‘Trust your judgement. You used to.’
‘Then, no, I don’t. But maybe her husband was involved?’
‘You said he was away in New York.’
‘I mean in finding someone to do the job. Theatrical producer. He must know some pretty dodgy types, surely?’
‘Maybe. I’m sure there are a lot of actors out there who’d kill for a part in one of Sir Jeremy Chalmers’ shows. But as far as I can see, all you’ve got is a random pile of different coloured bricks.’
‘I can still build a prison from them, if only I had a few more.’
‘If you build it, they will come.’
Banks laughed.
‘Seriously, Alan, after what you’ve told me, my money’s on the college crowd and the possible drug connection.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it sounds like a nasty business that went down there, and it’s something you know about, with a number of definable suspects. And because methamphetamine, coke, heroin and the like are dangerous and very profitable substances. People who make their money from those sort of things wouldn’t think twice about chucking someone off a bridge if they thought he was going to start competing with them or rat them out to us. The Kyle kid was in jail, fair enough, but dealers have people they work for, or who work for them, and what Miller did might have annoyed someone at a very high level, someone McClusky worked for. Just theorising.’
‘But four years had gone by, Ken. Why the long wait?’
‘You could say the same about forty years. More so. Something obviously happened to trigger events, either way. Once you find that trigger, you’ll be on the home stretch.’
10
Gerry Masterson pulled up outside the modern semi in Stockton around the time Banks was leaving Armley Jail to meet Ken Blackstone. It had taken her all day on the phone and the Internet to track down Judy Sallis, who had agreed to talk to her about what she could remember of her days as an English student at the University of Essex from 1971 to 1974.
The grey sky threatened more rain, but it had held off so far. The waterlogged garden had seen better days, and the front door needed a new coat of paint, but other than that, the house, both inside and out, was well maintained and sparkling clean. The furnishings in the living room appeared to be new, though they weren’t quite to Gerry’s taste. The maroon three-piece suite looked as if it came from that dreadful place they kept advertising on ITV just when you were settling into a good detective drama. Gerry sat on the sofa, as directed, and made herself comfortable. Tea wasn’t long in coming, along with a plate of digestive biscuits and custard creams. Bad for her figure and her complexion, she knew, but she took one, anyway, just to be polite.
Judy Sallis was a stout woman of about sixty, with a rather long nose and a recent perm. She kept her head constantly thrust forward, hen-like, as if she were always on the verge of saying something of import, or offering encouragement. Solicitous, some people would call it. Unnerving, more like, Gerry thought. From her research, she knew that Judy Sallis was a retired schoolteacher, had been retired for five years now, divorced for eight; she had lived in Stockton most of her life after university. She had two children, both far away, with families of their own to raise.
‘What can I do for you, love?’ she said, sitting down opposite Gerry in an armchair and smoothing her skirt. ‘Only you were a bit vague on the telephone.’
‘Sorry,’ said Gerry. ‘Force of habit, I suppose. It’s just that when the police come calling, people often don’t want to get involved.’
‘Well, my conscience is clean. And to be honest, I could do with a bit of excitement in my life.’
Gerry smiled. ‘I’m sorry to let you down, but what I want to talk to you about is hardly exciting.’
‘You’d be surprised what passes for excitement for me these days, love. You mentioned the university days, my old residence. Rayleigh Tower. That’s enough to make my day, for a start. I haven’t thought of that place in ages.’
‘Good times?’
‘Oh, yes. Mostly. Some hard work, too.’
‘Well, I’ve been trying to find people who lived there at the time you did, and you’re about the first person I’ve been able to trace who was willing or able to talk to me.’
‘Depends what you want to know. What they said about the sixties applies to the early seventies, too, you know. If you can remember it, you weren’t there.’
‘But not as much, surely?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’
Gerry opened her notebook. ‘I was wondering if you remembered anyone from those days, two people in particular?’
‘Try me.’
‘Ronnie Bellamy and Gavin Miller.’
‘I knew them both,’ said Judy. ‘Not very well. But it wasn’t a large university at the time. And Gavin was in English, like me. We were even in the same tutorial group that first year. I read about what happened to him in the paper. It’s terrible. Poor Gavin. Suspicious death, they said. Does that mean murder?’
‘Or manslaughter,’ said Gerry. ‘We think so.’
‘You don’t think Ronnie Bellamy did it, do you?’
‘No,’ said Gerry, with more conviction than she felt. ‘It’s just that we’re finding out as much about his university background as we can, and her name came up from those days.’
‘Yes, it would. Ronnie was around. She’s someone else now, of course, isn’t she? A famous writer.’
‘That’s right,’ said Gerry. ‘Charlotte Summers. She lives in Eastvale.’
‘I like her books. I went to one of her book signings at Waterstones a few years ago. She didn’t remember me. But then she always was a bit aloof, despite the leftist politics and all. Or maybe because of them. Of course, she’s a real Lady now, too. There was an article about her in the D&S a couple of years ago. Or was it the Northern Echo?’
There had been profiles of Lady Chalmers/Charlotte Summers in the Guardian, The Sunday Times and the Independent recently, according to Gerry’s research, but she gathered that, up here in Stockton, you haven’t really made it until you are written up in the Darlington and Stockton Times or the Northern Echo. ‘Ronnie Bellamy was involved in campus politics back then, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes. More than just campus politics. Ronnie was very political. Dyed-in-the-wool communist. Demos and sit-ins and up the revolution and all that. All over the place, too. London. Manchester. Birmingham. She wanted to change the world. She was some sort of bigwig in the Marxist Society, I recollect. I know that sounds odd, that they’re all supposed to be equal and all that, but it really didn’t work that way. The strong, devious and ambitious will always rise to the top in any political system, won’t they? It’s only whether they trample on the masses or try to help them once they’ve climbed up the greasy pole that makes any difference. Look at the unions. Who did they ever want to help or protect except their own members? Not that you can blame them, mind you. Nobody else was going to do it for them.’
‘Was Ronnie Bellamy strong, devious and ambitious?’
‘Probably. I mean, look where she is now. Married a lord, didn’t she?’
Not quite, Gerry thought, but there was no point correcting Judy Sallis on the point. ‘And you? Were you in the Marxist Society?’
‘Me? Good Lord, no. As you can probably guess, I’ve no time for politics or politicians. Hadn’
t then, and I haven’t now. You have to remember, though, those were very stormy days. The Heath government. Strikes. The three-day work week. People thought the country was coming apart at the seams. We even had striking miners all over campus. Chaos it was. But exciting, too.’
‘I would imagine so.’ Gerry took another custard cream, just to be sociable. ‘How well did you know Ronnie Bellamy?’
‘I knew who she was, saw her around the place. Not socially, like, she was in with a different crowd, but I heard her speak at rallies a couple of times. I just went out of curiosity, really, and for something to do. Rabble-rousing stuff about the workers’ revolution, mostly. She was a bit of a personality.’
‘Do you remember anything about the crowd she went about with, her friends, boyfriends, that sort of thing?’
‘Oh, she wasn’t short of boyfriends. She was quite beautiful, I remember, even as a revolutionary. No peasant skirts and hairy legs for her. A Gucci socialist all the way. Designer jeans before designer jeans were invented. Usually flared, with fancy embroidery on the bum, if I remember right. Of course, we all wore them. It was the fashion at the time. But hers always seemed more expensive, more elegant.’ Judy paused. ‘Maybe it was just her bum,’ she added wistfully. ‘She was a bit like that woman popular in films at the time. Her in Straw Dogs. Susan George.’
Gerry had never heard of Straw Dogs or Susan George, so she remained in the dark on the matter of Veronica Bellamy’s looks, except from the pictures she had come across in her research. ‘Were there any boyfriends in particular?’
‘No, none that come to mind. It’s funny, though, you should mention Gavin. I knew him. We had a few lectures together, and sometimes a group of us would get together for a coffee, or maybe even go to the union bar for a few drinks on an evening. Gavin was often around. He was quite a fit lad, but a bit shy, a bit bookish, a bit introverted. Wrote poetry, as I remember.’
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