‘Some of those bloody drystone walls bulge out way too far,’ Litton answered. ‘You know what it’s like. You must have the same problem up in North Yorkshire.’
‘I also know that Lady Veronica Chalmers was forced off the road shortly after she left here in the rain the other night.’
‘Forced? As I understood it, no other car was involved.’
‘That’s not exactly true,’ Banks said. ‘There’s also damage to the driver’s side of her car.’
‘And you think I’m responsible?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be too difficult to match the paint chips.’
‘You’ve got a nerve. And what if you did? Ronnie bumped my car on her way out. I distinctly remember it. She was in a hurry because of the worsening weather. There you are. And where’s your motive?’
‘You killed Gavin Miller, and Lady Chalmers knew about it. You thought you’d convinced her it was an accident, but she still harboured some doubts. After what happened the other night, she has none at all.’
‘Who? That old drunk who fell off the bridge? The one you were harassing Ronnie about?’
‘He wasn’t old. And if he was drunk, you’re the only one who knows it.’
‘Don’t come your clever tricks with me. Why on earth would I kill someone I didn’t even know?’
‘It’s complicated,’ Banks said. ‘But Lady Chalmers now feels certain you did, and that it was you who tried to kill her. That was your mistake, Mr Litton. You went too far.’
‘Ronnie would never testify against me. We’re family.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. You’ve made her life a misery lately. I think you pushed her beyond breaking point.’
Litton folded his arms. ‘No. She would never do that to Oliver.’
Banks paused to give his words added weight. ‘Because Oliver is her son?’
At first, Litton gaped, then he got to his feet, walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large whisky, neat, from a cut-glass decanter. When he sat down again, he sank back in the chair, no longer a man in a hurry. ‘So what makes you think that?’
‘Never mind. The point is that a simple DNA test would prove it. I assume you know who the father is, too? Joe Jarvis. She might not have opened up to you about what happened, but she would have opened up to her sister.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘That’s what everybody keeps asking me. Why don’t you tell me what happened first.’ Banks spread his hands. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not wired for sound.’
Litton narrowed his eyes and glared at Banks for a while, then he said, ‘It was an accident. Gavin Miller. All right, Ronnie phoned me in some distress and said he’d been in touch, and he wanted money to keep quiet. As you know, Oliver has a bright future ahead of him, and this Miller character had read about him. He remembered some things from the old student days with Veronica – how she “disappeared” for a while, how she was late back for her second year, how she looked when she did come back. Eventually he put it all together.’ Litton glanced at Banks. ‘And, like you, all he had to do was threaten her with the possibility of exposure, and we were sunk, Oliver’s career along with us. I know that nobody could force her to take a DNA test, but Ronnie thought that if the media kept on demanding it, not doing so would be tantamount to an admission of guilt. She didn’t know what to do.’
‘So you offered to take care of things for her, to meet Miller in her place?’
‘Yes. It was a paltry enough sum. Five thousand pounds. Showed very little imagination, I thought.’
‘You paid him.’
‘Yes. You know I did. And I made sure the bills wouldn’t be traced and that you wouldn’t find my fingerprints on them.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What would be the point of going to all that trouble over the bills if you were simply giving the money to Gavin Miller? I could understand it if you were planning on getting rid of him or something, making sure there was no forensic evidence to link you to the payment, but you said it was an accident, not premeditated murder.’
Litton narrowed his eyes. ‘You think you’re a real clever bastard, don’t you, Banks?’
‘So why did you kill him?’
Litton hammered his fist on his knee. ‘I told you. It was an accident.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘He just wouldn’t give up. I told you, the man was drunk, on drugs, whatever. He was practically incoherent. He kept going on about how he remembered Ronnie, saying intimate things about her, how she had betrayed him, but how he still thought they should be together again. It was disgusting, sick. I tried to just walk away, but he grabbed my lapels. I could tell then that he’d been drinking whisky along with whatever else he’d been taking. He breathed the fumes in my face. He said he realised he hadn’t asked for enough and he’d be back for more. We grappled, struggled. He was going for my wallet, wanted more right then and there. I struggled back, and the next thing I knew he was gone. I looked over the bridge and saw him lying there at an awkward angle. I didn’t know he was dead, but I knew I had to get away from there before anyone came.’
‘So you left the money?’
‘Yes. I panicked. It was too risky to go down there.’
‘The side of the bridge was quite high,’ Banks said. ‘A simple push wouldn’t have sent him over. He had to have been lifted off his feet.’
‘He was light as a feather, Banks. I had no idea. I shook him the way you do, tried to get him off me, lifted him and thrust him into the side of the bridge, or so I thought, just to knock the breath out of him, and he went over. Simple as that. OK, so I lost my temper. But I didn’t kill him deliberately. You have to believe that.’
Banks digested what he had just heard, still not certain whether to believe Litton. He was a bullish man, and strong, so his story would probably hold some credibility with a court, should the case ever get to one. But there was an alternative explanation. ‘When you asked him what evidence he had,’ Banks asked, ‘what did he tell you?’
‘He was just like you,’ Litton sneered. ‘A few wild suppositions that couldn’t be substantiated, and the threat of DNA. I knew we couldn’t survive that.’
‘But he hadn’t actually carried out any DNA tests?’
‘No. How could he? He’d have had to have something of Ronnie’s, Oliver’s and Jarvis’s. What was he going to do, sort through their rubbish? Break in and steal a toothbrush or a hairbrush?’
And pay for the test, too, Banks thought. ‘He might have managed it, eventually,’ he said. ‘But the point is that he hadn’t. All he had was a theory and the possibility of proof. DNA.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Gavin Miller wasn’t a particularly good blackmailer,’ Banks said, ‘Probably because he’d never done it before, and it was in many ways against his nature. He wasn’t a natural criminal, just a man who’d lost his moral compass because he’d been ill-treated and found himself in dire circumstances. From his point of view, his life had been nothing but a series of betrayals. Lady Chalmers betrayed him, his wife betrayed him, the college betrayed him, his most recent girlfriend betrayed him. Even Trevor Lomax, his close friend, betrayed him, though I don’t think he knew the full extent of Lomax’s treachery, thankfully. He was desperate and confused. Blackmail must have seemed his easiest option. Miller was an oddball, an eccentric, true, but apart from a bit of recreational drug use, not a habitual criminal. What blackmailer would admit to his victim that he actually had nothing substantial to bargain with? You didn’t have to talk to Gavin Miller for very long to realise that other than this foolish and greedy drunken man standing before you, there was nothing else to betray your secret and ruin Oliver’s career. Since your wife’s death, the only people who knew were you and Lady Chalmers, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell. Oliver is her son, and she is every bit as proud of him and protective of him as you are, if not more so. But
you pushed her too hard, Tony. Everyone has their breaking point, and that moment on the road, when she realised who it was who had tried to send her to her death, was hers. What were you going to do, try again?’
‘This is absurd, Banks. Even if it did come out that Oliver was the son of my sister-in-law and a dyed-in-the-wool communist union agitator, it was hardly his doing, was it? It could hardly reflect badly on him.’
‘Don’t pretend to be so naive,’ said Banks. ‘You know damn well it would mean the end for Oliver Litton and all his political ambitions, and the sad thing is that you’re right – it would be through no fault of his own. In fact, he seems to have led an exemplary life and career so far. Even if the link between Oliver and Joe Jarvis wasn’t enough to sink his career, the subterfuge of his birth and the illegalities involved in passing off Lady Chalmers’ child as your own would be. In this day and age, a politician has to be spotless, and that sometimes involves being spotless in matters beyond his control.’
Litton got up to refill his glass. ‘I asked you before,’ Banks heard him say as the whisky gurgled into the glass. ‘What are you going to do about it? If you arrest me, I’ll deny it all, of course, but you’ll still destroy Oliver. Ronnie, too, and her family. Is that what you want? That’s just what Miller would have done. Do you want to complete the blackmailer’s work for him?’
‘I don’t—’ Banks began, but before he could finish he felt a heavy blow to the back of his head that sent stars flashing through his brain and seemed to put so much pressure on his eyeballs from the inside that he thought they would burst from their sockets. It was over in a second, or less, and he let the welcome darkness flood into his veins as he slid to the floor.
It could have been hours or days since he fell unconscious, Banks felt, as he struggled to sit up, his head a mass of raging pain, the bile rising in his gorge. He was immediately sick on the carpet and slid down to the floor again. This time he lay there, trying to take slow, deep breaths, aware of his heart pounding and the blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t know if any permanent damage had been done, but there seemed to be quite a bit of blood. It had soaked through his collar and into the carpet around where his head had lain. Beside the stain he saw the cut-glass decanter. So that was what Litton had hit him with. Christ, he thought, it could have killed him.
When he felt able, he struggled to a sitting position in the armchair and laid his head against the back. Bugger Litton’s lace antimacassars. He still felt sick, and his head and his thoughts throbbed and swirled. His vision was blurred and the back of his head burned. After spending a while sitting there, he risked a glance at his watch, and slowly, the face and hands came into focus. It was going on for midnight. That was at least two hours or more since he had arrived. If Litton had made a run for it he had a hell of a start. Banks listened as best he could with the pounding in his head, but he could hear no other sounds in the house.
The next Herculean task was to get to the bathroom and clean up. The stairway looked as if it stretched about as high as the one in the Led Zeppelin song. Banks’s first attempt to get to his feet failed miserably, his legs like rubber, and it wasn’t until about ten minutes later that he felt up to trying again, gripping the sides of the armchair and pushing with all his might. The world swam, and his head hammered; he felt so dizzy that he thought he might fall over again, but he made it. He stood swaying a while until he thought he had regained a modicum of his balance and made a few hesitant steps towards the staircase.
He found the bathroom easily enough and set the taps running in the sink. When the temperature was right and he leaned forward to stick his head under the water, he felt a wave of nausea and dizziness and almost slid to the floor. But he held on to the sink and let the water flow across his head like a tropical downpour.
Afterwards, he touched the back of his head and felt a lump the size of a bird’s egg, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped, and most of the blood had washed away. He grabbed a large fluffy white towel, which he used to dry his head, carefully patting the area around the wound. The towel came away a bit pink with blood, but Banks thought it was just the residue. His vision had cleared, his balance seemed restored, and all that remained was the throbbing pain. He ransacked the bathroom cabinet and found a bottle of prescription painkillers plastered with warnings. He palmed two of them and put the bottle in his pocket, then tottered downstairs and poured himself a whisky and soda to wash them down with. A few minutes later, he was ready for his first small steps into the world outside.
Litton’s car was gone, but the Porsche stood exactly where it had been. Fog swirled around the grounds like a Hammer movie set. He had no idea what Litton was up to now, though the only explanation he could come up with was flight. He had realised the game was up and was making his escape. But Banks also realised that so much of what Litton had done, so much of what made him tick, was tied up with Oliver and Lady Chalmers, that there was a chance he had flown to one or the other seeking sanctuary and support. Given that Oliver didn’t know the secret of his own birth, Lady Chalmers would probably be the better choice. She was a woman, Litton would figure, and though she may have betrayed him to Banks, he would imagine that with a little charm, fake humility and a plea for family loyalty – especially for Oliver’s sake – he could perhaps win back her trust and head the trouble off at the pass. He had an injured police officer to cope with, of course, but no doubt he could explain that, too. And perhaps with the Litton and Chalmers spheres of influence combined, he could get enough people who counted to swallow it all.
Banks got in his car and, fearing that Litton had removed some essential engine part, stuck the key in the ignition and gritted his teeth as he turned it. The engine started first time, as it always did. Wherever Litton was going, Banks realised, north or south, there was only one road to get there. It branched north and south a few miles to the east, but up to that point, the only other way you could go was east. That part of the Peak District wasn’t exactly criss-crossed by north–south routes.
Banks knew that he probably shouldn’t be driving, especially with the painkillers he had taken, but he felt fit enough to do it, and he was damned if he was going to spend the night either at Litton’s house or in a local hospital. The fog didn’t help, though visibility wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it could have been.
Not more than three miles along the road, he saw flashing lights, blurred in the mist, ahead of him, and a vague shape in the middle of the road, which was blocked by patrol cars. It was a uniformed police officer, waving his torch around in circles. Banks pulled gently to a halt and rolled down his window to see a young patrol constable. ‘What’s the problem, officer?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry, sir. This road is closed due to an accident. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn back.’
Banks could just make out, beyond the roadblock, a part of the drystone wall knocked down, but he couldn’t see beyond that. Not certain whether it was worth the risk or not, Banks let his curiosity get the better of him and pulled out his warrant card. ‘Anything I can help you with?’ he said, flashing the card.
The officer seemed to come to attention immediately. ‘No, sir. We’ve got everything under control.’
‘What happened?’
‘Car went through the wall and into the river.’
‘The driver?’
‘We haven’t found a body yet, only the car, half-submerged. It looks as if the driver might have got out through his window, but the current’s pretty strong. It’s doubtful anyone survived. If he had, it would be a first.’
‘Anything on the car?’
‘Registered to Mr Anthony Litton, sir. He’s the father of Oliver Litton. You’ve heard of him?’
‘Indeed I have.’
The constable shook his head. ‘And just the other night, not more than two miles away, his sister-in-law ran through a fence. Luckily, she came out of it all right.’
‘Well, if I can’t help, I’ll be on my way,’ said Banks, t
hankful that the young constable hadn’t asked him what he was doing on a minor road so far off his patch. He also realised that he probably looked a bit of a mess, and he was glad the constable hadn’t shone his torch on him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the roads around here very well,’ Banks said. ‘And I don’t have satnav. How do I get north?’
The constable scratched his head. ‘Well, sir, you can’t really get there from here, if you catch my drift. Not with this road out of commission. I’d say your best bet is to turn back, keep going till you see the signposts to Stockport and Manchester Airport, then it’s a hop, skip and a jump to the M62. That’ll be your quickest way.’
‘Thank you,’ Banks said, then backed up to a lay-by to make his turn, as the road was quite narrow. He was aware of the young constable watching him as he went. Perhaps he had smelled the whisky on his breath, or noticed the blood on his collar. He could also feel the painkillers kicking in, the throbbing in his head receding to a distant hammering, like someone fixing a fence in the far distance, and a pleasant, heavy warmth filled his head and his arms. He thought some loud music might help him stay awake, but his brain rejected every choice. He needed to think, no matter how difficult it was. In the end, he settled for silence. It would have to be enough
The summons, when it came, arrived at the ungodly hour of seven o’clock on Friday morning – ungodly most of all because Banks hadn’t crawled into bed until almost three. He seemed to remember his mother saying years ago that you’re not supposed to go to sleep with a suspected concussion, but he had been able to stay awake no longer. When he woke to the gentle blues riff of his mobile and heard the clipped voice of AC Gervaise telling him, ‘Now. My office’ he struggled to sit up, then rolled out of bed towards the shower. He noticed there was blood on his pillow, but not much. And he had awoken from his sleep, so all was well. Almost. He had a moment of panic when he worried, too late, that Anthony Litton might have faked the car accident and gone after Lady Chalmers. He should have phoned her last night when he got home, he thought. But if Litton killed Lady Chalmers, that would be the end for him, and he didn’t seem to Banks like the kind of man who would throw away what he wanted so much. He would also have had a difficult time getting to Eastvale without a car.
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