Banks just told her that Penny had been a friend of the victim, and Sandra left it at that. The four chatted about the music, which they had all enjoyed, ordered more drinks, suffered through a mercifully short set of contemporary ‘protest’ folk music, and awaited Penny’s second set. She came back at ten fifteen and walked straight to the stage.
This time there was a new, slightly distant quality in her performance. She was still involved in what she did, but it didn’t have the same emotional cutting edge. Banks listened to the ballads and was struck by the parallel that he was dealing with exactly the same kinds of feelings and events that the old songs were forged from. And he wondered how the ballad of Harry Steadman would end. Nobody would be ‘hung high’, of course, not these days. But who would the killer turn out to be? What was his motive, and what would be Banks’s own part in the song? All of a sudden, it seemed as if he was in another century, and that this beautiful young woman in the spotlight, life’s disappointments and cruelties showing just enough in her voice to intensify her beauty, was singing a tragic ballad about the murder of Harry Steadman.
The sharp change to a brisk singalong tune snapped him out of his reverie, and he finished off his drink, noting that he immediately felt impatient for another. He was drunk, or at least tipsy, and it wasn’t far off closing time. If Barker was in love with the girl, and if there had been anything between her and Steadman . . . If Ramsden still . . . If Mrs Steadman knew . . . If Steadman and his wife hadn’t been quite as close as everyone made out . . . The random thoughts curled like pipe smoke and evaporated in the air.
When the set ended to loud and prolonged applause, Banks caught the passing waiter and ordered another pint for himself and a half for David. Sandra looked at him with a hint of reprimand in her eyes, but he just shrugged and grinned foolishly. He had never had a problem with alcohol, but he knew he could sometimes be quite adolescent in his consumption of numerous pints. He could tell that Sandra was worried he might make an idiot of himself, but he knew he could handle his drink. He hadn’t had all that much, anyway. There might even be room for another one if he had time.
FOUR
There was going to be a storm, Sally was sure of it. She sat on the low packhorse bridge dangling her legs over the warm stone as she watched the sun go down. When it had disappeared behind the hills, leaving a halo of dark red-gold, it seemed to shine upwards from the depths of the earth and pick out the relief of the heavy grey clouds that massed high above. Insects buzzed on the still, humid air.
It was an isolated spot, ideal for such business, barely even suitable for cars. During her walk, Sally had enjoyed the peace and the strange tremors of excitement that the anticipation of a storm seemed to lay on the landscape. The colours were richer, the wild flowers and rough grass more vibrant, and the clouds’ shadows seemed palpable masses on the distant valley side.
But now she was nervous, and she didn’t know why. It was the coming storm, she told herself, the electricity in the air, the isolation, the gathering darkness. Soon the wind would shake the rough moorland grass and rain would lash the dale. It was the perfect place for a secret meeting; she understood that. If they were seen together, word might get back to the chief inspector and awkward questions would be asked. She wanted to handle this herself, perhaps save a life and catch a killer. Nonetheless, she knew deep down that her shivers were not entirely due to the weather.
Idly, she cast a loose stone from the bridge into the shallow slow-moving beck. After the rain, she thought, it would be swift, sparkling and ringing with fresh water cascading down the valley side and right under Helmthorpe High Street.
She looked at her watch. Twenty to ten. Tired of waiting, she wished it was all over. The aftermath of sunset was quickly vanishing as the clouds thickened overhead. A curlew called plaintively in the distance. The place began to feel like a wilderness in a gothic romance. It was creepy, even though she’d been there often enough. A flock of rooks spun across the sky like oily rags. Sally became aware of a new sound throbbing through the silence. A car. She pricked up her ears, cast another stone in the beck and stood to face the track. Yes, she could see the headlights as they dipped and flashed on the winding road. It wouldn’t be long now.
FIVE
The storm finally broke at about five a.m. Sharp cracks of thunder woke Banks from a vaguely unpleasant dream. He had a dry mouth and a thick head. So much for control. But at least he hadn’t made a fool of himself; that he remembered.
Careful not to disturb Sandra, he walked over to the window and looked out on the back garden just in time to see a jagged bolt of lightning streak from north to south across the sky. The first few drops of rain, fat and heavy, came slowly. They burst at intervals on the windowpane and smacked against the slates of the sloping tool shed roof; then they came more quickly and slapped against the leaves of the trees that lined the back alley beyond the garden gate. Soon the rain was coursing down the window and over the slates into the gutter before it gurgled down the drainpipe.
Banks made his way to the bathroom, took two Panadol tablets and went back to bed. Sandra hadn’t woken and the children remained silent. He remembered when Tracy had been afraid of storms and had always run to her parents’ bed, where she nestled between them and felt safe. But now she knew what caused the electrical activity – knew more about it than Banks did – and the fear had gone. Brian had never really cared either way, except that an evening thunderstorm meant the television had to be unplugged sometimes in the middle of his favourite programme. It was something Banks’s father had always done, and Banks followed suit without really knowing why.
The steady rhythm of the rain and the sudden release from tension that the start of a storm brings helped Banks to drift uneasily off to sleep again. Only seconds later, it seemed, the alarm clock rang and it was time to get ready for work.
When Banks arrived at the station, he was surprised to find an unusual flurry of activity. Superintendent Gristhorpe was waiting for him.
‘What’s going on?’ Banks asked, hanging his wet mackintosh in the cupboard.
‘A young girl’s been reported missing,’ Gristhorpe told him, bushy eyebrows knitted together in a frown.
‘From Eastvale?’
‘Get yourself some coffee, lad. Then we’ll talk about it.’
Banks took his mug to the small lunch room and poured himself a cup of fresh black coffee. Back in the office, he sat behind his desk and sipped the hot drink, waiting for Gristhorpe to begin. He knew there was never any point in hurrying the superintendent.
‘Helmthorpe,’ Gristhorpe said finally. ‘Local bobby down there, Constable Weaver, got woken up by worried parents just after the storm broke. Seems their young lass hadn’t come home, and they were worried. The mother said she sometimes stayed out late – she was at that age, sixteen or so – so they hadn’t worried too much earlier. But when the storm woke them and she still wasn’t back . . . Apparently she’s not done anything like that before.’
‘What’s the girl’s name?’
‘Sally Lumb.’ The words sounded flat and final in Gristhorpe’s Yorkshire accent.
Banks rubbed his face and drank some more coffee. ‘I was talking to her just the other day,’ he said at last. ‘In here. She came to see me.’
Gristhorpe nodded. ‘I know. I saw the report. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Attractive young girl,’ Banks said, almost to himself. ‘Looked older than she was. Sixteen. Interested in acting. She wanted to get away to the big city.’ And all of a sudden he thought of Penny Cartwright, who had been to so many big cities only to return to Helmthorpe.
‘We’re covering that angle, Alan. You know as well as I do how most of these cases turn out. In all likelihood she’s run off to Manchester or London. Her mother told Weaver there’d been a few rows at home lately. Seems the lass didn’t get on too well with her father. She probably just took off somewhere.’
Banks nodded. ‘Most likely.’
<
br /> ‘But you don’t believe it?’
‘I didn’t say that, sir.’
‘No, but you sounded like it.’
‘Shock, I suppose. There could have been an accident. She goes off with her boyfriend. You know, they find isolated places where they can kiss and cuddle. That area’s full of old lead mines and gullies.’
‘Aye, it’s possible. For the moment we’ll just have to assume it’s either that or she’s run off. We’ve wired her description to all the big cities. I just hope to God we’ve not got a sex killer on our hands.’ He paused and looked through the window, where the steady downpour had almost emptied Market Street and the square. Only a few shoppers soldiered on under umbrellas. ‘Trouble is,’ he went on, ‘we can’t organize search parties in this kind of weather. Too bloody dangerous by far up on the moors and valley sides.’
‘What do you think’s happened?’ Banks asked.
‘Me?’ Gristhorpe shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Alan. Like I told you, I’ve been reading through that interview report again and I can’t really see as she gave us any valuable information. She just helped us pinpoint the time the body was dumped, that’s all. She didn’t actually see anything.’
‘You mean she wasn’t a danger to anyone – to our killer?’
‘Aye. Naturally you make connections when something like this happens. You’d be a poor copper if you didn’t. But you can’t let it get in the way. As it stands now, we’ve still got a murder to solve and we’ve got a missing girl to cope with, too.’
‘But you do think there might be a connection?’
‘I hope not. I bloody hope not. It’s bad enough knowing there’s someone who killed once out there, but a hell of a lot worse thinking they’d go as far as to kill a kid too.’
‘We can’t be sure she’s dead yet, sir.’
Gristhorpe looked at Banks steadily for a few moments then turned back to the window. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Was there anything else? Anything else to link her to the Steadman case?’
‘Not that I know of. The only time I saw her was when she came to tell me about hearing the car. I got the impression that she went away distinctly dischuffed with me for giving up the bright lights. We had Willy Fisher in at the time, too. He put up a bit of a struggle with two uniformed lads, and I think that unnerved her a bit.’
‘What are you getting at, Alan?’
‘I don’t know, really. But maybe if she did figure anything out, she might not have come to me with it.’
‘You can’t blame yourself for that,’ Gristhorpe said, rising wearily to leave. ‘Let’s hope she’s run off somewhere. The link’s got to be pursued, though. Were you thinking of going to Helmthorpe today?’
‘No. It’s so bloody miserable outside I thought I’d go over the paperwork again. Why?’
‘The paperwork can wait. I’d feel easier if you did go.’
‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’
‘Have a word with the boyfriend, for a start. Find out if he saw her last night, or if not, why not. And Weaver tells me she hung around the coffee bar with three other girls. You might have a chat with them. Weaver will give you the names and details. Be as casual as you can. If she knew anything, or had any theories, she’s far more likely to have told her friends than her parents. No need to trouble them.’ Banks was relieved. Twice before he had had to spend time with the parents of missing children and he could think of no worse task.
‘I’ll take care of the rest,’ Gristhorpe added. ‘We’ll be getting search parties organized as soon as this rain slackens off a bit.’
‘Should I leave now?’ Banks asked.
‘No hurry. In fact, it might be better if you held off till mid-morning. I don’t know a lot about teenage lasses, but I shouldn’t imagine they’ll be up and about right now. It might be best if you can find them in the coffee bar. It’ll be a more comfortable environment for the kind of chat you want, and you’ll get them all together.’
Banks nodded. ‘You’ll keep me up to date, sir?’
‘Yes, of course. Just check in with Weaver. I’ll send Sergeant Hatchley on later, too. He’s busy getting the girl’s description around the country right now.’
‘Just a small point,’ Banks said, ‘but it might be a good idea if you had someone get in touch with theatre companies, drama schools, that kind of place. If she has run off, the odds are she’s headed for the stage.’
‘Aye,’ Gristhorpe said, ‘I’ll do that.’ Then, looking tired and worried, he left the office.
Outside, it was still pouring bucketfuls on to Market Street and looked as if it would never stop. Banks stared down at the shifting pattern of umbrellas as pedestrians dodged one another crossing the square on the way to work. He scratched his chin and found a rough patch the electric razor had missed. Gristhorpe was right; they had to think in terms of a connection with the Steadman business. It had to be pursued quickly, as well, and the irony was that they had to hope they were wrong.
Banks looked over Sally Lumb’s interview transcript and tried to visualize her as she had sat before him. Was there something she hadn’t told him? As he read the printed words he had written up from his notes, he tried to picture her face, remembering pauses, changes in expression. No. If there was anything else, it must have occurred to her after the interview, and she might then have gone to the wrong person with her information or ideas. Banks tried to stop himself imagining her battered body stuffed down a disused mineshaft, but the images were hard to dismiss. Sally may have been eager to move away to the big city but she had struck him as a sensible girl, even calculating – the kind who would make a clean and open move when the right time came. According to her mother, nothing dramatic had happened at home to make her run away. Rows were common enough surely, and, if anything, the parents seemed too liberal. Banks remembered the curfews (broken, many of them) of his own adolescence as he tried to coax his pipe alight. The blasted thing remained as reluctant as ever. In a sudden flash of anger and frustration, he threw it across the room and the stem snapped in two.
SIX
As Banks approached Helmthorpe later that Saturday morning, the coloured tents across the river strained at their ropes in the wind and rain like the sails of hidden boats, and the dark water danced wildly with ripples. In such weather, the houses themselves looked like dull outcrops of the stone they were built from, and the valley sides were shrouded in haze. A few locals and unfortunate holidaymakers tramped the streets.
Banks pulled into the small parking space next to the police station, and the first person he saw inside was PC Weaver. The constable looked pale, and there were dark smudges under his eyes.
‘We can’t even organize a search,’ he said, pointing out of the window. ‘Our men would get bogged down on the moors, and the visibility’s hopeless.’
‘I know,’ Banks said. ‘Any luck?’
Weaver shook his head. ‘Her parents last saw her just before they went out for the evening at about seven thirty. Before that, her friends saw her in the coffee bar earlier in the afternoon. We’ve not had time to ask much yet, sir. I’ve still got some lads out there. There’ll likely be more information coming in before long.’
Banks nodded. ‘And she didn’t say to anyone where she was going?’
‘No, sir. Her mother thought she might have met her boyfriend somewhere.’
‘Did she?’
‘He says not, sir,’ Weaver pointed toward a bedraggled young man in a clinging wet T-shirt and soggy jeans, hair plastered down by the rain. ‘That’s him there, sir. He’s pretty upset, and I see no reason not to believe him.’
‘Have you questioned him?’
‘Just talked to him, really, sir. Not questioned him proper. I mean, I thought I’d leave that . . .’
‘That’s fine, Constable,’ Banks said, smiling his approval. ‘You did right.’
He walked over to Kevin, who was staring fixedly at a ‘Crime Doesn’t Pay’ poster and chewing his fingernails. Banks introd
uced himself and sat down on the bench.
‘How long have you known Sally?’ he asked.
Kevin rubbed his eyes. ‘Years, I suppose. We only started going out together this summer.’
‘How do you feel about Swainsdale?’
‘What?’
‘How do you feel about living in the dales, your home? Sally doesn’t like it much, does she? Wasn’t she always talking about going away?’
‘Oh aye, she talked,’ Kevin said scornfully. ‘She’s full of big talk is Sally. Got a lot of grand ideas.’
‘Don’t you think she might have run off to London or somewhere, then?’
Kevin shook his head. ‘No. I can’t see her leaving like that. That’s why I’m worried. She’d’ve telled me.’
‘Perhaps she’s running from you, too.’
‘Don’t be daft. We’ve just started going together. We’re in love.’ He bent forward and put his head in his hands. ‘I love her. We’re going to get married, start a little farm . . . I know Sally, and she just wouldn’t run off without telling me. She wouldn’t.’
Banks held himself back from agreeing. Whatever Kevin believed, there was still hope. He couldn’t picture Sally Lumb settling down to domestic rural life in the dales, though. Kevin had a lot to learn about women and about dreams, but he seemed a decent and honest enough boy on the surface. Banks was inclined to agree with Weaver and see no harm in him, but he had to press on with the questioning.
‘Did you talk to Sally yesterday?’ he asked.
Kevin shook his head.
‘You didn’t see her at all yesterday evening?’
‘No. I was playing cricket with some mates over in Aykbridge.’
‘Did Sally know about that? Didn’t she expect to see you?’
‘Aye, she knew. You can’t see each other every night, can you?’ he burst out. ‘You’d soon get sick of each other, then, wouldn’t you? You’ve got to do other things sometimes, don’t you?’
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