Jazz Singh, their DNA, blood and toxicology specialist, had said on Friday that she could identify the kind of sleeping pills Adrienne Munro had been given, but that it might take a while. Knowing the specific brand could provide a useful lead; sleeping tablets of any kind were not that easy to get hold of without a prescription, and DS Steph Dobyns of the drugs squad might be able to trace a supplier or specific batch if she had more detailed information to go on.
Banks had spent a relaxing Sunday catching up with the latest series of Black Mirror on Netflix, then taking his wine out to the conservatory to listen to his recent download of Thelonious Monk’s Piano Solo. As a consequence, he felt refreshed that Monday morning, but he also felt in need of a lead, of something to fire him up before these cases went completely stale on him. It happened that way sometimes. Day after day of little or no progress, and he started not to care, bit by bit he began to shove it to the back of his mind without even realising he was doing it, until he finally ground to a halt.
Banks got up to stretch and looked out over the market square, where the citizens of Eastvale were going about their business, shopping, delivering, chatting with neighbours, a horde of schoolkids piling into Greggs for a pasty or WHSmith for the latest comics. A gang of workmen had cordoned off one area and were hammering away at the cobbles, which seemed to require a lot of maintenance these days. The usual group of elderly ladies was meeting for morning tea in Garfield’s Tea Room above the minimart on the corner of Market Street. There were enough patches of blue in the sky to give the appearance of a fine day, even if there was a damp winter chill in the air.
Banks thought he would go over to the Queen’s Arms for a portion of Cyril’s scampi and chips for lunch, but just as he took his overcoat from the hook behind his door, his phone rang. He supposed he could ignore it, but he wasn’t that kind of person. Instead, he hurried over and picked up the receiver.
‘Alan?’ a familiar voice said.
‘Ken? Good to hear from you.’ It was DCI Ken Blackstone from the West Yorkshire Homicide and Major Inquiry Team, one of Banks’s oldest friends and colleagues.
‘Yeah. It’s been a while. Sorry.’
‘No matter. Busy?’
‘It never seems to end.’
‘It’s been pretty quiet up here until recently,’ said Banks.
‘I heard about that. That’s why I’m calling.’
‘Aha. Do tell.’
‘I’d rather not talk about it on the phone. Can you get down here?’
‘You know me, Ken. I never turn down a chance to visit the big city. Especially when an old mate is buying lunch.’
Blackstone groaned theatrically. ‘If that’s what it takes. It’s twelve o’clock now. Can you get down in an hour?’
‘Should be able to.’
‘What do you fancy?’
‘Whitelock’s would suit me. Can you at least give me a hint?’
‘Your suspicious deaths. We’ve got one, too, and we might be able to help one another.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Banks hurried down the stairs. Winsome was out working on Adrienne Munro’s financial details, so he left a message at the front desk to say where he was going and that he wasn’t sure when he would be back, then he nipped out of the back door and into his increasingly ancient-looking Porsche.
Annie had finally got Poppy settled in a taxi on Saturday after coming to a price arrangement with the stunned driver. Poppy had even flashed him a roll of twenties to assure him that she could pay. Though he hummed and hahed and acted like a put-upon, long-suffering oppressed working man, he had nothing to complain about, Annie thought, considering the sum. All he had to do was drive down the M1 and back, and he would be making a nice profit for his day’s driving, rather than hanging about on street corners hoping for a fare. Of course, there was Poppy to deal with. She had seemed to be on the verge of sleep when they set off, but Annie knew quite well that she could wake up at any moment and make the five — or six — hour drive feel like an eternity. Especially if the driver tried on his oppressed worker routine.
Once Poppy was gone, Annie had gone straight home from Rivendell and phoned Carrie in Ripon to thank her for the party and accommodation, and apologise for dashing off without saying goodbye. Then she took a long bath, followed by a talent show on TV, a cup of camomile tea and an early night. Sunday morning she spent reading the papers and the rest of the day semi-comatose on the sofa. Now it was Monday and back to work.
Annie felt in a remarkably good mood as she drove along the narrow winding lane to Mossmoor past farmhouses, drystone walls and sheep grazing on the distant hillsides. Perhaps, she thought, it was because Poppy had gone home. Or maybe it was due to her dry Sunday and a Monday-morning lie-in.
Adele Balter lived in an old farm labourer’s cottage in the village of Mossmoor, only a few miles east of Annie’s place in Harkside, so Annie had decided to head over there before going in to the station, then meet up with Gerry later in Eastvale to plan their strategy. They had already spoken on the phone and Gerry had a list of names from Laurence Hadfield’s mobile. The last calls either to or from it had come on the Saturday before last. There were three incoming calls, all from a Dr Anthony Randalclass="underline" one in the afternoon, lasting seven minutes, then another at 8.02 in the evening, this time for only four minutes, and finally at 11.26, when the call had gone through to Hadfield’s voicemail, but the caller hadn’t left a message. Gerry had also come up with an address for Dr Randall, in Bramhope, between Leeds and Otley.
It wasn’t much to go on, but it would be useful to know what Laurence Hadfield and Dr Anthony Randall had been talking about that Saturday, and why Hadfield hadn’t answered that last call. Annie guessed that he must have gone out by then, perhaps to his death, and his phone had been lying on the desk in his study, as it was when Poppy and Adele Balter arrived a few days later.
Annie finally came to the row of tiny old cottages that formed the village high street, along with a post office and general store, parked and went through the gate of the last cottage on the left. Adele, whom she had phoned in advance, opened the door before Annie had the chance to knock. She must have been watching through the net curtains.
There was no Tardis effect in the cottage; it was just as tiny inside as it appeared from without. Adele also kept a very neat and tidy house, which didn’t surprise Annie at all. Surfaces sparkled, there wasn’t a speck of dust or a cobweb anywhere and the whole place smelled deliciously of fresh baking.
‘I’ve made some scones,’ Adele said as she settled Annie on a flower-patterned armchair in front of the fire, where a couple of knotty logs gave off a soothing heat. Annie knew there was no use in protesting when Adele said she would just make a pot of tea and take the scones out of the Aga, so she relaxed in the armchair, admiring the oil painting of York Minster over the fireplace, and enjoyed the heat on her shins.
She heard Adele puttering about in the kitchen, and a while later she came out with a tray. Annie hadn’t bothered with breakfast that morning, settling for a pot of coffee, so her stomach rumbled at the sight of the fresh-baked scones, tub of butter and a dish of strawberry jam.
Adele put the tray on the table under the window. ‘Please, help yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s not often I get the chance to bake for someone.’