‘You mean last Friday?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. I didn’t have a chance, what with Poppy creating and me worrying something had happened to Mr Laurence. Then you lot came.’
‘OK,’ said Annie. ‘It’s fine.’ Hadfield’s house was still officially part of a crime scene, though the CSI officers would have left by now. They would have to go back again. If there were any traces of female presence, they would most likely still be there. Annie would get in touch with Frank Naylor and ask him to make sure they took in the bed sheets and pillow cases for forensic examination, which they may not have done, given that Laurence Hadfield’s death hadn’t been ruled anything but a suspicious accident. The CSIs didn’t think they were looking for signs of anyone else in the house.
Annie glanced at her watch and saw it was probably time to head for Eastvale to meet up with Gerry. As a final question, she asked, ‘Do you know a Dr Randall? He’s a friend of Mr Hadfield’s.’
‘Yes, of course. They play golf together, and I’ve heard them chatting on the phone from time to time. They have a club where they sometimes meet as well. For rich folks, like. It’s in Leeds, mind you.’
‘Do you remember what it’s called?’
‘Sorry, love. I don’t pay a lot of attention to things like that.’
Annie stood up to leave. ‘Thank you, Adele. You’ve been very helpful,’ she said. ‘But I have to go now.’
‘So soon?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Please. Just wait a moment.’
Adele Balter disappeared into the kitchen and came back a few moments later with a Tupperware container.
‘Scones,’ she said. ‘And a jar of my own special strawberry jam. I told you I’d never be able to finish it all myself. And don’t worry about returning the box. Any time will do.’
‘I can’t possibly...’ Annie began, and then realised she could, and that in fact it would be polite to do so. ‘Thanks very much, Adele,’ she said, opening the door.
‘And if you ever need a cleaning lady...’ Adele said. ‘Well, I’ve got a lot more time on my hands now.’
There was a thought. It would take Adele all of ten minutes to clean her bijou palace. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said.
P.P. Arnolds’s The Turning Tide saw Banks down the A1 to Leeds quickly and pleasantly, especially her version of Van Morrison’s ‘Brand New Day’. He remembered drooling over P.P. Arnold singing ‘First Cut is the Deepest’ and ‘Angel of the Morning’ on Top of the Pops and Ready, Steady, Go! when he was a young lad. Over fifty years later, she was making a comeback with an album that had been languishing in the vaults since the late sixties.
Banks marched into Whitelock’s only a few minutes late, despite the length of time he had to drive around the multi-storey car park to find an empty slot. He expected to find Ken Blackstone at a copper-topped round table opposite the long bar, but instead the familiar figure, looking more and more like a cross between Philip Larkin and Eric Morecambe, waved from inside the dining area, with a glass of orange juice in front of him. Whitelock’s was as crowded and noisy as usual, and Banks had to thread his way through the groups of clerks, students and secretaries in the narrow space between the banquettes and the bar.
‘Don’t tell me promotion’s gone to your head?’ Banks said, gesturing towards the orange juice as he sat down.
‘No more than it’s gone to my bank balance,’ said Blackstone. ‘No, I’ve got a team meeting this afternoon. It wouldn’t do to go in smelling of booze or Polo mints.’
‘I’d be supportive and join you, but I plan on doing a bit of shopping before I head back to work. Plenty of time to walk off a pint.’
‘Bastard.’
‘And I can’t help but notice that you’re sitting in the posh section.’
‘I thought it would be a bit more private,’ Blackstone said, passing a menu over. When the waitress arrived both Banks and Blackstone ordered steak and kidney pie and chips, and Banks asked for a pint of IPA.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Blackstone said.
‘No problem. If there’s any chance of a lead in either of the cases we’re dealing with at the moment, I’ll jump at it.’
‘I hope you won’t be too disappointed.’
Banks’s pint arrived and he took a long swig. Blackstone looked on forlornly.
‘How are things, anyway?’ Banks asked. ‘New job working out?’
Blackstone had recently got a promotion and a place on the West Yorkshire Homicide and Serious Crimes Team. ‘It’s working out,’ he said. ‘When you get right down to it, not much changes but the acronyms.’
‘Too true,’ said Banks. ‘Aren’t you due for retirement soon?’ He knew that Blackstone was a few years younger than he was, but not exactly how many.
‘Couple of years.’
‘Will you take it?’
Blackstone nodded. ‘There aren’t a lot of options — unless I get promoted like you did, and I think that’s unlikely. As of now, I think I’ll go quietly. But we’ll see what happens when the time comes. I may not go gentle.’
Their meals arrived. Banks reached for the HP Sauce and shook some dollops on his steak and kidney pie. For a few moments, they devoted themselves to eating, then Blackstone said, ‘Shall I start now, or do you want to wait until after?’
‘I can listen while I eat,’ said Banks. ‘I’m curious to know what it is.’
‘It’s not a pretty tale. Yesterday evening a bloke from a nearby village was walking his dogs in open country just off the A59 between Harrogate and Blubberhouses.’
‘Isn’t that near Thornfield Reservoir?’
‘Further south. And east of Brame Lane. You probably wouldn’t know the area. Anyway, he came to an old derelict bothy, and one of the dogs took an unusual interest, so he managed to get the door open — it was almost off its hinges — and take a look inside.’
‘And he wished he hadn’t?’
Blackstone nodded. ‘A girl’s body. Our pathologist hasn’t carried out the post-mortem yet, but he reckons she’d been there about a week, and death was due to a blow to the back of her head. Hard enough to fracture her skull. It seems like she’d put up a struggle, too. She was wearing a red dress made of some silky material, quite short and low cut, and as far as the doc could tell there were no evident signs of sexual activity. Though she was carrying no identification, no possessions of any kind, it didn’t take us long to link her to a missing person’s report we just got in on Friday. A second-year history and politics student from the University of Leeds called Sarah Chen. Her father was from Hong Kong and her mother was British, but Sarah was born here, grew up in Derbyshire. Her father died in a car accident two years ago, and her mother’s in terminal care for Alzheimer’s. No brothers or sisters. Sarah came late, in her mother’s early forties.’
‘Some lot in life,’ said Banks.
‘Makes you realise how lucky you are, doesn’t it? But by all accounts, Sarah was a gutsy lass. Bright, too. She took things in her stride. Got on with life. Quite a beauty, too.’
‘Until...’
‘Yes. She hadn’t been seen since the weekend before last. She went into town shopping with a flatmate from uni a week last Saturday, and that was it. That was when she bought the dress she was wearing.’
‘That Saturday keeps on coming up,’ said Banks. ‘What else did she have with her?’
‘Nothing. I mean, she was wearing some cheap jewellery, a pendant, bracelet, that sort of thing. And sexy underwear. Black, lacy.’
‘Identifying marks?’
‘A dragon tattoo on the inside of her right thigh. Our resident expert tells me it’s for the year of the dragon. And a quote tattoo on the back of her left shoulder: “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom”.’