‘You thought she might have been killed?’
‘There was a possibility that the rapist might have feared his identity being revealed,’ Gerry said. ‘We had to consider that he might have decided the best course of action was to get rid of Marnie. That’s why my ears pricked up when you mentioned she was talking to a man.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Trevelyan. ‘If I’d known any of what you’ve just told me before, I’d have made sure we tracked him down. But, as you saw, he wasn’t anywhere near her when she went over the edge. Nobody was. And she didn’t try to stop herself from falling. It seemed quite deliberate to me.’
‘But she may still have been running away from him.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Annie said. ‘There was no way you could have known what had happened to Marnie back up north. Or her parents. She didn’t tell anyone, as far as we know. We’re still only just putting it together ourselves, and we don’t know who raped her. Besides, this makes even more sense. I mean the suicide. Given her state of mind. Everyone says she’d been anxious and depressed ever since it happened.’
Trevelyan seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he said, ‘It didn’t make a lot of sense to us at first, even though her parents pretty much echoed what you say. But what you’ve told me just now at least puts it in context. There’s more.’
‘More?’
‘Yes. We didn’t want to tell her parents at first. They were upset enough that their daughter had killed herself. But they would have found out one way or another. Post-mortems and coroners’ reports are a matter of public record, for a start. Not to mention the possibility of loose tongues.’
‘What is it?’ Annie asked, though she already had an inkling.
‘The post-mortem revealed that Marnie was pregnant when she died.’
BANKS AWOKE with a start when his phone played the blues riff. The Bill Evans CD had long since finished. It was late afternoon and shadows were lengthening across his garden and over the sloping stretch of land between the back of his cottage and the lower pastures of Tetchley Fell.
Banks answered. It was Ray Cabbot. ‘Alan, I heard what happened. Annie told me you got hit on the head. Are you OK? Do you want me to come over?’
‘No, Ray. I’m fine. It’s OK. You’re better staying there in case... you know, in case Zelda shows up.’
‘Right. I don’t suppose you’ve found anything new? She’s been gone nearly four days now. I’m going crazy here.’
‘Afraid not,’ said Banks. ‘But I’ve been out of commission all day and I don’t remember anything. Annie would have told you, though, if there was any news. Just hang on.’
‘Annie said something about a fire. I’ve tried calling her, but she’s not been answering her phone.’
‘No. She and Gerry are in Dorset following up a lead on a rape case. They’re probably pretty busy.’
‘Dorset? Are you sure Zelda hasn’t been hurt? Did you find her?’
‘People have mentioned fire to me,’ said Banks. ‘Unfortunately it’s something I don’t remember.’ But as soon as he said it, he had the strange sensation that it wasn’t true, that the state of his memory now was different from when he had drifted off to Bill Evans. That the pieces had rearranged themselves while he slept. He didn’t want to risk saying anything to Ray, but he wanted to explore what that difference was. Could it have come back? Nobody really understood how memory worked. Maybe it was the music. Or a dream. He had no idea what triggered it, but he felt that it was all back, what happened two nights ago, and if he could just get some quiet time alone he could access it. ‘I’m really knackered, Ray,’ he said. ‘And the doc says I’ve got to take it easy, so let’s leave this for now, shall we? I can’t tell you anything. I’m sure I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. Let’s get together then, OK?’
‘OK,’ said Ray. ‘Sorry about... you know... Have a good rest.’
People kept saying that, but Banks was hardly likely to get a good rest until he had remembered what he could. The images were still fragmented, his memory in flux, but there were more of them now, and some were firming up into clear pictures. He found that it didn’t take much effort to put them into a linear narrative. Waking with Keane looming over him, the smell of the petrol, a dark figure emerging from the shadows, Keane stiffening, stabbed from behind, spilling petrol, then Zelda stepping forward to cut his bonds. And the flames. It got a bit blurred again after that, with a sudden whoosh of flame and heat and Zelda shouting for him to run. Then he had woken up in the hospital bed.
There were still a few blank spots to fill in. The things Keane had said, for a start. There was something important in that, he remembered, without being able to grasp exactly what it was. He relaxed. It would come, and it was no good trying to force it. Perhaps some more music and another nap would help?
But it wasn’t to be. No sooner had he put some solo Thelonious Monk on, than his phone went off again. He was tempted not to answer, as it was a withheld number, but he gave in at the last moment and paused the music. As he had suspected, it was Burgess on the line.
‘How’s the head?’ he asked.
‘Word sure gets around. It’s fine, thanks.’
‘Memory?’
‘Still a bit untrustworthy.’
‘I’d keep it that way if Newry’s on your trail.’
‘You know about that?’
‘Sure. And him. He’s a real bastard. Guilty till proven guilty.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘That’s not why I called you.’
‘Oh?’
‘No. We found an arm — at least, a recycling plant worker out Croydon way did. Severed just below the shoulder. Wrapped in a black bin liner. It fell out right in front of his forklift.’
‘Whose arm?’
‘No idea. And no other body parts yet. They’re still scouring the area. The bad news is that there’s no hand, therefore no prints.’
‘Why tell me?’
‘Thought you’d be interested. This arm, there’s some decomposition, but it’s not too badly preserved, and it’s got a tat. A bit faded, but still readable with our technology. Looks like someone tried to scrub it off with bleach but didn’t quite succeed.’
‘Of what?’
‘My experts tell me it’s the insignia of some Croatian crime gang. “Loyal unto death” or some such codswallop.’
‘Croatian?’
‘Thought you’d be interested. I’ll send up the details. And make sure you get plenty of—’
‘I know. Rest. Believe me, I’ve been trying. Thanks. Talk to you later.’
Banks ended the call. An arm, he thought. Interesting. Then he started the solo Monk again and lay back in his chair.
There was a definite aura of mourning in the Sedgwick household, though the curtains weren’t closed and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Sedgwick was dressed in black. There was a family photo taken in happier days on the mantelpiece, but no shrine to Marnie with candles burning and a vase of flowers. The mourning resided more in the general atmosphere and the numb, mechanical way Mrs. Sedgwick — Francine, she asked them to call her — made tea and carried in the tray while her husband — Dennis, please — put out a gateleg table in front of the green velour sofa. It was an unremarkable house on an unremarkable street, and its view consisted almost entirely of other unremarkable houses, with just a glimpse of the rolling green Dorset countryside in a gap between two terraces.
The Sedgwicks looked older than Annie had expected, given that Marnie had been only nineteen when she died, but both seemed fit and trim despite a few wrinkles around the eyes and a touch of grey. Francine wore her hair long with a ragged fringe, and Dennis had his neatly cut with a side parting and a forelock that flopped over his brow. They were both casually dressed in jeans and short-sleeved shirts.