“I’m a systems consultant,” Westman said. “It means I get to do most of my work at home. It also means I have to work weekends sometimes, too.”
Gristhorpe nodded. They went downstairs and looked at the kitchen, then into the cellar, a dark, chill place with whitewashed walls, mostly used for storing coal and the various bits and pieces of an old Vincent motorcycle.
“A hobby,” Westman explained. “Are you satisfied now?”
They climbed back up to the living-room. “Do you know of anyone who might be involved?” Gristhorpe asked. “For any reason?”
Westman raised his eyebrows. “Asking for help now, are you? I’d be happy to oblige, but I told you, I’ve no idea. I do not, have not, and never will sacrifice children, or any other human beings for that matter. I told you, I’m not a dabbler. It would take too long to explain to you about my beliefs, and you’d probably be too prejudiced to understand anyway. It’s certainly not tabloid Satanism.”
“But you must know people who do know about these things. These dabblers you mentioned — these Satanists, thrill-seekers — any of them around these parts?”
“Not that I know of. There are a couple of witches’ covens, but they’re pretty tame, and you probably know about them, anyway. Amateurs. You’d never find them sacrificing a fly, let alone a child. Their get-togethers are a bit like a church social. No, Superintendent, I think you’re on the wrong track.”
Gristhorpe stood up. “Maybe, Mr Westman, but I like to keep an open mind. Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll see myself out.”
In the street, Gristhorpe breathed in the fresh air. He didn’t know why he felt such distaste for Westman and his kind. After all, he had read a fair bit about the black arts and he knew there was nothing necessarily evil about an interest in magic. Perhaps it was his Methodist background. He had given up going to chapel years ago, but there was still an innate sense that such desire for Godlike power, whether mumbo-jumbo or not, was a sacrilege, a blasphemy against reason and common sense as much as against God.
The limestone face of Crow Scar towered over the village to the north. Today it was bright in the autumn sun, and the higher pastures were already turning pale brown. The dry-stone walls that criss-crossed the daleside shone like the ribs and vertebrae of a giant poking through the earth.
Gristhorpe walked along High Street, busy with tourists window-shopping for walking-gear and local crafts, or ramblers sitting at the wooden picnic-tables outside The Dog and Gun and The Hare and Hounds, sipping pints of Theakston’s and nibbling at sandwiches. It was tempting to join them, but Gristhorpe decided to wait until he got back to Eastvale before eating a late lunch.
He turned at the fork and headed for the Helmthorpe station. It was a converted terrace house, built of local greyish limestone, and was staffed by a sergeant and two constables. Constable Weaver sat pecking away at an old manual typewriter when Gristhorpe entered. Gristhorpe remembered him from the Steadman case, the first murder they’d had in Helmthorpe in a hundred years.
Weaver looked up, blushed and walked over. “I can’t seem to get used to the computer, sir,” he said. “Keep giving the wrong commands.”
Gristhorpe smiled. “I know what you mean. I can’t help but feel like an incompetent idiot when I have to deal with the things. Still, they have their uses. Look lad, do you know Melville Westman?”
“Yes.”
“Anything on him? I’m not asking for anything that might be on record, you understand, just rumours, suspicions?”
Weaver shook his head. “Not really, sir. I mean, we know he’s one of those black magicians, but he’s not stepped out of line in any real way. Can’t say I believe in it myself, curses and whatnot.”
“What about the sheep?”
“Aye, well we suspected him, all right — still do, for that matter — but there was nowt we could prove. Why, sir?”
“It might be nothing, but I’d like you to keep a discreet eye on him, if you can. And keep your ears open for gossip.”
“Is this about the young lass, sir?”
“Yes. But for Christ’s sake don’t spread it around.”
Weaver looked hurt. “Of course not, sir.”
“Good. Let me know if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, and try not to let him know you’re watching. He’s a canny bugger, that one is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gristhorpe walked outside and headed for his car. Westman was probably telling the truth, he thought, but there had been so many revelations about the links between child abuse and satanic rituals in the past few years that he had to check out the possibility. It couldn’t happen here, everyone said. But it did. His stomach rumbled. Definitely time to head back to Eastvale.
III
Banks believed you could tell a lot about people from their homes. It wasn’t infallible. For example, a normally fastidious person might let things go under pressure. On the whole, though, it had always worked well for him.
When he stood in the tiny living-room of Flat 6, 59 Calvin Street and tried to figure out Carl Johnson, he found very little to go on. First, he sniffed the air: stale, dusty, with an underlying hint of rotting vegetables. It was just what one would expect of a place unoccupied for a couple of days. Then he listened. He didn’t expect to hear ghosts or echoes of the dead man’s thoughts, but homes had their voices, too, that sometimes whispered of past evils or remembered laughter. Nothing. His immediate impression was of a temporary resting-place, somewhere to eat and sleep. What furniture there was looked second-hand, OXFAM or jumble-sale stuff. The carpet was worn so thin he could hardly make out its pattern. There were no photos or prints on the cream painted walls; nor was there any evidence of books, not even a tattered bestseller.
The kitchen was simply a curtained-off portion of the room, with a hotplate, toaster and a little storage space. Banks found a couple of dirty pans and plates in the sink. The cupboards offered nothing more than tea-bags, instant coffee, sugar, margarine and a few cans of baked beans. There was no refrigerator, and a curdled bottle of milk stood by the sink next to some mouldy white bread and three cans of McEwan’s lager.
The bedroom, painted the same drab cream as the living-room, was furnished with a single bed, the covers in disarray, pillow greasy and stained with sweat or hair-cream. Discarded clothes lay in an untidy heap on the floor. The dresser held socks and underwear, and apart from a couple of checked shirts, sneakers, one pair of Hush Puppies, jeans and a blouson jacket, there was little else in the closet. Banks could spot no evidence of Johnson having shared his flat or bed with anyone.
Banks had never seen a place that told so little about its occupier. Of course, that in itself indicated a number of things: Johnson clearly didn’t care about a neat, clean, permanent home; he wasn’t sentimental about possessions or interested in art and literature. But these were all negatives. What did he care about? There was no indication. He didn’t even seem to own a television or a radio. What did a man do, coming home to such surroundings? What did he think about as he sat in the creaky winged armchair with the threadbare arms and guzzled his baked beans on toast? Did he spend every evening out? At the pub? With a girlfriend?
From what Banks knew of his criminal record, Carl Johnson was thirty years old and, after a bit of trouble over “Paki-bashing” and soccer hooliganism in Bradford as a lad, he had spent three years of his adult life in prison for attempted fraud. It wasn’t a distinguished life, and it seemed to have left nothing of distinction to posterity.
Banks felt oppressed by the place. He levered open a window and let some fresh air in. He could hear a baby crying in a room across the Street.