“Drink?”
“A small Scotch, please,” Banks said.
“Sit down.” Harkness offered Banks the wicker chair and pulled a swivel chair for himself from behind the desk.
Banks sat. Music played softly in the background: the Radio Three Dvorak concert, by the sound of it. He glanced at the books on the shelves and, for some reason, got the impression they were more for show than use, bought by the yard. A full set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, some Book Club editions of Jane Austen and Dickens, a mail-order “Great Writers” series.
Harkness passed Banks the drink in a heavy crystal glass then joined him, carefully tugging up the creases of his trousers before he sat. “You didn’t tell me very much on the telephone,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Carl Johnson.”
Harkness shook his head slowly. “I still find it hard to believe such a thing could happen. We live in dangerous times.” His accent was an odd mix of South African and public-school English, his manner relaxed. A man used to being in charge, Banks guessed.
“Did you know much about Mr Johnson? About his life, his background?”
Harkness shook his head. “I rarely saw him. He would come and put in his hours whether I was here or not. That was our arrangement. I’m afraid I know nothing at all about his personal life.”
“Did you know he had a criminal record?”
Harkness raised an eyebrow and looked at Banks over the top of his glass. “I know he’d been in jail, if that’s what you mean.”
“How did you find out?”
“He told me when he came for the interview.” Harkness allowed a brief smile. “In fact, he told me that’s where he learned the job.”
“And that didn’t bother you?”
“The man had served his time. He was obviously honest enough to let me know about his past right from the start. Besides, I believe in giving everyone another chance. Everyone’s capable of change, given the right conditions. Carl was a good, hard worker. And he was always very open and honest in his dealings with me. Anyway, I’m not an easy man to defraud.”
“I thought you hardly ever talked to him.”
“We had to discuss his work occasionally.”
“How much did you pay him?”
“Five pounds an hour. I know that’s not very much for a skilled worker, but he seemed grateful enough. And it was… how shall I say?… cash in hand.”
“How long had he been working for you?”
“Since March.”
“How did you make contact with him?”
“My previous gardener left. I placed an advertisement in the local paper and Carl Johnson replied. He seemed to know his stuff, and I was impressed with his frankness, so I took him on. I never regretted it.” He pointed towards the windows. “As you can see, he did a fine job.”
Banks put his glass down. Harkness offered him another, but he refused. The light had almost gone now, and the river seemed to hoard its last rays and glow from deep within. Harkness turned on the desk lamp.
“Do you know any reason,” Banks asked, “why someone might want to kill him?”
“None. But as I said, I knew nothing about his personal life.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Monday.”
“Did he seem worried about anything?”
“Not that I could tell. We had a brief conversation about the lawn and the roses, as far as I can remember, and that’s all. As I said, he didn’t confide in me.”
“He didn’t seem different in any way?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention any of his friends or acquaintances, a girl friend, perhaps?”
“No. I assumed he acted like any normal young man on his own time.”
“Ever heard of a bloke called Les Poole?”
“No.”
Banks scratched the scar by his right eye and crossed his legs.
“Mr Harkness,” he said, “can you think of any reason why Johnson had over a thousand pounds hidden in his flat?”
“A thousand pounds, you say? Well… no. I certainly didn’t pay him that much. Perhaps he saved up.”
“Perhaps.”
“He may have worked for others, too. We didn’t have an exclusive contract.”
“You never asked?”
“Why should I? He was always available when I needed him.”
“Where were you on Thursday evening?”
“Really, Chief Inspector! You can’t believe I had anything to do with the man’s death?”
“Just a matter of elimination, sir.”
“Oh, very well.” Harkness rubbed his chin. “Let me see… Well, Thursday, I’d have been at the Golf Club. I played that afternoon with Martin Lambert, and after the game we had dinner at the club.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Not until well after eleven. The others will vouch for me.”
Banks nodded. He felt that Harkness was enjoying the game, one he knew he could win. There was a kind of smugness and arrogance about him that irked Banks. He had come across it before in powerful and wealthy people and had never been able accept it.
“I understand you were born around these parts?” he asked.
“Yes. Lyndgarth, as a matter of fact. We emigrated when I was four.”
“South Africa?”
“Yes. Johannesburg. My father saw opportunities there. He liked to take risks, and this one paid off. Why do you ask?”
“Out of interest. You took over the business?”
“When he died. And, I might add, I succeeded him out of ability, not nepotism. I worked with him for years. He taught me all he knew.”
“Is the company still in existence?”
“Very much so. And our mines are still productive. But I’ve had very little to do with that part of the operation of late. I moved to Amsterdam over ten years ago to handle the sales end of the business.” He looked down, swirled the amber liquid in his crystal snifter, then looked Banks in the eye. “Quite frankly, I couldn’t stomach the politics over there. Apartheid disgusted me, and I lacked the courage to become a revolutionary. Who wants another white liberal, anyway?”
“So you moved to Amsterdam?”
“Yes.”
“But you kept your business interests in South Africa?”
“I said I couldn’t stand living with the politics, Chief Inspector. I didn’t say I was a fool. I also don’t believe in sanctions. But that’s not what you came to hear about.”
“Still, it is fascinating. Are you married?”
“Divorced, back in Amsterdam.” He shifted in his chair. “If you don’t mind—”
“I’m sorry.” Banks put down his empty glass and stood up. “It’s just a copper’s instinct. Curiosity.”
“It’s also what killed the cat.”
Harkness said it with a smile, but Banks could hardly miss the cutting edge. He ignored it and walked to the library door.
As they walked down the gloomy hall with its waist high wainscoting, Banks turned to one of the doors. “What’s in here?” he asked.
Harkness opened the door and turned on a light. “Living-room.”
It was a spacious, high-ceilinged room with wall-to-wall thick pile carpeting and a burgundy three-piece suite. Next to the fireplace stood a tall bookcase stacked with old National Geographic magazines. A couple of landscapes hung on the walls: original oils, by the look of them. Banks couldn’t tell who the artists were, but Sandra would probably know. Again, Banks noticed how untidy the room was and how dusty the fixtures. Beside the sofa was a long, low table, and at its centre stood a tarnished silver goblet encrusted with dirt. Banks picked it up. “What’s this?” he asked.