“I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you very much, you know,” she said.
“Even a little will help.” Banks flapped the menu. “Anything you’d recommend?”
Her blue eyes narrowed in a smile. “I can see you’re uncomfortable,” she said. “I’m sorry I suggested we meet here. Men are obviously much happier in pubs.”
Banks laughed. “You’re right about that. But let’s see what I can salvage from the situation. Who knows, I might even find something I like.”
“Good,” said Linda. “Well, you know what I’m having. Are you not familiar with this kind of food?”
“American? Yes. I’ve never been to the States but I was in Toronto a couple of years ago. I think I can find my way around. I always found it was best to stick with the burgers.”
“I think you’re right.”
A waitress ambled along, playing with her hair as she approached. “Yes?” She stood beside the booth, weight balanced on her left hip, order pad in one hand and pencil in the other. She didn’t even look at them. Linda ordered her chili-burger and a bottle of San Miguel, and Banks went for the mushroom-and-cheese burger and another glass of Labatt’s. He leaned back on the red vinyl banquette and lit a Silk Cut. The grill had filled up a bit since Linda arrived, mostly truant sixth-formers buzzing with conversation and laughter, and the Euro-pop droned on.
“Do you want to interrogate me before lunch or after?” Linda asked.
Banks smiled. “I always find a full stomach helps. But if you’re—”
She waved her hand. “Oh no, I’m not in a hurry or anything. I’m just interested.” She stuck her hand deep in her bag and frowned, leaning slightly to the side, as she rummaged around in there like a kid at a fairground lucky-dip. “Ah, got them.” She pulled out a packet of menthol cigarettes.
“You know,” she said, lighting up, “I’d never really thought about it before, but you could be useful to me.”
“Me? How?”
“I’m thinking of writing a detective story.”
“Good lord,” said Banks, whose knowledge of detective fiction stopped at Sherlock Holmes.
“From what I’ve read,” Linda went on, “it’s clear that one can get away without knowing much police procedure, but a little realism does no harm. What I was thinking was—”
The waitress appeared with their food and drinks at that moment, and Linda’s attention was diverted towards her chili-burger. Feeling relieved at the interruption, Banks bit into his burger. It was good. But his reprieve was only temporary.
“What I was thinking,” Linda went on, wiping the chili sauce from her chin with a paper napkin, “was perhaps that you could advise me. You know, on police procedure. And maybe tell me a bit about some of your cases. Give me an insight into the criminal mind, so to speak.”
“Well,” said Banks, “I’d be glad to help if you have any specific questions. But I don’t really think I can just sit down and tell you all about it.”
Her eyes narrowed again, and she bit into her burger. When she had finished that mouthful, she went on. “I suppose that’s a compromise of sorts. I’m sure your time is too valuable to waste on writers of fiction. Though I did get the impression that you are fairly well read.”
Banks laughed. “I like a good book, yes.”
“Well, then. Even Hardy and Dickens had to do their research, you know. They had to ask people about things.”
Banks held up his hands. “All right, you’ve convinced me. Just give me specific questions and I’ll do my best to answer them, okay?”
“Okay. I haven’t got that far yet, but when I do I’ll take you up on it.”
“Now, what can you tell me about Adam Harkness?”
“Ah-hah, the interrogation at last. As I said, I can’t tell you very much, really. But I don’t believe all that phoney anti-apartheid rubbish, for a start.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t square with what I’ve heard. Oh, I’m sure he probably even believes it himself now, and it’s a trendy enough position for white South African expatriates to take. But how do you think his father made his money? You can’t tell me he didn’t exploit the blacks. Everybody did. And you won’t see Adam Harkness giving his money away to support the ANC.”
“He told me he left South Africa because he didn’t agree with the politics.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“It’s just rumours, but I’ve a friend lives there, a writer, and she said there was some kind of scandal about to break but the Harknesses hushed it up.”
“What kind of scandal?”
“Nobody really knows. My friend suspects he killed someone, a black mine-worker, but there’s no proof.”
It was possible, Banks supposed, ten or more years ago to cover up the murder of a black by a rich and powerful white man in South Africa. For all he knew, despite the scrapping of racial classification, it probably still was. Attitudes don’t change overnight, whatever politicians might decree.
“Have you ever heard of a man called Carl Johnson?” Banks asked.
“Only from the papers. He was the one killed, wasn’t he, at the old lead mine?”
“That’s right. He worked as a gardener for Harkness.”
“Did he now?” She leaned forward. “And you think there might be some connection?”
“There might be.”
“You surely don’t think Adam Harkness murdered him?”
“Harkness has an alibi. But a man like him can afford to have things done.”
Her eyes opened wide. They looked like oysters on a half-shell. “Do you mean that kind of thing really goes on? In England? Hit men and contracts and all that.”
Banks smiled. “It has been known.”
“Well… there’s obviously more to this crime business than I realized. But I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.”
“Could you get in touch with your friend? Ask her for more information?”
“I could try, but I got the impression they put a lid on it pretty securely. Still, if it might help…”
“It might.”
“I’ve just had a thought.”
“Yes?”
“If the rumour’s true, about Harkness and the black miner, and if that Johnson person was killed at an old mine, there’s a sort of symmetry to that, isn’t there?”
“I suppose there is,” Banks agreed. Symmetry, for Christ’s sake, he thought. Plenty of it in books, but not in real life. “It’s just a very isolated spot,” he said.
“So why would anyone go there to meet a killer?”
“Obviously it was someone he trusted. He didn’t have a car, so someone must have picked him up, or met him somewhere, and taken him there. Perhaps he thought he was going to get money.”
“Oh, yes,” said Linda. “I see. Well, I’d better leave the police work to you, hadn’t I? But, you know, that’s exactly the kind of thinking I’m interested in. Now, I’m going to have a chocolate sundae and you can tell me all about your most interesting case.”
III
Gristhorpe and Richmond stood in the rain outside Parkinson’s house. Semi-detached, with a frosted-glass door and a pebble-dash façade, it was more modern than the row of tiny limestone cottages that faced it across the lopsided square of unkempt grass. Gristhorpe hadn’t realized that Parkinson’s house was so close to the abandoned cottage. This was the extreme north-western edge of Eastvale, and both the new and the old houses shared a superb view west along the valley bottom. Not today, though; everything was lost in the grey haze of rain.