“I think so, Mr Ackroyd.” Some women just gave out an aura of sex, Gristhorpe knew. That kind of sex appeal was common enough on screen — the way Marilyn Monroe’s clothes always seemed to want to slip off her body, for example — but it also happened in real life. It was nothing to do with looks, though a combination of beauty and sex appeal could be deadly when it occurred, and some women didn’t even realize they had it.
“How did Mr Manley act towards her?” he asked.
“No special way in particular. I mean, he wasn’t much to look at himself. I got the impression he was sort of pleased that so many men obviously fancied her. You knew she was his and you could look but you couldn’t touch. Now I think about it, he definitely seemed to be showing her off, like.”
“Nobody tried to chat her up?”
“No.” He scratched his cheek. “And that’s a funny thing, you know. Now you’ve got me talking I’m thinking things that never really entered my head at the time. They were just an interesting couple of holidaymakers, but the more I think about them…”
“Yes?”
“Well, the thing that really struck you about Chris was his smile. When he smiled at you, you immediately wanted to trust him. I suppose it worked with the women too. But there was something… I mean, I can’t put my finger on it, but you just sort of knew that if you really did try it on with Connie, outside a bit of mild flirting, that is, then he’d be something to reckon with. That’s the only way I can express it. I suppose everyone picked up on that because nobody tried it on. Not even Andy Lumsden, and he goes after anything in a skirt as a rule.”
“Where were they from?”
“Chris and Connie? Do you know, I couldn’t tell you. He didn’t have a Yorkshire accent, that’s for certain. But it was hard to place. South, maybe. It was sort of characterless, like those television newsreaders.”
“They didn’t say where they were from?”
“Come to think of it, no. Just said they were taking some time off and travelling around for a while, having a rest from the fast lane. They never really said anything about themselves. Funny that, isn’t it?”
“They didn’t even say what they were taking time off from?”
“No.”
Gristhorpe stood up and nodded to Richmond. He shook Mr Ackroyd’s good hand and wished him well, then they walked back out into the drizzle.
“What now?” Richmond asked.
Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “It’s half past two,” he said. “I reckon we’ve just got time for a pint and a sandwich at The Drayman’s Rest, don’t you?”
IV
Susan Gay parked her red Golf outside and went up to her flat. She had had a busy day going over mug-shots with Edwina Whixley — to no avail — and questioning the other occupants of 59 Calvin Street again. She had also made an appointment to see the governor of Armley Jail, where Johnson had served his time, at four-thirty the following afternoon. She knew she could probably have asked him questions over the phone, but phone calls, she always felt, were too open to interruptions, and too limiting. If the governor needed to consult a warden for additional information, for example, that might prove difficult over the phone. Besides, she was old-fashioned; she liked to be able to watch people’s eyes when she talked to them.
She put her briefcase by the door and dropped her keys on the hall table. She had made a lot of changes to the place since her promotion to CID. It had once been little more than a hotel suite, somewhere to sleep. But now she had plants and a growing collection of books and records.
Susan favoured the more traditional, romantic kind of classical music, the ones you remember bits from and find yourself humming along with now and then: Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, bits of opera from films and TV adverts. Most of her records were “greatest hits,” so she didn’t have their complete symphonies or anything, just the movements everyone remembered.
Her reading was still limited mostly to technical stuff, like forensics and criminology, but she made space on her shelves for the occasional Jeffrey Archer, Dick Francis and Robert Ludlum. Banks wouldn’t approve of her tastes, she was sure, but at least now she knew she had tastes.
As usual, if she was in, she had “Calendar” on the television as she fussed around in the kitchen throwing together a salad. Normally, she would just be listening, as the TV set was in the living-room, but this evening, an item caught her attention and she walked through, salad bowl in hand and stood and watched open-mouthed.
It was Brenda Scupham and a gypsyish looking woman on the couch being interviewed. She hadn’t caught the introduction, but they were talking about clairvoyance. Brenda, in a tight lemon chiffon blouse tucked into a black mini-skirt much too short for a worried mother, sat staring blankly into the camera, while the other woman explained how objects dear to people bear psychic traces of them and act as conduits into the extrasensory world.
Brenda nodded in agreement occasionally. When Richard Whiteley turned to her and asked her what she thought, she said, “I don’t know. I really don’t know,” then she looked over at the other woman. “But I’m convinced my Gemma is still alive and I want to beg whoever knows where she is to let her come back to her mother, please. You won’t be punished, I promise.”
“What about the police?” he asked. “What do they think?”
Brenda shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think they believe she’s dead. Ever since they found her clothes, I think they’ve given up on her.”
Susan flopped into her armchair, salad forgotten for the moment. Bloody hell, she thought, Superintendent Gristhorpe’s going to love this.
NINE
I
Gristhorpe was indeed furious when he heard about Brenda Scupham’s television appearance. As he had no TV set of his own, though, he didn’t find out until Wednesday morning.
“It’s been over a week now since Gemma Scupham disappeared,” he said, shaking his head over coffee and toasted teacakes with Banks at the Golden Grill. “I can’t say I hold out much hope. Especially since we found the clothes.”
“I can’t, either,” Banks agreed. “But Brenda Scupham’s got some bloody psychic to convince her that Gemma’s alive. Who would you rather listen to, if you were her?”
“I suppose you’re right. Anyway, it all connects: the abandoned cottage, the borrowed car, the hair-dye. We’ve got descriptions of the Manleys out — both as themselves and as Peterson and Brown. Somebody, somewhere must know them. How about you?”
Banks sipped some hot black coffee. “Not much. The lab finally came through with the scene analysis. The blood in the mill matched Johnson’s, so we can be pretty certain that’s where he was killed. Glendenning says it was a right-handed upthrust wound. Six-inch blade, single-edged. Probably some kind of sheath-knife, and you know how common those are. No handy footprints or tire tracks, and no sign of the weapon. I’m off to see Harkness again, though I don’t suppose it’ll do much good.”
“You think he did it?”
“Apart from the mysterious stranger seen leaving Johnson’s building, he’s the only lead I’ve got. I keep telling myself that just because I didn’t take to the man it doesn’t mean he’s a killer. But nobody gets that rich without making a few enemies. And Johnson was a crook. He could have been involved somewhere along the line.”