“I noticed nothing,” Harkness said, with a thin smile. “Not even a muddy footprint on my carpet.”
“You see,” Banks went on, “Johnson’s life is a bit of a mystery to us. We’ve got his record, the bald facts. But how did he think? We don’t seem to be able to find anyone who was close to him. And there are years missing. He may have been to Europe, Amsterdam perhaps. He may even have had friends from South Africa.”
Harkness sat bolt upright and gripped the arms of the chair. “What are you insinuating?”
“I’ve heard rumours of some sort of a scandal. Something involving you back in South Africa. There was some sort of cover-up. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Harkness snorted. “There are always scandals surrounding the wealthy, Chief Inspector. You ought to know that. Usually they derive from envy. No, I can’t say I do know what you’re talking about.”
“But was there any such scandal involving you or your family out there?”
“No, nothing that stands out.”
Banks got that almost-infallible tingle that told him Harkness was holding back. He gave his man-of-the-world shrug. “Of course, I’m not suggesting there was any truth in it, but we have to investigate everything that comes up.”
Harkness stood up. “It seems to me that you are spending an unusual amount of time investigating me when you should be looking for Carl Johnson’s killer. I suggest you look among his criminal cronies for your killer.”
“You’ve got a point, there. And, believe me, we’re trying to track them down. Just out of interest, did Johnson ever mention South Africa to you?”
“No, he did not. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re getting at. You’re suggesting he was blackmailing me over some secret or other, aren’t you, and that I killed him to silence him? Come on, is that what you’re getting at?”
Banks stood up and spoke slowly. “But you couldn’t have killed him, could you, sir? You were dining at the Golf Club at the time of the murder. A number of very influential people saw you there.” He regarded Harkness, who maintained an expression of outraged dignity, then said, “Thank you very much for your time,” and left.
As he drove down to the main road with the windscreen-wipers tapping time to Gurney’s “Sleep,” he smiled to himself. He had got at least some of what he had wanted: a sure sense that Harkness was holding something back; and the satisfying knowledge that the man, rich, confident and powerful notwithstanding, could be rattled. Time now to make a few overseas phone calls, then perhaps have another chat with Mr Adam Harkness.
III
“You think I acted dishonestly, is that what you’re saying?”
“Irresponsibly is the word I had in mind,” Gristhorpe replied. He was sitting opposite Lenora Carlyle in a small interview room at the station. A WPC sat by the window to take notes. With her wild black hair, her high, prominent cheekbones and blazing dark eyes, Lenora certainly looked dramatic. She seemed composed as she sat there, he noticed, arms folded across her jumper, a slightly superior smile revealing stained teeth. It was the kind of smile, Gristhorpe thought, that she probably reserved for the poor, lost disbelievers with whom she no doubt had to deal now and then.
“I do my job, Superintendent,” she said, “and you do yours.”
“And just what is your job? In this case it seems to consist of giving a poor woman false hope.” Gristhorpe had just been to see Brenda Scupham, and he had noticed the fervour in her eyes when she spoke of what Lenora had told her.
“I can tell there’s no convincing you, but I don’t happen to believe it’s false. Look, are you upset because Brenda criticized you on television? Is that why you’ve got me in here?”
“What was the source of your information about Gemma Scupham?”
“I’m a psychic. You know that already.”
“So the ‘other side’ is the source?”
“If you want to put it like that, yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“What are you getting at?”
Gristhorpe leaned back and rested his forearms on the table. “Ms Carlyle, we’re investigating the abduction of a child, a very serious crime, and one that happens to be especially odious to me. All of a sudden, you walk into Brenda Scupham’s house and tell her you know the child is still alive. I’d be a bloody idiot if I didn’t ask you how you know.”
“I’ve told you.”
“Aye. And, as you well know, I don’t happen to believe in convenient messages from the other side.”
She smiled. “It’s stalemate, isn’t it, then?”
“No, it isn’t. Are you aware that I could hold you if I wanted?”
“What do you mean?”
“You profess to have information about a missing child, but you won’t reveal your source. As far as I know, you could have something to do with Gemma Scupham’s disappearance.”
“Now look here—”
“No. You look here. If that child is alive and you know some thing that could help us find her, you’d better tell me, because I’m getting tired of this.”
“I only know what I told Brenda — that Gemma is alive, she’s scared and she wants her mother. You know, you’d do much better with an open mind. The police have used psychics to help them in the past.”
And a fat lot of good it’s done, thought Gristhorpe, feeling himself being manipulated into the position of doing exactly that. The woman might know something, after all, and he couldn’t dismiss that possibility, even if it meant playing her game. “All right,” he sighed. “Did you get any impressions about where she is?”
Lenora shook her head.
“Any images, sounds, smells?”
“Nothing like that. Just an overwhelming emotional sense of her presence somewhere. Alive. And her fear.”
“Near or far?”
“I can’t say.”
Gristhorpe scratched his chin. “Not much to go on, is it?”
“I can’t help that. I’m merely a medium for the messages. Do you want to consult me professionally? Do you want me to try and help you?”
Gristhorpe noticed the smile of triumph. “Ms Carlyle,” he shot back, “if you fail to help us, I’ll make sure you’re thrown in jail. Do you know Melville Westman?”
It was only fleeting, but he saw it, a split-second sign of recognition. It was second nature for him to notice the signs, the body language, the way eye-contact broke off. He could see her trying to decide how much to admit. “Well?” he prodded.
“The name sounds vaguely familiar,” she said with a toss of her head. “I might have come across him.”
“Let me fill you in. Melville Westman calls himself a magician. There have been incidents in the past few years of such groups using children in their rituals. Now, I don’t know what you’re up to, but if you and Westman have any involvement in Gemma’s disappearance, direct or indirect, I’ll find out about it.”
“This is ridiculous!” Lenora said. “I’ve had enough of your accusations and insinuations.” She tried to push the chair back to get to her feet, but forgot it was bolted to the floor and she got stuck, half-standing, between it and the table.
“Sit down.” Gristhorpe waved his hand. “I haven’t finished yet. What’s your connection with Westman?”
She sat down, chewed on her lower lip for a moment, and answered, “I know him, that’s all. We’re acquaintances.”
“Met at the magician’s circle, did you?”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic. It’s a small community for anyone interested in the occult. We’ve had discussions, loaned one another books, that’s all.”