“Or it could have been over the girlfriend,” Banks added. “Especially after what Poole told me about the knifing.”
“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “That’s another strong possibility. But let’s imagine that Carl Johnson found out Chivers and his girlfriend had taken Gemma and… well, done whatever they did to her. Now Johnson’s no angel, and he seems to have an unhealthy fascination with bad ’uns, from what you tell me, but somehow, they’ve gone too far for him. He doesn’t like child-molesters. He becomes a threat. They lure him out to the mine. Maybe the girl does it with promises of sex, or Chivers with money, I don’t know. But somehow they get him there and…” Gristhorpe paused. “The mine might be a connection. I know the area’s been thoroughly searched already, but I think we should go over it again tomorrow. There’s plenty of spots around there a body could be hidden away. Maybe the clothes on the moors were just a decoy. What do you think, Alan?”
Banks frowned. “It’s all possible, but there are still too many uncertainties for my liking. I’d like to know more about the girl’s part in all this, for a start. Who is she? What’s in it for her? And we’ve no evidence that Chivers killed Johnson.”
“You’re right, we don’t have enough information to come to conclusions yet. But we’re getting there. I thought you fancied Adam Harkness for the Johnson murder?”
“I did, though I’d no real reason to. Looks like I might have been wrong, doesn’t it?”
Gristhorpe smiled. “Happens to us all, Alan. You always did have a chip on your shoulder when it came to the rich and influential, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Nay, Alan, I’m not criticizing. You’re a working-class lad. You got where you are through brains, ability and sheer hard slog. I’m not much different myself, just a poor farm-boy at heart. I’ve no great love for them as were born with silver spoons in their mouths. And I don’t mind sticking up for you when Harkness complains to the ACC about police harassment. All I’m saying is be careful it doesn’t blur your objectivity.”
Banks grinned. “Fair enough,” he said. “But I haven’t finished with Mr Harkness yet. I called the Johannesburg police and set a few enquiries in motion. You never know, there might be something to that scandal yet. And I called Piet in Amsterdam to see if he can track down Harkness’s ex-wife. There’s still a chance Harkness might have been involved somewhere along the line. What about your black magician, Melville Westman?”
“Nothing,” said Gristhorpe. “The lads did a thorough job. He looks clean. It’s my bet that Gemma was in the Manleys’ cottage at some point, and that’s where the whitewash on her clothes came from. That’s not to say I won’t be having another word with Mr Westman, though.” Gristhorpe smiled. His own feelings about people like Melville Westman and Lenora Carlyle were not so different from Banks’s feelings about the rich and powerful, he realized: different chip, different shoulder, but a prejudice, nonetheless.
“I’m going to call my old mate Barney Merritt at the Yard first thing in the morning,” Banks said. “He ought to be able to get something out of Criminal Intelligence about Chivers a damn sight quicker than the formal channels. The more we know about him, the more likely we are to be able to guess at the way he thinks. The bastard might never have been nicked but I’ll bet a pound to a penny he’s on the books somewhere.”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Oh, aye. No doubt about it. And it looks as if we’re all working on the same case now. You’d better get up to date on the Gemma files, and we’d better let Phil know so he can access his databases or whatever he does. I want this bloke, Alan. I want him bad. I mean I want him in front of me. I want to see him sweat. Do you know what I mean?”
Banks nodded and finished his drink. From the bar, they heard Cyril call time. “It’s late,” he said quietly. “Time we were off home.”
“Aye. Everything all right?”
“Fine,” said Banks. “Just think yourself lucky you don’t have daughters.”
Banks walked in the rain, coat buttoned tight, and listened to his Walkman. It was after eleven-thirty when he got home, and the house was in darkness. Sandra was already in bed, he assumed; Tracy, too. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep just yet, after the conversation with Gristhorpe had got his mind working, and as he had drunk only two pints in the pub, he felt he could allow himself a small Scotch. What was it the medics said, three drinks a day is moderate? Some kind soul had brought him a bottle of Glen Garioch from a holiday in Scotland, so he poured himself a finger and sat down. Though he wasn’t supposed to smoke in the house, he lit a cigarette anyway and put on a CD of Barenboim playing Chopin’s Nocturnes. Even at low volume, the clarity of the sound was astonishing. He had hardly begun to let his mind roam freely over the image of Chivers he had created so far when he heard the front door open and close softly, then the creak of a stair.
He opened the living-room door and saw Tracy tiptoeing upstairs.
“Come down here a moment,” he whispered, careful not to wake Sandra.
Tracy hesitated, halfway up, then shrugged and followed him into the living-room.
Banks held out his wristwatch towards her. “Know what time it is?”
“Of course I do.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Out with Keith.”
“Where to?”
“Oh, Dad! We went to the pictures, then after that we were hungry so we went for a burger.”
“A burger? At this time of night?”
“You know, that new McDonald’s that’s opened in the shopping centre. It’s open till midnight.”
“How did you get home?”
“Keith walked me.”
“It’s too late to be out on a weeknight. You’ve got school in the morning.”
“It’s only midnight. I’ll get plenty of sleep.”
There she stood, about seven stones of teenage rebellion, weight balanced on one hip, once long and beautiful blonde hair chopped short, wearing black leggings and a long, fawn cable-knit jumper, pale translucent skin glowing from the chill.
“You’re too young to be out so late,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be so old-fashioned. Everyone stays out until midnight these days.”
“I don’t care what everyone else does. It’s you I’m talking about.”
“It would be different if it was Brian, wouldn’t it? He could always stay out as late as he wanted, couldn’t he?”
“He had to live with the same rules as you.”
“Rules! I bet you’ve no idea what he’s up to now, have you? Or what he got up to when he was still at home. It’s all right for him. Honestly, it’s not fair. Just because I’m a girl.”
“Tracy, love, it’s not a safe world.”
Her cheeks blazed red and her eyes flashed dangerously, just like Sandra’s did when she was angry. “I’m fed up of it,” she said. “Living here, being interrogated every time I come in. Sometimes it’s just absolutely fucking awful having a policeman for a father!”
And with that, she stormed out of the room and up the stairs without giving Banks a chance to respond. He stood there a moment, stunned by her language — not that she knew such words, even five-year-olds knew them, but that she would use them that way in front of him — then he felt himself relax a little and he began to shake his head slowly. By the time he had sat down again and picked up his drink, he had started to smile. “Kids…” he mused aloud. “What can you do?” But even as he said it, he knew that Sandra had been right: the problem was that Tracy wasn’t a kid any more.