Fairley tried to bluff his way out of opening it. He said it led nowhere, wasn’t part of the premises, but Richmond persisted. They soon found themselves following Fairley down to a cellar with whitewashed walls. There, lit by a bare bulb, stood what looked like the remnants of the Fletcher’s warehouse job. Two television sets, three videos and a compact-disc player.
“Bankrupt stock,” said Fairley. “I was going to put them in the window when I’ve got room.”
Richmond ignored him and asked Susan to check the serial numbers on the cartons with the list that the manager of Fletcher’s had supplied. They matched.
“Right,” said Richmond, leaning back against the stack of cartons. “Before we go down to the nick, I’d like to ask you a few questions, John.”
“Aren’t you going to charge me?”
“Later.”
“I mean, shouldn’t I have a solicitor present or something?”
“If you want. But let’s just forget the stolen goods for the moment, shall we? Have you got any form, John?”
Fairley shook his head.
“That’s good,” Richmond said. “First offence. It’ll go better for you if you help us. We want to know about Carl Johnson.”
“Now look, I didn’t have nothing to do with that. You can’t pin that on me.”
It was interesting to watch Richmond at work, Susan thought. Cool, relaxed and looking as elegant as ever in the dingy room, careful not to lean against the wall for fear of marking his suit, he set Fairley at ease and led him gently through a series of preliminary questions about his relationship with Johnson and Poole before he got to Chivers. At the mention of the name, Fairley became obviously nervous.
“Carl brought him here,” he said, squatting miserably on a box. “I never liked him, or that girlfriend of his. They were both a bit doolally, if you ask me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that look he got in his eyes sometimes. Oh, he could be pleasant enough on the surface, but when you saw what was underneath, it was scary. I couldn’t look him in the eye without trembling.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“Did you ever think he might be concerned with Carl’s death?”
“I… well, to be honest, it crossed my mind. I don’t know why. Just the kind of person he seemed.”
“Yet you didn’t come forward?”
“Do you think I’m crazy or something?”
“Did you know of any reason he might have had for killing Johnson?”
Fairley shook his head. “No.”
“There was no falling out over the loot?”
“What loot?”
Richmond kicked a box. “The alleged loot.”
“No.”
“What about the girl? Did Johnson make a play for her?”
“Not that I know of. She was sexy enough, and she knew it, but she was Chivers’s property, no mistaking that. NO ENTRY signs on every orifice. Sorry, love.” He looked at Susan, who simply gave him a blank stare. “No,” he went on, turning back to Richmond, “I don’t think Carl was daft enough to mess with her.”
“What about Gemma Scupham?”
Fairley looked surprised. “The kid who was abducted?”
“That’s her.”
“What about her?”
“You tell me, John.”
Fairley tensed. A vein throbbed at his temple. “You can’t think I had anything to do with that? Oh, come on! I don’t go in for little girls. No way.”
“What about Chivers?”
“Nothing about him would surprise me.”
“Did he ever mention her?”
“No. I mean, I had heard of her. Les complained about her sometimes and Carl sympathized. Chivers just seemed to be standing back, sort of laughing at it all, as if such a problem could never happen to him. He always seemed above everything, arrogant like, as if we were all just petty people with petty concerns and he’d think no more about stepping on us if he had to than he would about swatting a fly. Look, why are you asking me about Gemma? I never even met the kid.”
“She was never in this shop?”
“No. Why should she have been?”
“Where is Chivers now?”
“I don’t know and I don’t want to know. He’s bad news.”
Richmond sat down carefully on a box. “Has it never struck you,” he said, “that if he did kill Johnson, then you and Les might be in danger, too?”
“No. Why? We didn’t do nothing. We always played square.”
“So did Carl, apparently. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me. It doesn’t seem to matter with Chivers, does it? Why do you think he killed Carl, if he did?”
“I told you, I don’t know. He’s a nutter. He always seemed to me like he was on the edge, you know, ready to go off. People like him don’t always need reasons. Maybe he did it for fun.”
“Maybe. So why not kill you, too? Might that not be fun?”
Fairley licked his lips. “Look, if you’re trying to scare me you’re doing a damn good job. Are you trying to warn me I’m in danger or just trying to make me talk? I think it’s about time I saw a solicitor.”
Richmond stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants with his palm. “Are you sure you have no idea where Chivers went after he left Eastvale?”
“None.”
“Did he say anything about his plans?”
“Not to me.”
“Where did he come from?”
“Dunno. He never talked about himself. Honest. Look, are you winding me up about all this?” Fairley had started to sweat now.
“We need to find him, John,” said Richmond quietly. “That’s all. Then we’ll all sleep a little easier in our beds.” He turned to Susan. “Let’s take him to station now and make it formal, shall we?” He rubbed the wall and held up his forefinger. “And we’d better get a SOCO team down here, too. Remember that whitewash on Gemma’s clothing?”
Susan nodded. As they left, she noticed that John Fairley seemed far more willing to accompany them to the station than most villains they arrested.
“I’ll tell you one thing for free,” he said as they got in the car.
“What’s that?” said Richmond.
“He had a gun, Chivers did. I saw it once when he was showing off with it in front of his girlfriend.”
“What kind of gun?”
“How would I know? I don’t know nothing about them.”
“Big, small, medium?”
“It wasn’t that big. Like those toy guns you play with when you’re a kid. But it weren’t no toy.”
“A revolver?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Never mind.”
“Isn’t it enough just to know the bastard’s got a gun?”
“Yes,” sighed Richmond, looking over at Susan. “Yes, it is.”
III
Banks and Gristhorpe leaned on the railings above the beach and ate fish and chips out of cardboard cartons. The hotel didn’t do evening meals, and, as in most seaside towns, all the cafés seemed to close at five or six.
“Not bad,” said Gristhorpe, “but they do them better up north.”
“If you like them greasy.”
“Traitor. I keep forgetting you’re still just a southerner underneath it all.”
Banks tossed his empty carton into a rubbish-bin and looked out to sea. Close to shore, bright stars shone through gaps in the clouds and reflected in the dark water. Farther out, the cloud-covering thickened and dimmed the quarter moon. The breeze that was slowly driving the clouds inland carried a chill, and Banks was glad he had put on a pullover under his sports jacket. He sniffed the bracing air, sharp with ozone. A few cars droned along The Esplanade, and the sound of people talking or laughing in the night drifted on the air occasionally, but mostly it was quiet. Banks lit a cigarette and drew deep. Silly, he thought, but it tasted better out here in the sea air pervaded with the smells of saltwater and seaweed.