Piece of My Heart (12 page)

“He might have had a torch in his own car.”

“He’d still have had to go and get it. There would’ve been no reason for him to be carrying one if he arrived
before
the power cut.”

“Does the electricity failure really matter, then?”

“I think we can assume that the killer would have done what he came to do anyway, and if the lights went out, that just gave him a better opportunity.”

“What about the Browns? Their timing is interesting.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “But do they strike you as the types to kill someone and then drop by the local pub for a pint?”

“It was dark. There was no electricity. Maybe the local was as good a place to hide as any.”

“What about blood?”

“Winsome checked after the lights came back on,” Annie said. “She didn’t see any signs, but they’d hardly have hung around till the lights came back on if they were hiding bloodstains. We could hardly strip-search everyone.”

“True,” said Banks. “Look, we’ve still got a long way to go. You mentioned that Nick Barber was a writer?”

“That’s what Kelly said he told her.”

“Who’d want to kill a writer?”

“There were plenty I wanted to kill when I was at school doing English,” said Annie, “but they were all dead already.”

Banks laughed. “But seriously.”

“Well, it depends what kind of writer he was, doesn’t it?” Annie argued. “I mean, if he was an investigative journalist
onto something big, then someone might have had a reason to get rid of him.”

“But what was he doing up here?”

“There are plenty of cupboards full of skeletons in North Yorkshire,” countered Annie.

“Yes, but where to begin? That’s the problem.”

“Google?” suggested Annie.

“That’s a start.”

“And shouldn’t we be going to London?”

“Monday morning,” said Banks. “Then we’ll be able to talk to his employer, if we can find out who it is. You know how useless Sundays are for finding anything out. I’ve asked the locals to keep an eye on the place until then to make sure no one tries to get in.”

“What about next of kin?”

“Winsome sorted that, too. They live just outside Sheffeld. They’ve already been informed. I thought you and Winsome could go and talk to them tomorrow.”

“Fine,” said Annie. “I was only going to wash my hair, anyway. Oh, there’s one more thing. About that book.”

“Yes?”

“It looks as if he might have bought it just over the road here. Kelly said she met him coming out of the second-hand bookshop.”

Banks consulted his watch. “Damn, it’ll be closed now.”

“Is it important?”

“Could be. It didn’t look as if the figures were written in the same hand as the price, but you never know.”

“We can ring the owner at home, I suppose.”

“Good idea,” said Banks.

“From the way you’re still sitting there, I assume you’re expecting me to do it?”

“If you would. Look, I’m sick of this bloody bitter lemon. As far as I’m concerned, we’re off duty, working on our own time, and if Lady Gervaise wants to make something of it, then good luck to her. I’m having a pint. You?”

Annie smiled. “Spoken like a true rebel. I’ll have the same. And while you’re getting them in…” She took her mobile phone from her briefcase and waved it in the air.

Banks had to wait until a party of six tourists, who couldn’t make up their minds what they wanted to drink, had been served, and when he got back with two foaming pints of Black Sheep, Annie had finished. “Well, he certainly didn’t do it,” she said. “Fair bristled at the idea of anyone writing anything but the price in books, even the blank pages at the back. Sacrilege, he said. Anyway, he remembers the book. It only came in the day before Nick Barber bought it last Wednesday, and he checks them all thoroughly. There was nothing written in the back then.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “Very interesting indeed. We’ll just have to wait and see what young Gavin makes of it, won’t we?”

Saturday, September 13, 1969

Yvonne sat upstairs at the front of a number sixteen bus heading for the city centre, chewing on her fingernails and wondering what to do. Some clever sod had taken a marker to the
NO SPITTING
sign and altered it to read
NO SHITTING
. Yvonne lit a cigarette and pondered her dilemma. If she was right, it could be serious.

It had happened the previous evening, when her father came home late from work, as usual. He’d been taking something out of his briefcase when a photograph had slipped to the floor. He’d put it back quickly and obviously thought she hadn’t seen it, but she had. It was a picture of the dead girl,
the one who had been stabbed on Sunday at the Brimleigh Festival, and with a shock, Yvonne had realized she recognized her:
Linda.

She didn’t know Linda well, had only met her once and hadn’t really talked with her much. But the local hippie community was small enough that if you hung around the right places for long enough, you’d come across pretty much everyone in the scene eventually, whether at the Grove, the Adelphi, the Peel or one of the student pubs on Woodhouse Lane, in Hyde Park or Headingley. Even as far away as the Farmer’s Inn, where they had blues bands like Savoy Brown, Chicken Shack, Free and Jethro Tull on a Sunday night. You could also be damn sure that they’d all beg, borrow or steal to get to an event with a lineup like the Brimleigh Festival. So, when you thought about it, Linda being there wasn’t quite so much a coincidence as it appeared on the surface. The thing was, you didn’t expect to get killed there; it was supposed to be a peaceful event, a gathering of the tribes and a celebration of unity.

The bus lumbered down Tong Road, past the Lyric, which was advertising a double bill of last year’s
Carry On up the Khyber
and
Carry On Camping
. What crap, Yvonne thought. It was a grey day, and light rain pattered against the windows. Rows of grim back-to-back terraces sloped up the hill towards Hall Lane, all dark slate roofs and dirty red brick. A couple of kids got on at the junction with Wellington Road, behind the Crown, by the flats, and took the other front seat.

They’d filmed part of
Billy Liar
there a few years ago, Yvonne remembered, while it was a wasteland of demolished houses, before the flats were built. Yvonne had been about eight, and her father had brought her down to watch. She had ended up in one of the crowd scenes waving a little flag as Tom
Courtenay drove through in his tank, but when she had watched the film, she couldn’t see herself anywhere.

The kids lit cigarettes, kept looking over at her and making cheeky remarks. Yvonne ignored them.

She had met Linda at Bayswater Terrace one evening during the summer holidays. She had got the impression that it was just a flying visit, that Linda used to live there for a while but had moved to London. Linda was really fantastic, she remembered. She actually knew some of the bands and hung around with lots of rock stars at clubs and other “in” places. She wasn’t a groupie–she made that clear–she just liked the music and the guys who played it. Yvonne remembered someone saying that one of the members of the Mad Hatters was Linda’s cousin, but she couldn’t remember which one.

Linda even played a bit of guitar herself. She had sat down that evening with an acoustic and played “As Tears Go By” and “Both Sides Now.” Not a bad voice, either, Yvonne had thought, a little in awe of her and that sort of luminous haze her long blonde hair and the long white dress she wore created around her pale features. The guys were all in love with her, you could tell, but she wasn’t interested in any of them. Linda didn’t belong to anyone. She was her own person. She also had a great throaty laugh, which surprised Yvonne, coming from one who looked so demure, like Marianne Faithfull.

McGarrity had been there that night, Yvonne remembered, and even he had seemed subdued, keeping his knife in his pocket for once and refraining from muttering T.S. Eliot all evening. The guy they said was organizing the Brimleigh Festival, Rick Hayes, had also been present, which was how they managed to score some free tickets. He knew Linda from down in London and seemed to know Dennis, too, whose
house it was. Yvonne hadn’t liked Hayes. He had tried to get her to go upstairs with him and got a bit stroppy when she wouldn’t.

That was the only time Yvonne and Linda had met, and they hadn’t talked much, but Linda had made an impression. Yvonne was waiting for her O level results, and Linda had said something about exams not proving anything and the real truth of what you were was inside you. That made sense to Yvonne. Now Linda was dead. Stabbed. Yvonne felt tears prick her eyes. She could hardly believe it. One of her own. She hadn’t seen her during the festival, but that wasn’t surprising.

The bus carried on past the gasworks, over the canal and river and past the huge building site where they were putting up the new Yorkshire Post building at the corner of Wellington Street, then past the dark, high Victorian buildings to City Square, where Yvonne got off. There were a couple of new boutiques she wanted to visit and that little record shop down the ginnel off Albion Street might still have a copy of the Blind Faith LP. Her parents hadn’t let her go to the free concert in London’s Hyde Park last June, but at least she could enjoy the music on record. Later she was going over to Carberry Place to meet up with Steve and have a few tokes. A bunch of them were going to the Peel that night to see Jan Dukes de Grey. Derek and Mick were quite the local celebrities and they were like real people; they’d talk to you and sign their first LP cover,
Sorcerers
, not hide away backstage like rock stars.

Yvonne’s problem persisted, though: whether to tell her father about Linda or not. If she did, the police would be at Bayswater Terrace like a shot. Maybe Dennis and Martin and Julie and the others would get busted. And it would be
her
fault. If they found out, they’d never speak to her again. She was sure that none of them could have had anything to do with
what happened to Linda, so why bring grief on them? Rick Hayes was a creep and McGarrity was weird, but neither of them would kill one of their own. How could knowing about Linda being at Bayswater Terrace in July possibly help the police investigation? Her father would find out who Linda was eventually–he was good at finding things out–but it wouldn’t be from her, and nobody would be able to blame her for what happened.

That was what she decided in the end, turning the corner into the wet cobbled ginnel: she would keep it to herself. There was no way she was going to the pigs, even if the chief pig was her father.

6

T
here were some advantages to being a DCI, Banks thought on Sunday morning as he lingered over a second cup of coffee in the conservatory and read his way through the Sunday papers. Outside, the wind had dropped over the past couple of hours, the sun was shining and the weather had turned a little milder, though there was an unmistakable edge of autumn in the air, the smell of the musty leaves and a whiff of acrid smoke from a distant peat fire.

He was still senior investigating officer, of course, and in a short while he would go to interview Calvin Soames. At some point he would also drop by at the station and the incident van to make his presence felt and get up to date with developments, if there were any. In an investigation like this, he could never be far away from the action for any length of time, but the team had enough to occupy itself for the moment, and the SOCOs had plenty of trace evidence to sift through. He was always only a phone call away, so barring a major breakthrough, there was no reason for him to appear at the office at the crack of dawn every day; he would only get lumbered with paperwork. First thing tomorrow morning, he and Annie
would be on the train to London, and perhaps there they would find out more about Nick Barber. All Annie had been able to find out on Google was that he had written for
Mojo
magazine and had penned a couple of quickie rock star biographies. It was interesting, and Banks thought he recognized the name now that he saw it in context, but it still wasn’t much to go on.

Just as Banks thought it was time to tidy up and set off for Soames’s farm, he heard a knock at the door. It couldn’t be Annie, he thought, because she had gone to see Nick Barber’s parents near Sheffeld. Puzzled, he ambled through to the front room and answered it. He was stunned to see his son, Brian, standing there.

“Oh, great, Dad, you’re in.”

“So it would appear,” said Banks. “You didn’t ring.”

“Battery’s dead and the car charger’s fucked. Sorry. It
is
okay, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Banks said, smiling, putting his hand on Brian’s shoulder and stepping back. “Come on in. It’s always good to see you.”

Banks heard rather than saw a movement behind Brian, then a young woman came into view. “This is Emilia,” said Brian. “Emilia, my dad.”

“Hi, Mr. Banks,” said Emilia, holding out a soft hand with long, tapered fingers and a bangled wrist. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Can we bring the stuff in from the car?” Brian asked.

Still puzzled by it all, Banks just said okay and stood there while Brian and Emilia pulled a couple of holdalls from the boot of a red Honda that looked as if it had seen better days, then walked back to the cottage.

“We’re going to stay for a few days, if that’s okay with you,” Brian said, as Banks gestured them into the cottage. “Only I’ve got some time off before rehearsals for the next tour, and Emilia’s never been to the Dales before. I thought I’d show her around. We’ll do a bit of walking, you know, country stuff.”

Brian and Emilia put their bags down, then Brian took his mobile phone from his pocket and searched for the lead in the side pouch of his holdall. “Okay if I charge up the phone?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Banks, pointing to the nearest plug socket. “Can I get you something?” He looked at his watch. “I have to go out soon, but we could have some coffee first.”

“Great. Coffee’s fine,” said Brian.

Emilia nodded in agreement. She looked terribly familiar, Banks thought.

“Come through to the conservatory, then,” said Banks.

“Conservatory. La-di-da,” said Brian.

“Enough of your lip,” Banks joked. “There’s something very relaxing about conservatories. They’re a sort of escape from the real world.”

But Brian was already poking his nose into the entertainment room. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Look at this stuff. Is this what you got from Uncle Roy?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Your grandparents didn’t want it, so…”

“Fantastic,” said Brian. “I mean, it’s sad about Uncle Roy and all, but look at that plasma screen, all those movies. That Porsche out there is yours, too, isn’t it?”

“It was Roy’s, yes,” said Banks, feeling a bit guilty about it all now. He left Brian and Emilia nosing around the growing CD collection and headed for the kitchen, where he put the coffee maker on. Then he picked up the scattered newspapers in the conservatory and set them aside on a spare chair. Brian
and Emilia came through via the doors from the entertainment room. “I wouldn’t have had you down for a Streets fan, Dad,” he said.

“Just shows how little you know me,” said Banks.

“Yeah, but hip hop?”

“Research,” said Banks. “Have to get to know the criminal mind, don’t I? Besides, it’s not really hip hop, is it? And the kid tells a great story. Sit down, both of you. I’ll fetch the coffee. Milk? Sugar?”

They both said yes. Banks brought the coffee and sat on his usual white wicker chair opposite Brian and Emilia. He knew it was unlikely–Brian was in his twenties, after all–but his son seemed to have grown another couple of inches since he had last seen him. He was about six foot two and skinny, wearing a green T-shirt with the band logo the Blue Lamps and cream cargos. He had also had his hair cut really short and gelled. Banks thought it made him look older, which in turn made Banks
feel
older.

Emilia looked like a model. Only a couple of inches shorter than Brian, slender as a reed, wearing tight blue low-rise jeans and a skimpy belly top, with the requisite wide gap between the two, and a green jewel gracing her navel, she moved with languorous grace and economy. Her streaky brown-blonde hair hung over her shoulders and halfway down her back, framing and almost obscuring an oval face with an exquisite complexion, full lips, small nose and high cheekbones. Her violet eyes were unnaturally bright, but Banks suspected contact lenses rather than drugs. He’d seen her somewhere before; he knew it. “It really is good to see you again,” he said to Brian, “and nice to meet you, Emilia. I’m sorry you caught me unawares.”

“Don’t tell me there’s no food in the house?” Brian said. “Or worse, no booze?”

“There’s wine, and a few cans of beer. But that’s about it. Oh, there’s also some leftover vegetarian lasagna.”

“You’ve gone veggie?”

“No. Annie was over the other evening.”

“Aha,” said Brian. “You two an item again?”

Banks felt himself redden. “Don’t be cheeky. And no, we’re not. Can’t a couple of colleagues have a quiet dinner together?”

Brian held his hands up, grinning. “Okay. Okay.”

“Why don’t we eat out later? Pub lunch, if I can make it. If not, dinner. On me.”

“Okay,” said Brian. “That all right with you, Emmy?”

“Of course,” said Emilia. “I can hardly wait to try some of this famous Yorkshire pudding.”

“You’ve never had Yorkshire pudding before?” said Banks.

Emilia blushed. “I’ve led a sheltered life.”

“Well, I think that can be arranged,” said Banks. He glanced at his watch. “Right now, I’d better be off. I’ll phone.”

“Cool,” said Brian. “Can you tell us which room we can have and we’ll take our stuff up while you’re out?”

Saturday, September 13, 1969

The Sandford estate was older than the Raynville, and it hadn’t improved with age. Mrs. Lofthouse lived right at the heart of things in a semi-detached house with a postage-stamp garden and a privet hedge. Across the street, a rusty Hillman Minx without tires was parked on a neighbour’s overgrown lawn, and three windows were boarded up in the house next door. It was that kind of estate.

Mrs. Lofthouse, though, had done as much as she could to brighten the place up with a vase of chrysanthemums on the windowsill and a colourful painting of a Cornish fishing village over the mantelpiece. She was a small, slight woman
in her early forties, her dyed brown hair recently permed. Chadwick could still read the grief in the lines around her eyes and mouth. She had just lost her husband and now he was here to burden her with the death of her daughter.

“It’s a nice house you have,” said Chadwick, sitting on the flower-patterned armchair with lace antimacassars.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Lofthouse. “It’s a rough estate, but I do my best. And there are some good people here. Anyway, now Jim’s gone I don’t need all this room. I’ve put my name down for a bungalow out Sherbourne-in-Elmet way.”

“That should be a bit quieter.”

“It’s about Linda, isn’t it?”

“You know?”

Mrs. Lofthouse bit her lip. “I saw the sketch in the paper. Ever since then I just…I’ve been denying it, convincing myself it’s not her, it’s a mistake, but it
is
her, isn’t it?” Her accent was noticeably Yorkshire, but not as broad as Carol Wilkinson’s.

“We think so.” Chadwick slipped the photograph from his briefcase. “I’m afraid this won’t be very pleasant,” he said, “but it is important.” He showed her the photograph. “Is this Linda?”

After a sharp intake of breath, Mrs. Lofthouse said, “Yes.”

“You’ll have to make a formal identification down at the mortuary.”

“I will?”

“I’m afraid so. We’ll make it as easy for you as we can, though. Please don’t worry.”

“When can I…you know, the funeral?”

“Soon,” said Chadwick. “As soon as the coroner releases the body for burial. I’ll let you know. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Lofthouse, but I do have to ask you some questions. The sooner the better.”

“Of course. I’ll be all right. And it’s Margaret, please. Look, shall I make some tea. Would that be okay?”

“I could do with a cuppa right now,” said Chadwick with a smile.

“Won’t be a moment.”

Margaret Lofthouse disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt to give private expression to her grief as she boiled the kettle and filled the teapot in the time-honoured, comforting ritual. A clock ticked on the mantel beside a framed photograph. Twenty-five to one. Broome and his pal would be well on their way to Sheffeld by now, if they weren’t there already. Chadwick got up to examine the photograph. It showed a younger Margaret Lofthouse, and the man beside her with his arm around her waist was no doubt her husband. Also in the picture, which looked as if it had been taken outside in the country, was a young girl with short blonde hair staring into the camera.

Margaret Lofthouse came back with a tray and caught him looking. “That was taken at Garstang Farm, near Hawes, in Wensleydale,” she said. “We used to go for summer holidays up there a few years ago, when Linda was little. My uncle owned the place. He’s dead now and strangers have bought it, but I have some wonderful memories. Linda was such a beautiful child.”

Chadwick watched the tears well up in her eyes. She dabbed at them with a tissue. “Sorry,” she said. “I just get all choked up when I remember how things were, when we were a happy family.”

“I understand,” said Chadwick. “What happened?”

Margaret Lofthouse didn’t seem surprised at the question. “What always seems to happen these days,” she said, with a sniffe. “She grew up into a teenager. They expect the world at
the age of sixteen these days, don’t they? Well, what she got was a baby.”

“What did she do with the child?”

“Put him up for adoption–it’s a boy–what else could she do? She couldn’t look after him, and Jim and I were too old to start caring for another child. I’m sure he’s gone to a good home.”

“I’m sure,” agreed Chadwick, “but it’s not the baby I’m here to talk about, it’s Linda.”

“Yes, of course. Milk and sugar?”

“Please.”

She poured tea from a Royal Doulton teapot into fragile-looking cups with gold-painted rims and handles. “This was my grandmother’s tea set,” she said. “It’s the only real thing of value I own. There’s nobody left to pass it on to now. Linda was an only child.”

“When did she leave home?”

“Shortly after the baby was born. The winter of 1967.”

“Where did she go?”

“London. At least that’s what she told me.”

“Where in London?”

“I don’t know. She never said.”

“You didn’t have her address?”

“No.”

“Did she know people down there?”

“She must have done, mustn’t she? But I never met or heard of any of them.”

“Did she never come back and visit you?”

“Yes. Several times. We were quite friendly, but in a distant sort of way. She never talked about her life down there, just assured me she was all right and not to worry, and I must say, she always
looked
all right. I mean, she was clean and sober and
nicely dressed, if you can call them sort of clothes nice, and she looked well fed.”

“Hippie-style clothing?”

“Yes. Long, flowing dresses. Bell-bottomed jeans with flowers embroidered on them. That sort of thing. But as I said, they was always clean and they always looked good quality.”

“Do you know how she earned a living?”

“I have no idea.”

“What
did
you talk about?”

“She told me about London, the parks, the buildings, the art galleries–I’ve never been there, you see. She was interested in art and music and poetry. She said all she wanted was peace in the world and for people to just be happy.” She reached for the tissues again.