Piece of My Heart (26 page)

“There’s no evidence to suggest that Lord Jessop was gay,” said Banks. “Apparently he liked the ladies. For a while, at any rate.”

“What happened?”

“He became a heroin addict, though he functioned well enough for years. Many addicts do, if they can get a regular and reliable supply. But heroin doesn’t do a lot for your sex drive. In the end he got AIDS from an infected needle.”

“You’d think he could afford clean needles, wouldn’t you, him being a lord and all?”

“He was broke by then,” Banks said. “Apparently he was rather a tragic figure towards the end. He died alone. All his friends had deserted him, including his rock star pals. He’d spent his inheritance, sold off most of his land. Nobody wanted to buy Swainsview Lodge, and he had no heirs. He’d sold everything else he had.”

“Is that where he died, Swainsview?”

“Ironically enough, yes,” said Banks. “That place has a sad history.”

They both paused to take in the implications of that, then Annie said, “So they caused disorientation and tiredness, these mandies?”

“Yes. I mean, if Robin Merchant had been taking mandies and drinking, he could easily have lost his footing. I suppose when he hit his head on the bottom of the shallow end he’d already be feeling the effects of the drug and might have drowned. It’s like Jimi Hendrix, in a way, you know, choking on his own vomit because he had so much Vesperax in his system that he couldn’t wake up and stop it happening. Usually the body’s pretty good at self-preservation, gag reflexes and such, but certain drugs can inhibit or depress those functions.”

Across the room, a white ball cracked into a triangle of reds, breaking the frame and launching a new game. Someone started arguing loudly and drunkenly about the rules.

“So what happened to Mandrax?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know the exact details, but they took it off the market in the late seventies. People soon replaced it with Mogadon, which they called ‘moggies.’ Same sort of thing, but a tranquilizer, not a sedative, and probably not as harmful.”

Annie sipped some beer. “But someone
could
have pushed him, couldn’t they?”

“Of course they could. Even if we could find a motive, though, we might have a devil of a job proving it after all this time. And strictly speaking, it’s not our job.”

“It is if it’s linked to Nick Barber’s murder.”

“True enough. Anyway, I can’t see Vic Greaves being much help.”

“That really upset you, didn’t it, talking to him?”

“I suppose it did,” said Banks, toying with his beer mat. “I mean, it’s not as if he was one of my idols or anything, but just to see him in that state, to see that emptiness in his eyes up close.” Banks gave an involuntary shudder.

“Was it drugs? Was he really an acid casualty?”

“That’s what everyone said at the time. You know, there was even a kind of heroic stature about it. He was put on a pedestal for being mad. People thought there was something cool about it. He attracted a cult following, a lot of weirdos. They still hound him.” Banks shook his head. “What a time. The way they used to glorify tramps and call madmen visionaries.”

“You think there was something else to it?”

“I don’t know how much LSD he took. Probably buckets full of the stuff. I’ve heard he’s done a few stints in various psychiatric establishments over the years, along with group therapy and any other kinds of therapy that happened to be fashionable at the time, but as far as I know there’s still no offcial diagnosis. None of them seemed to know exactly what his problem was, let alone cure him. Acid casualty, psychotic, schizophrenic, paranoid schizophrenic. Take your pick. None of it really matters in the long run. He’s Vic Greaves and his head’s fucked. It must be hell inside there.”

Brian and Emilia were in the entertainment room watching
La Dolce Vita
on the plasma screen when Banks got home. They were on the sofa, Brian sitting up with his feet on the pouffe, his arm around Emilia, who leaned against him, head on his chest, face hidden by a cascade of hair. She was wearing what looked like one of Brian’s shirts. It wasn’t tucked in at the waist because she wasn’t wearing anything to tuck it into. They certainly looked as if they had made themselves at home during the couple of days they’d been around, and Banks
realized sadly that he had been so busy he had hardly seen them. A tantalizing smell drifted from the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, Dad,” said Brian, putting the DVD on pause. “Got your note. We were out walking around Relton way.”

“Not a very nice day for it, I’m afraid,” said Banks, flopping onto one of the armchairs.

“We got soaked,” said Emilia.

“It happens,” said Banks. “Hope it didn’t put you off?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Banks. It’s beautiful up here. I mean, even when it’s grey and rainy it’s got a sort of romantic, primitive beauty, hasn’t it? Like
Wuthering Heights
.”

“I suppose it has,” said Banks. He gestured towards the screen. “And call me Alan, please. Didn’t know you were Fellini fans. It’s one of your Uncle Roy’s. I’ve been trying to watch them all. Bergman. Truffaut. Chabrol. Kurosawa. I’m getting quite used to the subtitles now, but I still have a bit of trouble following what’s going on half the time.”

Brian laughed. “I heard someone talking about
La Dolce Vita
a while ago, how great it was, and there it was, right in front of me. Emmy here’s an actress.”

“I thought I’d seen you somewhere before,” Banks said. “You’ve done TV, right?”

Emilia blushed. “A little. I’ve had small parts in
Spooks, Hustle and Bad Girls
, and I’ve done quite a bit of theatre, too. No movies yet.” She stood up. “Please excuse me a moment.”

“Of course.”

“What’s that smell?” Banks asked Brian when she had left the room.

“Emilia’s making us dinner.”

“I thought we’d get take-away tonight.”

“This’ll be better, Dad, believe me. You took us out on Sunday. Emilia wants to repay you. She’s a gourmet cook. Leg
of lamb with garlic and rosemary. Potatoes dauphinoise.” He put his fingers to his lips and made a kissing sound. “Fantastic.”

“Well,” said Banks. “I’ve never been one to turn down a gourmet meal, but she doesn’t have to feel obliged.”

“She
likes
doing it.”

“Then I’d better open a nice bottle of wine.”

Banks walked to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Peter Lehmann Australian Shiraz, which he thought would go well with the lamb. When Emilia came in, she was wearing jeans, with the shirt tucked in at the waist and her long hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She smiled at him, cheeks glowing, and bent to open the oven. The smell was even stronger.

“Wonderful,” said Banks.

“It won’t be long now,” said Emilia. “The lamb and potatoes are almost done. I’m just going to make a salad. Pear and blue cheese. That’s okay, isn’t it? Brian said you like blue cheese.”

“It’s fine,” said Banks. “Sounds delicious, in fact. Thank you.”

Emilia flashed him a shy smile, and he guessed she was a little embarrassed because he’d caught her with her trousers down, so to speak.

Banks poured himself a glass of Shiraz, offered one to Emilia, who said she’d wait until later, then went back to sit with Brian, who had now turned off the DVD and was playing the first Mad Hatters CD, which Banks had bought at the HMV on Oxford Street, along with their second and third albums.

“What do you think of it?” he asked Brian.

“It must have been quite something in its time,” Brian said. “I like the guitar and keyboards mix they’ve got. That sounds quite original. Really spacey. It’s good. Especially for a debut. Better than I remember. I mean, I haven’t listened to them in years.”

“Me neither,” said Banks. “I met Vic Greaves today. At least, I think I did.”

“Vic Greaves? Jesus, Dad. He’s a legend. What was he like?”

“Strange. He spoke in non sequiturs. Referred to himself in the third person a lot.” Banks shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone says he took too much LSD.”

Brian seemed deep in thought for a few moments, then he said, “Acid casualties. Makes it sound like war, doesn’t it? But things like that happened. It’s not as if he was the only one.”

“I know that,” said Banks, finding himself starting to wonder about Brian. He was living the rock star life, too, as Vic Greaves had. What did he get up to? How much did he know about drugs?

“Dinner’s ready!” Emilia called out.

Banks and Brian got up and went into the kitchen, where Emilia had lit candles and presented the salad beautifully. They talked about Brian’s music and Emilia’s acting ambitions as they ate, a pleasant relief for Banks after his distressing encounter with Vic Greaves. This time, Banks actually got as far as dessert–raspberry brulée–before the phone rang. Cursing, he excused himself.

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Winsome here. Sorry to bother you, Guv, but it’s Jean Murray. You know, from the post office in Lyndgarth. She rang about five minutes ago about Vic Greaves. Said she was out walking her dog and heard all sorts of shenanigans up at the house. Lights going on and off, people shouting and running around and breaking things. I thought I should tell you.”

“You did right,” said Banks. “Did you send a car?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Don’t. Is there more than one person involved?”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“Thanks, Winsome,” said Banks. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He thanked Emilia for a wonderful dinner, made his apologies and left, saying he wasn’t sure how late he would be back. He didn’t think Brian minded too much, the way he was looking at Emilia and holding her hand in the candlelight.

12

Friday, September 19, 1969

D
etective Chief Superintendent McCullen called a meeting for Friday afternoon in the incident room at Brotherton House. The town-hall dome looked dark and forbidding against the iron grey sky, and only a few shoppers were walking up the Headrow towards Lewis’s and Schofield’s, struggling with their umbrellas. Chadwick was feeling a little better after a decent and nightmare-free sleep in his own bed, helped along considerably by the news that Leeds United beat SK Lyn Oslo 10–0 in the first round of the European Cup.

Photos were pinned to the boards at the front of the room–the victim, the scene–and those present sat in chairs at the various scattered desks. Occasionally a telephone rang and a telex machine clattered in the distance. Present were McCullen, Chadwick, Enderby, Bradley, Dr. O’Neill and Charlie Green, a civilian liaison from the forensic laboratory in Wetherby, along with a number of uniformed and plainclothes constables who had been involved in the Lofthouse case. McCullen hosted the proceedings, calling first on Dr. O’Neill to summarize the pathology findings, which he did most succinctly. Next came Charlie Green.

“I’ve been in meetings with our various departments this morning,” he said, “so I think I can give you a reasonable précis of what we’ve discovered so far. Which isn’t very much. Blood analysis determines that the victim’s blood is group A, a characteristic she shares with about 43 per cent of the population. As far as toxicology has been able to gather so far, there is no evidence to suggest the presence of illegal substances. I must inform you at this point, though, that we have no test for LSD, a fairly common drug among…well, the type of people we’re dealing with. It disappears from the system very quickly.

“As you all know, the areas around where the body was found, and where the victim was stabbed, have both been searched exhaustively by our search teams and by specially trained police dogs. They turned up a small amount of blood at the scene, some on the ground and more on some nearby leaves. The blood matches the victim’s group and we submit that the killer used the leaves to wipe her blood from his hands and perhaps from the murder weapon, a narrow, single-edged blade, the kind you often find on a flick knife. There are no footprints in the woods, and the footprints found near the sleeping bag were so muddled as to be useless.

“Upon examination, the sleeping bag yielded traces of the victim’s blood, along with hair and…er…bodily fluids that contain the respective blood types of Ian Tilbrook and June Betts, neither group A, by the way, who claimed the sleeping bag was stolen from them while they sought out a better viewing position on the field.”

“In all this, then,” said McCullen, “there are no traces of the killer? No blood? No hair?”

“We still have unidentified hairs, some taken from the tree trunk near which the girl was killed,” said Green. “As you know,
hair comparison is weak, to say the least, and it often doesn’t stand up in court.”

“But you do have hairs, and they might belong to the killer?”

“Yes. We also have some fibres, again some from the tree and some from the victim’s dress, but they’re common blue denim, which I’m sure just about everyone was wearing, and black cotton, which is also common. There’s a chance we might be able to make a match if we had the clothes, but I’m afraid these fibres aren’t going to lead us to anything you can’t get at Lewis’s or Marks and Spencer’s.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Just one more thing, really.”

McCullen raised his eyebrows. “Do tell.”

“We found stains on the back of the girl’s dress,” Green said, hardly able to stop the smile spreading across his large mouth. “They turned out to be semen, a secretor, type A blood, same as the victim. Hardly conclusive, of course, but certainly interesting.”

McCullen turned back to Dr. O’Neill. “Doctor,” he said, “do we have any evidence of recent sexual activity on the part of the girl?”

“As I said to DI Chadwick at the post-mortem, the victim was menstruating at the time she was killed. Now, that doesn’t rule out sexual activity, of course, but vaginal and anal swabs reveal absolutely no signs of it, and the tissue shows no signs of tearing or bruising.”

“Was she on the pill?” McCullen asked.

“We did find evidence of oral contraception, yes.”

“So perhaps,” Chadwick said, “our killer got his pleasure by ejaculating
on
the victim, not in her.”

“Or perhaps he couldn’t help himself, and it happened as he was stabbing her. Was there a great deal of semen, Mr. Green?”

“No,” said Green. “Minute traces. As much as might have seeped through a person’s underpants and jeans, say.”

“So what do we know about our killer in total, Mr. Green?” he asked.

“That he’s between five foot ten and six feet tall, left-handed, wore blue denim jeans and a black cotton shirt or T-shirt, he’s a secretor, and his blood type is A.”

“Thank you.” McCullen turned to Enderby. “I understand you’ve got something for us, sergeant?”

“It’s not much, sir,” said Enderby, “but DI Chadwick asked me to track down the girl who was doing the body painting backstage at Brimleigh. It seems there’s some question about the flower painted on the victim’s face, whether it was pre- or post-mortem.”

“And?”

“Robin Merchant, one of the members of the Mad Hatters, told DI Chadwick that he saw her with a painted flower on her face late that evening. Her friend Tania Hutchison can’t remember. Hayes was also uncertain. If she did have one, we were wondering if the killer did it for some reason.”

“Did he?”

“I’m afraid we still don’t know for certain. The body painter was a bit…well, not so much stupid as sort of lost in her own world. She couldn’t remember who she painted and who she didn’t. I showed her the victim’s photograph, and she thought she recognized her. Then I showed her the design, and she said it could have been one of hers, but she didn’t usually paint corn.”

“Wonderful,” said McCullen. “Do any of these people have the brains they were born with, I wonder?”

“I know, sir,” said Enderby, with a grin. “It’s very frustrating. Should I continue my inquiries?”

McCullen looked at Chadwick. “Stan? You’re in charge.”

“I’m not sure if it’s relevant at all,” Chadwick said. “I simply thought that the drawing of such a flower by the killer indicated a certain type of mentality.”

“A nutcase, you mean?” said McCullen.

“To put it bluntly, yes,” said Chadwick. “And while I’m not saying our killer didn’t do it, I’m beginning to think that if he did, it’s simply another clumsy attempt at sleight of hand, like moving the body.”

“Explain.”

Chadwick took Green’s place at the front by the boards. “Yesterday in London, with the permission of the local police at West End Central, I questioned Rick Hayes, the festival promoter. He’s lied to me on a couple of occasions, and when I confronted him with this, he admitted to knowing the victim previous to the festival. He denies any sexual involvement–and I must add that a couple of other people I have spoken with regard this as highly unlikely, too–but he did know her. He’s also the kind of man who asks just about every girl he meets to hop into bed with him, so I’m thinking there’s a chance that if he was attracted to Linda and she rejected him…well, I think you can see where I’m going.”

“What about his alibi?” McCullen asked.

“Shaky, to say the least. He was definitely onstage at one o’clock to introduce the last group. After that, who knows? He claims he was in the backstage enclosure paying people–I gather a lot of this sort of thing operates on a cash-in-hand basis, probably to avoid income tax–and seeing to various problems that came up. We can reinterview everyone who was there, but I don’t think that’ll get us anywhere. The point is that things were so chaotic back there when Led Zeppelin were
playing that Hayes could easily have followed Linda out of the compound, stayed away for long enough to kill her and get back without really being missed. Don’t forget, it was dark as well as noisy, and most people were at the front of the stage watching the band. The drugs they take also make them rather narcissistic and inward-looking. Not a very observant lot, by and large.”

“Have we enough to hold him?”

“I’m not sure,” said Chadwick. “With West End Central’s help we searched his Soho office and his flat in Kensington and turned up nothing.”

“Is he left-handed?”

“Yes.”

“The right height?”

“Five foot eleven.”

“So it’s all circumstantial?”

“We’ve had worse cases, but there’s nothing to directly link him to the murder, without the weapon, except that he knew the victim, he fancied her, he had a bit of a temper, he’s left-handed and his alibi’s weak. He’s not a nutcase, so if he did paint the flower on her cheek, he did so to make us
think
it was the work of a nutcase.”

“I see your point,” said McCullen. “He still sounds like the best bet we’ve got so far. He could have ditched the knife anywhere. Talk to the kid who found the body again, ask him at what point Hayes turned up and what sort of state he was in. And organize another search of the woods.”

“Yes, sir,” said Chadwick. “What do we do about him in the meantime?”

“We’ve got enough to hold him, haven’t we. Let’s bring him back up here and treat him to a bit of Yorkshire hospitality.
Arrange it with West End Central. I’m sure there must be someone down there looking for a chance to come up and watch tomorrow’s game.”

“Which game would that be, sir?”

McCullen looked at him as if were mad and said, “Which game? There is only one game, as far as I know.”

Chadwick knew he meant the Yorkshire Challenge Cup at Headingley, knew McCullen was a rugby man, so he was teasing. The others knew it, too, and they were grinning behind cupped hands.

“Sorry, sir,” said Chadwick. “I thought you meant Leeds and Chelsea.”

McCullen grunted. “Football?” he said with scorn. “Nothing but a bunch of sissies. Now enough of your cheek and get on with it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Chadwick.

The end cottage was quiet when Banks walked up to the door at around nine o’clock. He had called on Jean and Susan Murray, who shared the flat above the post office, just to let them know that he was there and they weren’t to worry. Jean Murray’s account of events in person was no more coherent than what Winsome had repeated on the phone. Noise. Lights. Things breaking. A domestic tiff, Banks would have guessed, except that he was certain Vic Greaves had been alone when he left, and he wasn’t in any kind of shape to argue coherently with anyone. Banks had also considered calling in Annie, but there was no point dragging her in all the way from Harkside for what might turn out to be nothing.

He had parked his car by the green again, next to a silver Merc, because it wouldn’t fit up the lane. He looked at the Merc again and remembered it was the same one he had seen when
he left Lyndgarth in the late afternoon. Wind thrashed the bare branches in the streetlights, casting eerie shadows over the cottage and the road. The air smelled of rain that hadn’t started falling yet.

The front curtains were closed, but Banks could see a faint light shining inside. He walked down the path and knocked on the door. This time, it was answered quickly. The man who stood there, framed by the light, had a red complexion, and his thinning grey hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which gave the effect of his having a bulbous, belligerent face, as if Banks were seeing it through a fish-eye lens. He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans.

“What the fuck do you want?” he said. “Are you the bastard who came round earlier upsetting Vic? Can’t you sick bastards just leave him alone? Can’t you see he’s ill?”

“He did look rather ill to me,” said Banks, reaching inside his pocket for his warrant card. He handed it over, and the man examined it before passing it back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, running his hand over the top of his head. “Excuse me. Come in. I’m just used to being so protective. Vic’s in a hell of a state.”

Banks followed him in. “You’re right, though,” he said. “It was me who was here earlier, and he did get upset. I’m sorry if I’m to blame.”

“You weren’t to know.”

“Who are you, by the way?”

The man stuck out his hand. “Name’s Chris. Chris Adams.”

Banks shook. Adams had a firm grasp, although his palm was slightly sweaty.

“The Mad Hatters’ manager?”

“For my sins. You understand the situation, then? Sit down, sit down.”

Banks sat on a cracked vinyl armchair of some indeterminate yellow-brown colour. Adams sat at an angle to him. All around them were stacks of papers and magazines. The room was dimly lit by two table lamps, with pink and green shades. There didn’t seem to be any heat, and it was chilly in the cottage. Banks kept his coat on. “I wouldn’t say I understand the situation,” he said. “I know Vic Greaves is living here, and that’s just about all I know.”

“He’s resting at the moment. Don’t worry, he’ll be okay,” said Adams.

“You take care of him?”

“I try to drop by as often as I can when I’m not away in London or L.A. I live just outside Newcastle, near Alnwick, so it’s not too long a journey.”