He sat down at the window, which looked out over the harbour to the old part of town, with its 199 steps leading up to the ruined abbey and St. Mary’s Church, where the salt wind had robbed the tombstones of their names. A group of young goths, all black clothes, white faces and intricate silver jewellery, walked by the sheds where the fishermen unloaded their boats and sold their catch.
From what Banks had read about them, and the music he had heard, they seemed obsessed with death and suicide, as well as with the undead and the “dark side” in general, but they
were passive and pacifist and concerned with social matters, such as racism and war. Banks liked Joy Division, and he had heard them described as the archetypal goth band. On balance, he thought, goths were no weirder than the hippies had been, with their fascination with the occult, poetry and drug-induced enlightenment.
1969 was a period of great transition for Banks. After leaving school with a couple of decent A levels, he was living in a bedsit in Notting Hill and taking a course in business studies in London. He hadn’t felt much in common with his fellow students, though, so he had tended to fall in with a crowd from the art college, two of whom lived together in the same building as him, and they formed his real introduction, rather late in the day, to that strange blend of existentialism, communalism, hedonism and narcissism that was his take on late-sixties culture. They shared joints with him and Jem from across the hall, went to concerts and poetry readings, discussed squatters’ rights, Vietnam and
Oz
and played “Alice’s Restaurant” over and over again.
Banks had no idea what to do with his life. His parents had made it clear that they wanted him to have a crack at a white-collar career, rather than ending up in the brick factory, or the sheet-metal factory like his father, so business studies seemed like a logical step. And he did so much need to escape the stifling provinciality of Peterborough.
He loved the music and had hitchhiked with his first real girlfriend, Kay Summerville, to the Blind Faith concert in Hyde Park the summer of that year, when he was still living at home in Peterborough, and to the Rolling Stones concert in memory of Brian Jones, at which Mick Jagger freed all the caged butterflies that hadn’t already died from the heat. He
also remembered Dylan at the Isle of Wight, coming on late and singing “She Belongs to Me” and “To Ramona,” two of Banks’s favourites.
But in Peterborough, he had been fairly isolated from the trendy fashions, causes and ideologies of the times, embarrassingly ignorant of what was really happening out there. For all the hyped-up change and revolution of the decade, it was a salutary lesson to bear in mind that “Strawberry Fields Forever” was kept from reaching number one by Engelbert Humperdinck’s “Release Me,” and growing up in Peterborough, you could easily see why.
That first college year, he remembered following with horror the saga of the Manson “family,” eventually arrested for the murders of Sharon Tate, Leno LaBianca and others. It had all passed into the history books now, of course, but then, as the story unfolded day by day in the newspapers and on television, and as the real horrors came to light, it had a powerful impact, not least because the Manson family seemed a bit like hippies and quoted the Beatles and revolutionary slogans. And then there were the girls, Manson’s “love slaves,” with strange names like Patricia Krenwinkel, “Squeaky” Fromme and Leslie Van Houten. The way they dressed and wore their hair, they might have been living in Notting Hill. The famous photo of the bearded, staring Manson had given Banks almost as many nightmares as the one of Christine Keeler sitting naked on a chair had prompted wet dreams.
Altamont had taken place in late 1969, too, he remembered, where someone was stabbed by a Hell’s Angel during the Stones’ performance. There were other things he vaguely remembered–the police charging a house in Piccadilly to evict squatters, rioting in Northern Ireland, stories of women
and children murdered by American troops in My Lai, violent anti-war protests, four students shot by the National Guard at Kent State.
Maybe it was hindsight, but things seemed to be taking a turn for the worse back then, falling apart, or perhaps that had been happening for a while, and he had only just noticed because he was there, in the thick of it. He probably wouldn’t have noticed the change in political climate if he’d stayed in Peterborough. Perhaps the business career would have worked out if he hadn’t got caught up in the tail end of the sixties in Notting Hill. As it was, by the end of his first year, he had lost all interest in cost accounting, industrial psychology and mercantile law.
But he had no memory of hearing about the murder of a girl at a festival in Yorkshire. Back then, the provinces, especially in the north, were of little interest to those at the centre of things, and local police forces worked far more independently of one another than they did today. He wondered if Enderby was right about Linda Lofthouse’s murder being the one Nick Barber had referred to. He had been so certain it was Robin Merchant, and he still wasn’t ruling that possibility out. But the news about Linda Lofthouse brought a whole new complexion to things, even if her murder had been solved. Was the killer still in jail? If not, could he somehow be involved in Nick Barber’s death? The more Banks thought about it, no matter what Catherine Gervaise said, the more he thought he was right, and that Barber had died for digging up the past, which someone wanted to remain buried.
Banks noticed a few clouds drift in from the east as he ate his haddock and chips, and by the time he had finished, it was starting to drizzle. He paid, left a small tip and headed for his
car. Before he set off, he phoned Ken Blackstone in Leeds and asked him to find out what he could about Stanley Chadwick and the Linda Lofthouse investigation.
Sunday, September 21, 1969
Steve answered the door late that Sunday afternoon, and when he saw Yvonne standing there, he turned away and walked down the hall. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he said. “You’ve got a bloody nerve showing up here.”
Yvonne followed him into the living room. “But, Steve, it wasn’t my fault. It was McGarrity. He tried to force himself on me. He’s dangerous. You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know what to do.”
Steve turned to face her. “So you went straight to daddy.”
“I was upset. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You never told me your father was a pig.”
“You never asked. Besides, what does it matter?”
“What does it matter? He violated our space. Him and the others. We got busted. That’s what matters. Now we’re going to have to go to court tomorrow morning. I’ll get a fine at least. And if my parents find out, I’m fucked. They’ll stop my allowance. That’s all down to you.”
“But it wasn’t my fault, Steve. I’m sorry, really I am. I didn’t know they were going to bust you.” Yvonne moved towards him and reached out to touch him.
He jerked away and sat down in the armchair. “Oh, come off it. You must have known damn well we’d be sitting around here smoking a few joints and listening to music. It’s not as if you haven’t done it with us often enough.”
Yvonne knelt at his feet. “But I never sent them here. Honestly. I thought they would just arrest McGarrity, that’s all. You know I’d never do anything to get you in trouble.”
“Then you’re more stupid than I thought you were. Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t want you coming around here anymore. Whether you wanted to or not, you’ve brought nothing but trouble. Who knows who might follow you?”
Yvonne’s heart pounded in her chest. She still had one card to play. “McGarrity told me you’ve been seeing someone else.”
Steve laughed. “If only you could hear yourself.”
“Is it true?”
“What if I have?”
“I thought we…I mean…I didn’t…”
“Oh, Yvonne, for God’s sake, grow up. You sound like such a child sometimes. We can both see whoever we want. I thought that was clear from the start.”
“But I don’t want to see anyone else. I want to see you.”
“What you’re really saying is that you don’t want me to see anyone else. You can’t own someone, Yvonne. You can’t control their affections.”
“But it’s true.”
Steve turned away. “Well, I don’t want to see you. That’s just not on anymore.”
“But–”
“I mean it. And you won’t be welcome at Bayswater Terrace or Carberry Place, either. They got raided as well, in case you didn’t know. People got busted, and they’re not happy with you. Word gets around, you know. It’s still a small scene.”
“So what should I have done? Tell me what I should have done.”
“You shouldn’t have done anything. You should have kept your stupid mouth shut. You should have known bringing the pigs in would only mean trouble for us.”
“But he’s my
father
. I had to tell someone. I was so upset, Steve, I was shaking like a leaf. McGarrity…”
“I’ve told you before he’s harmless.”
“That’s not the way he seemed to me.”
“You were stoned, the way I hear it. Maybe your imagination was running away with you. Maybe you even wanted him to touch you. Maybe you should run away with your imagination instead.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Steve sighed. “I can’t trust you anymore, Yvonne.
We
can’t trust you anymore.”
“But I love you, Steve.”
“No you don’t. Don’t be stupid. That’s not real love you’re talking about, that’s just romantic schoolgirl crap. It’s possessive love, all jealousy and control, all the negative emotions. You’re not mature enough to know what real love is.”
Yvonne flinched at his words. She felt herself turn cold all over, as if she had been hit by a bucket of water. “And you are?”
He stood up. “This is a fucking waste of time. Look, I’m not arguing with you anymore. Why don’t you just go? And don’t come back.”
“But, Steve–”
Steve pointed to the door and raised his voice. “Just go. And don’t send your father and his piggy friends around here again or you might find yourself in serious trouble.”
Yvonne got slowly to her feet. She had never known Steve to look or sound so cruel. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Never mind. Just fuck off.”
Yvonne looked at him. He was bristling with anger. There was clearly going to be no more talking to him. Not this afternoon, maybe not ever. Feeling the tears start to burn down her cheeks, she turned away from him abruptly and left.
“It’s not so much what he said or did, Guv,” said Winsome, “it was the pleasure he took in doing it.”
Annie nodded. She was treating Winsome to an after-work drink in the Black Lion, off an alley behind the market square, away from the prying eyes and ears of Western Area Headquarters. Winsome was visibly upset, and Annie wanted to get to the bottom of it. “Kev can be insensitive at times,” she said.
“
Insensitive?
” Winsome took a gulp of her vodka and tonic. “
Insensitive?
It was more like bloody sadistic. I’m sorry, Guv, but I’m still shaking. See?”
She stuck her hand out. Annie could see it was trembling slightly. “Calm down,” she said. “Another drink? You’re not driving, are you?”
“No. I can walk home from here. I’ll have the same again, thanks.”
Annie went to the bar and got the drinks. There was nobody else in the place except the barmaid and a couple of her friends at the far end. One of them was playing the machines, and the other was sitting down watching over two toddlers, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other. Every time one of the little boys started to cry or make any sort of noise, she told him to shut up. Time after time. Cry. Shut up. Cry. Shut up. There was a tape of old music playing loudly–“House of the Rising Sun,” “The Young Ones,” “Say a Little Prayer for Me,” “I Remember You”–the sort of stuff Banks would remember, competing with the TV blaring out
Murder She Wrote
on one of the Sky channels. But the noise certainly drowned out anything Annie and Winsome were talking about.
Annie was going to get a Britvic orange for herself, as she had to get back to Harkside, but she was still furious after her session with Superintendent Gervaise, feeling far from calm,
and she needed another bloody stiff drink herself, so she ordered a large vodka with her orange juice. If she had too much, she’d leave the car and get one of the PCs to drive her home, or get a taxi if the worst came to the worst. It couldn’t cost all that much. She had been thinking of moving to Eastvale recently, as it would be convenient for the job, but house prices there had gone through the roof, and she didn’t want to give up her little cottage, even though it was now worth nearly twice what she had paid for it.
Winsome thanked Annie for the drink. “That poor girl,” she said.
“Look, Winsome, I know how you feel. I feel just as bad. I’m sure Kelly thinks I’m the one who betrayed her trust. But DS Templeton was only doing his job. Superintendent Gervaise had asked him to check the girl’s story against her father’s, and that was the way he did it. It might seem harsh to you, but it worked, didn’t it?”
“I can’t believe you’re defending them,” Winsome said. She took a gulp of vodka, then put the drink down on the table. “You weren’t there or you’d know what I’m talking about. No. I’m not working with him again. You can transfer me. Do what you want. But I won’t work with that bastard again.” She folded her arms.
Annie sipped her drink and sighed. She had been foreseeing problems ever since Kevin Templeton got his promotion. He had passed his sergeant’s boards ages ago, but he didn’t want to go back to uniform and he didn’t want to transfer, so it took a while for this opportunity to come up. Then he nipped a possible serial killer’s career in the bud and became the golden boy. Annie had always found him just a bit too full of himself, and she worried what a little power might do to his already skewed personality. And if he thought she didn’t notice
the way he had practically drooled down the front of her blouse the other day, then he was seriously deluding himself. The thing was, he got the job done, as he had done now. Banks did, too, but he managed to do it without treading on everyone’s toes–only the brass’s, usually–but Templeton was one of the new breed; he didn’t care. And here was Annie defending him when she knew damn well that Winsome, who had also passed her boards with flying colours and didn’t want to leave Eastvale, would have been a much better person for the job. Where is positive discrimination when you really need it? she wondered. Obviously not in Yorkshire.