Wednesday's Child (25 page)

And a fat lot of good it's done, thought Gristhorpe, feeling himself being manipulated into the position of doing exactly that. The woman might know something, after all, and he couldn't dismiss that possibility, even if it meant playing her game. “All right,” he sighed. “Did you get any impressions about where she is?”

Lenora shook her head.

“Any images, sounds, smells?”

“Nothing like that. Just an overwhelming emotional sense of her presence somewhere. Alive. And her fear.”

“Near or far?”

“I can't say.”

Gristhorpe scratched his chin. “Not much to go on, is it?”

“I can't help that. I'm merely a medium for the messages. Do you want to consult me professionally? Do you want me to try and help you?”

Gristhorpe noticed the smile of triumph. “Ms Carlyle,” he shot back, “if you
fail
to help us, I'll make sure you're thrown in jail. Do you know Melville Westman?”

It was only fleeting, but he saw it, a split-second sign of recognition. It was second nature for him to notice the signs, the body language, the way eye-contact broke off. He could see her trying to decide how much to admit. “Well?” he prodded.

“The name sounds vaguely familiar,” she said with a toss of her head. “I might have come across him.”

“Let me fill you in. Melville Westman calls himself a magician. There have been incidents in the past few years of such groups using children in their rituals. Now, I don't know what you're up to, but if you and Westman have any involvement in Gemma's disappearance, direct or indirect, I'll find out about it.”

“This is ridiculous!” Lenora said. “I've had enough of your accusations and insinuations.” She tried to push the chair back to get to her feet, but forgot it was bolted to the floor and she got stuck, half-standing, between it and the table.

“Sit down.” Gristhorpe waved his hand. “I haven't finished yet. What's your connection with Westman?”

She sat down, chewed on her lower lip for a moment, and answered, “I know him, that's all. We're acquaintances.”

“Met at the magician's circle, did you?”

“You don't have to be sarcastic. It's a small community for anyone interested in the occult. We've had discussions, loaned one another books, that's all.”

“I'm asking you if Westman has told you anything about Gemma Scupham's whereabouts. Are you some kind of messenger, some salve to the conscience come to spare the mother a little pain until you've finished with the child? Or are you just tormenting her?”

“Don't be absurd. What would Melville want with the child?” “You tell me.”

“He wouldn't. He's not that kind.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that performs elaborate rituals, sacrifices animals and …”

“Children?”

“Look, I'm not denying there are lunatic fringes around, but Melville Westman doesn't belong to one.”

“Is there anyone in the area you would associate with a lunatic fringe?”

“No.”

“Ever heard of the Manleys? Chris and Connie. Or Miss Peterson and Mr Brown?”

“No.”

“Did Melville Westman send you?”

“No, he bloody well didn't. I came forward to help the mother of my own free will,” Lenora said through clenched teeth. “And this is how you treat me. I thought the police would—”

“You know nothing about the way we work, or you'd hardly have had Brenda Scupham shooting her mouth off on television.”

“That wasn't my doing.”

“It doesn't matter whose doing it was. It happened. And if that child
is
dead, I want you to think of how much harm you've done her mother.”

Lenora put her fist to her heart. “The child is alive, Superintendent. I'm convinced of it.”

For a moment, Gristhorpe was taken aback by the passion in her voice. After everything he had accused her of, she was still clinging to her original story. He let the silence stretch for a while longer, holding her intense gaze. He could feel something pass across the air between them. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, a tingling sensation, the hackles on his neck rising, and he certainly had no idea whether or not she was right about Gemma. He did know, though, that she was telling the truth as far as she knew it. The damn woman was genuine in her beliefs. He could see, now, how Brenda Scupham had been convinced.

“I want you to know,” he said slowly, “that I'll check and double-check on everything you've told me.” Then he broke off the staring match and looked towards the bare wall. “Now get out. Go on, get out before I change my mind.” And he didn't even turn to watch her go. He knew exactly the kind of smile he would see on her face.

IV

Armley Jail was built in 1847 by Perkin and Backhouse. Standing on a low hill to the west of the city centre, it looks like a structure from the Middle Ages, with its keep and battlements all in dark, solid stone—especially in the iron-grey sky and the rain that swept across the scene. Eastvale Castle seemed welcoming in comparison, Susan thought. Even the modern addition to the prison couldn't
quite overcome the sense of dank medieval dungeons she felt as she approached the gates. The architects could hardly have come up with a place more likely to terrify the criminals and reassure the good citizens, she thought, giving a shiver as she got out of the car and felt the rain sting her cheek.

She showed her warrant card, and at four-thirty on that dreary September afternoon, the prison gates admitted her, and a uniformed attendant led her to a small office in the administrative block to meet Gerald Mackenzie. She had found herself wondering on her way what kind of person felt drawn to prison work. It must be a strange world, she thought, locked in with the malcontents. Like the police, the prison service probably attracted its share of bullies, but it also had an appeal, she guessed, for the reformers, for people who believed in rehabilitation. For many, perhaps, it was just a job, a source of income to pay the mortgage and help feed the wife and kids.

Mackenzie turned out to be a surprisingly young man with thin brown hair, matching suit, a crisp white shirt and what she took to be a regimental or club tie of some kind. The black-framed glasses he wore gave him the look of a middle-management man. He was polite, offered coffee, and seemed happy enough to give her the time and information she wanted.

“From what I can remember,” he said, placing a finger at the corner of his small mouth, “Johnson was a fairly unassuming sort of fellow. Never caused any trouble. Never drew attention to himself.” He shook his head. “In fact, I find it very hard to believe he ended up the way he did. Unless he was the victim of some random crime?”

“We don't think so,” Susan said. “How did he spend his time?”

“He was a keen gardener, I remember. Never went in much for the more intellectual pursuits or the team games.”

“Was he much of a socializer in any way?”

“No. As I said, I got the impression he kept very much to himself. I must confess, it's hard to keep abreast of everyone we have in here—unless they're troublemakers of course. The well-behaved ones you tend to leave to themselves. It's like teaching, I suppose. I've done a bit of that, you know. You spend most of your energy on the difficult students and leave the good ones to fend for
themselves. I mean, there's always far more to say about a wrong answer than a right one, isn't there?”

“I suppose so,” said Susan. The memory of an essay she wrote at police college came to mind. When the professor had handed it back to her, it had been covered in red ink. “So Johnson was an exemplary prisoner?”

“Inmate. Well, yes. Yes, he was.”

“And you don't know a lot more about him, his routine, his contacts here?”

“No. I don't actually spend much time on the shop floor, so to speak. Administration, paperwork … it all seems to take up so much time these days. But look, I'll see if I can get Ollie Watson to come in. He worked Johnson's wing.”

“Would you?”

“No trouble.”

Mackenzie ducked out of the office for a moment and Susan examined a framed picture of a pretty dark-skinned woman, Indian perhaps, with three small children. Mackenzie's family, she assumed, judging by the way the children shared both his and the woman's features a certain slant to the nose here, a dimple there.

A few minutes later, Mackenzie returned with Ollie Watson. As soon as she saw the fat, uniformed man with the small black moustache, Susan wondered if the “Ollie” was a nickname because the man looked so much like Oliver Hardy. He pulled at the creases of his pants and sat down on a chair, which creaked under him.

“Mr Watson,” Susan said after the introductions, “Mr Mackenzie tells me you're in the best position to give me some information about Carl Johnson's time in here.”

Watson nodded. “Yes ma'm.” He shifted in his seat. It creaked again. “No trouble, Carl wasn't. But you never felt you ever got to
know
him, like you do with some. Never seemed much interested in anything, 'cept the garden, I suppose.”

“Did he have friends?”

“Not close ones, no. He didn't mix much. And people left him alone. Not because they were scared of him or anything. Just … there was something remote about him. It was as if they hardly even noticed him most of the time.”

“What about his cell-mates? Did he share?”

“Most of the time, yes.” He smiled. “As you probably know, it sgets a bit overcrowded in here. Must be because you lot are doing such a good job.”

Susan laughed. “Us or the courts. Was there anyone in particular?”

“Let me see …” Watson held out his hand and counted them off on his fingers. “There was Addison, that's one. Basically harmless, I'd say. Business fraud. Then there was Rodgers. No real problems there, either. Just possession …”

“Johnson was brutally murdered,” Susan butted in on Watson's leisurely thought process. “Did he meet anyone you think capable of doing that?”

“Good lord, no. Not in here,” said Watson, as if prison were the last place on earth where one would expect to find real evil-doers. “He was never in with any of the really hard, serious lags. We keep them separate as best we can.”

“But someone could have involved him in a criminal scheme, something that went wrong? Drugs, perhaps?”

“I suppose it's possible. But Rodgers was only in for possession of marijuana. He wasn't a dealer.”

“What about the business fraud?”

“Like I said, he was harmless enough. Just the old purchasing scam.”

Susan nodded. She had come across that before. A purchasing officer for a large company simply rents some office space, a phone and headed stationery, then he “supplies” his company with goods or services that don't exist and pockets the payment. He has to be careful to charge only small amounts, so the purchase orders don't have to go to higher management for signing. If it can be worked carefully and slowly over a number of years, the purchasing scam can prove extremely lucrative, but most practitioners get greedy and make mistakes.

“Could he have got Johnson involved in something more ambitious? After all, Johnson was a bit of a con-man himself.”

Watson shook his head. “Prison took the life out of Addison. It does that to some people. You're on the job long enough you get to
recognize the signs, who'll be back and who won't. Addison won't. He'll be straight as a die from now on. He was just a mild-mannered clerk fancied a crack at the high life.”

Susan nodded, but she had already noted Addison's name in her book. “What about the others?”

“Aye.” Watson lifted his hand again. “Who did we say … Addison, then the possession fellow, Rodgers. Then there was Poole. I wouldn't worry about him, either.”

“Poole?” said Susan, suddenly alert. “What was his first name?”

“Leslie. But everyone called him Les. Funny-looking bloke, too.

One of those old-fashioned Elvis Presley haircuts.” Watson laughed. “Until the prison barber got to him, that is. From what he said, though, the women seemed—”

But Susan was no longer listening. She couldn't help but feel a sudden surge of joy. She had one-upped Richmond. With all his courses, caches and megabytes, he hadn't discovered what she had by sheer old-fashioned legwork. He was working on the Gemma Scupham case, of course, not the Johnson murder, but still …

“Sorry for interrupting,” she apologized to Watson, then looked at Mackenzie. “May I use your phone, sir?”

TEN

I

In the evening beyond the venetian blinds in Banks's office, puddles gleamed between the cobbles, and water dripped from the crossbars of lamp-posts, from eaves and awnings. Muted light glowed behind the red and amber windows of the Queen's Arms, and he could hear the buzz of laughter and conversation from inside. The square itself was quiet except for the occasional click of high-heels on cobbles as someone walked home from work late or went out on a date. An occasional gust of cool evening air wafted through his partly open window, bringing with it that peculiar fresh and sharp after-the-rain smell. It made him think of an old John Coltrane tune that captured in music just such a sense of an evening after rain. He could make out the gold hands against the blue face of the church clock: almost eight. He lit a cigarette. The gaslights around the square—an affectation for tourists—came on, dim at first, then brighter, reflecting in twisted sheets of incandescent light among the puddles. It was the time of day Banks loved most, not being much of a morning-person, but his epiphany was interrupted by a knock at the office door, shortly followed by PC Tolliver and DC Susan Gay leading in an agitated Les Poole.

“Found him at the Crown and Anchor, sir,” explained Tolliver. “Sorry it took so long. It's not one of his usual haunts.”