The driver turned, crossed a picturesque bridge, then continued along one of the canals. Finally, after a few more turns, he pulled up in front of the hotel on Keizersgracht. Banks paid what seemed like an exorbitant amount of guilders for such a short trip, then hefted his holdall out of the boot.
He looked up at the unbroken row of buildings in front of him. The hotel was small and narrow, about six floors high, with a yellow sandstone façade and a gabled roof. It was wedged in a long terrace of uneven seventeenth- and eighteenth-century buildings that had once, Banks guessed, probably been merchants’ houses. Some were built of red brick, some of stone; some had been painted black or grey; some had gables, some had flat roofs. All of them seemed to have plenty of windows.
Banks dodged a couple of cyclists and walked into the hotel lobby. The man at the desk spoke good English. Banks remembered from his previous trip that most people spoke good English in Amsterdam. They had to do. After all, how many English people bothered to learn Dutch?
Yes, the man said, his room was ready, and he was delighted to be able to offer a canal view. Breakfast would be served in the ground-floor lounge between seven o’clock and nine. He was sorry that the hotel had no bar of its own, but there were plenty of fine establishments within a short walking distance. He hoped Mr Banks would be comfortable.
When Banks pulled out his credit card, the clerk waved it away, telling him the room was fully paid for until Monday morning. Banks tried to discover who had paid for it, but the clerk became extremely coy, and his English went downhill fast. Banks gave up.
Then the clerk handed him a message: a single sheet of paper bearing a typed message that read “De Kuyper’s: 16:00hr.”
Banks asked what “De Kuyper’s” meant and was told it was a “brown café”—a sort of Dutch local pub—about a hundred metres to his left along the canal. It was on a quiet street corner and would probably have a few tables outside. A very nice place. He couldn’t miss it.
The room was a gabled attic up five flights of narrow stairs. When Banks got there, he was panting and beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead.
Though there was hardly room to swing a dead cat, and the bed was tiny, the room was clean, with black timber beams and pale blue wallpaper. It smelled pleasantly of lemon air-freshener. A blue ashtray stood on the bedside table, beside the reading light and telephone. There was also a small television set and
en suite
facilities.
The canal view more than made up for any inadequacies. Banks particularly liked the way the ceiling and the black-painted beams sloped down towards the gabled window, drawing the eye to its perspective. And sure enough, he looked down on Keizersgracht and the tall, elegant façades of the buildings opposite. If anything, the room was a little too warm and stuffy, so he opened the window, letting in hints of distant street sounds. He looked at his
watch. Just after two. Plenty of time for a shower and a nap before the mystery meeting. But first, he headed for the telephone. There was always a chance that Sandra had changed her mind.
II
Susan Gay was worried about Banks. Kicking her heels back in her office with black coffee and a so-very-sinful KitKat, she thought about the brief, puzzling phone call. What the hell did he think he was doing, taking a few days off in the middle of a major investigation? Just when they were getting close to tracking down Mark Wood. All right, so it was the weekend. Or almost. But didn’t he know that Jimmy Riddle would go spare if he found out? Even Superintendent Gristhorpe would be annoyed.
There had to be more to it. The way he had sounded on the phone bothered her. Abrupt. Distracted. Not like him at all.
Was it the Amsterdam thing? Is that what had him so worried? Was there some danger involved, or something illegal? Banks didn’t often act outside the law, not like some coppers Susan had known, but he did sometimes—they all did—if he felt there was no other way. Was he up to something?
Well, she concluded, she didn’t know, and there was probably no way of finding out until he got back and revealed all, if he did. Until then, the best thing to do was get on with her work and stop behaving like a mother hen.
She hadn’t had a lot of luck so far tracking down Mark Wood. It would take her forever to check out all the listings in the telephone directory. Even then, he might not live in the Leeds area, or have a telephone. Sergeant Hatchley was in Leeds today with one of his old cronies from Millgarth, visiting the properties Motcombe owned. Maybe they would turn up something, but she doubted it.
She was just about to pick up the phone and start dialling down her list when it rang.
“Is that DC Gay?” the voice said. “Susan?”
“Yes.” She didn’t know who it was.
“It’s Vic here, Vic Manson, from Fingerprints.”
“Ah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice for a moment. How’s it going?”
“I was trying to call Alan, but apparently he’s not in his office and all I could get at home was his answering machine. Do you know where he is?”
“I’m afraid he won’t be in at all today.”
“Not ill, I trust?”
“Can I help, Vic?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Do you know much about fingerprints?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid. Have you got some news?”
“Well, yes, in a way. Though it’s not very good. Not as good as I’d hoped for.”
“I’m listening.”
“Right. Well, when I talked to Alan earlier in the week I was testing the glass from the broken bottle found near Jason Fox’s body.”
“I remember,” Susan said. “He said something about spraying it with SuperGlue in an aquarium.”
Manson laughed. “Yes. Cyanoacrylate fuming, as a matter of fact.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Yes … well, I’m sorry, but it didn’t work. We found nothing on the glass. Probably because of the rain.”
“And that’s it?”
“Not entirely. Do you know anything at all about ninhydrin?”
“Isn’t it a chemical for getting prints from paper?”
“Sort of, yes. What ninhydrin does is it makes visible the amino acids you deposit with sweaty fingers, especially on paper.”
“I see. But I thought we were concerned with
glass
here, Vic, not paper?”
“Ah, yes,” said Manson. “We were. That is until it got us nowhere. But I found a couple of fragments of glass that were also covered by part of the
label
and, luckily, two of them were
under
the body, label side up, but not touching the victim’s clothing, quite protected from the rain. Amino acids are water soluble, you see. Anyway, I don’t want to get too technical about it, but it took a long time, and I destroyed one fragment completely, but after I
brought a smudge or two out with ninhydrin treatment, I was able to get much better ridge detail under laser light.”
“You got a fingerprint?”
“Now, hold on. Wait a minute,” said Manson. “I told you from the start it’s not a major breakthrough. What I got was a partial fingerprint.
Very
partial. Even with computer enhancement I couldn’t do a hell of a lot more with it. And, remember, any number of people could have handled that bottle. The cellarman, the landlord, the bartender. Anyone.”
“So you’re saying it’s worthless?”
“Not completely. Oh, it certainly wouldn’t stand up in a court of law. Not enough points of comparison. I mean, it could almost be mine, at a pinch. Well, I exaggerate, but you see what I mean.”
“Yes,” said Susan, disappointed. She began to feel impatient. “Has this got us anywhere at all?”
“Well,” Manson went on, “I ran it through the new computerized matching system and I got a list of possibles. I confined the search to Yorkshire and, of course, it only applies to people whose prints we have on file.”
“And the print could belong to any person on the list?”
“Technically, yes. At least, as far as court evidence is concerned. I’m sorry. I can send it over, anyway, if you’d like?”
“Just a minute,” said Susan, feeling her pulse quicken a little. “Do you have it in front of you? The list?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s try a hunch. Could you check for a name?”
“Of course.”
“Try
Wood
. Mark Wood.”
It was worth a try. Susan could hear her heart beating fast in the silence that followed. Finally, after what seemed like a millennium, Manson said, “Yes. Yes, there is a Mark Wood. I don’t have all the details here, of course, but West Yorkshire have probably got a file on him.”
“West Yorkshire?”
“Yes. That’s where he lives. Castleford area. If he’s still at the same address, that is.”
“You’ve got the address?”
“Yes.” He read it out to her.
“And let me guess,” Susan said. “He was convicted for football hooliganism or some sort of racial incident?”
“Er … no, actually,” said Manson.
“What then?”
“Drugs.”
“Drugs?” Susan repeated. “Interesting. Thanks a lot, Vic.”
“No problem. And tell Alan I called, will you?”
Susan smiled. “Will do.”
Although Vic Manson said the evidence wouldn’t stand up in court, that didn’t matter to Susan at the moment. The link between the partial print on the beer bottle and Jason Fox’s Web page design partner was just too strong to be coincidence.
At first, Susan had thought the other lad must have either run away or left Jason
before
the attack. Now, though, the picture looked very different indeed. Maybe they couldn’t convict Mark Wood on the basis of the fingerprint, but they could try for a confession, or some sort of physical evidence. For a start, the people in The Jubilee should be able to identify him.
But first, Susan thought, reaching for her jacket and her mobile, they would have to find him. Already she was feeling tremors of excitement, the thrill of the chase, and she was damned if she was going to be stuck by herself in Eastvale while Sergeant Hatchley had all the fun and glory.
III
With his hair still damp, Banks stepped out into the late afternoon warmth. Sandra hadn’t been home when he called, hadn’t changed her mind. It was what he had expected, really, though he felt a tremendous sense of disappointment when all he got was his own voice on the answering machine.
After an hour or so spent listening to some Mozart wind quintets on the Walkman, though, followed by a long hot shower, he started to feel more optimistic than he had on the plane. Sandra would come back eventually. Give her a few days at her parents’ to
get over the tiff, and then things would soon return to normal. Well, almost. They’d have a lot of talking to do, a lot of sorting out, but they’d manage it. They always had.
As he walked onto Keizersgracht, he still had that disconnected feeling he had experienced on arriving, as if all this—canal, bicycles, houseboats—were somehow not quite real, not connected with his life at all. Could he be living some sort of parallel existence, he wondered, another life going on at the same time as he was back in Eastvale talking over the future with Sandra?
Or was he time-travelling? After feeling as if he’d been away for a year, would he suddenly find himself back in Eastvale only seconds after he had left? Or worse, would he land back right in the middle of that terrible conversation last night, moments before the magic envelope arrived?
He tried to shake off the feeling as he admired the façades of the old buildings along the canals. Rows of bicycles were parked on the stone quay, and a couple of small houseboats were moored nearby. That must be an interesting existence, Banks thought, living on the water. Maybe he’d try it. Now he was a free agent once again, he supposed he could do whatever he wanted, live where he pleased. As long as he had a source of income, of course. There was always Europol or Interpol.
The sun had disappeared behind a gauze of cloud, giving a slightly hazy, misty effect to the light. It was still warm, though, and he slung his jacket over his shoulder as he walked.
Two pretty young girls passed him by, students by the look of them, and the one with long hennaed hair smiled. Definitely a flirtatious smile. Banks felt absurdly flattered and pleased with himself. Here he was, in his early forties, and young girls were still giving him the eye.
He supposed he must look young enough, despite the hint of grey at the temples of his closely cropped black hair, and he knew he was in good shape for his age, still lean in physique, with the suggestion of wiry, compact strength. Casually dressed in jeans, trainers and a light-blue denim shirt, he probably seemed younger than he was. And while his rather long, sharply angled face was not handsome in any regular sense of the word, it was the kind of face
women noticed and liked. Perhaps because of the lively and striking dark blue eyes.
He reached a small stone bridge with black iron railings. A flower vendor stood at the corner and the musky scent of roses filled the air. It took him back to a vivid memory, the way smells do, something to do with one of his walks with Sandra many years ago, but he cut it off. He stood for a moment, leaning on the railings and looking down into the murky water, with its floating chocolate wrappers and cigarette packets scattered among the rainbows of diesel oil, then took a deep breath and turned back to the street.
There was the pub, De Kuyper’s, right on the corner, as the desk clerk had said. It had an exterior of dark brown wood and smoked plate-glass windows with the name painted in large white letters. A few small, round tables stood outside, all empty at the moment. Banks glanced inside the dark wood-panelled bar, saw noone he knew or who took any interest in him, then went out again. He patted his jacket pocket to make sure he had his cigarettes and wallet with him, then slung it over the back of a chair and sat down.
He was early for the meeting, as he had intended. While he didn’t really expect any danger, not here, in the open, on a warm afternoon, he wanted to be able to cover as many angles as possible. His table was perfect for that. From where he sat, he could see all the way along the curving canal past the hotel he had walked from, and a fair distance in the other direction, too. He also had a clear view of the opposite bank. Somewhere, in the distance, he could hear an organ-grinder.