Wednesday's Child (36 page)

“Thanks.” Gristhorpe shook his hand. “Thanks a lot.”

They watched Loder walk off towards his car. “He's got a point,” said Gristhorpe. “What
do
we do next?”

Banks shrugged. “I can only speculate.”

“Go ahead.”

Banks watched a ferry steam out of the dock. The flock of gulls swooped on a dead fish on the beach. “I've been thinking about Chivers,” he said, lighting a cigarette and looking out to sea. “Trying to fathom his thought processes.”

“And?”

“And I'm not sure, but … look, he must know we're after him by now. Surely he's seen the stuff in the newspapers. What does he do? He kills the woman, too much extra baggage, and he takes off. Now a normal criminal would certainly head for the continent and disappear. But we know Chivers isn't normal.”

“I think I follow your train, Alan. I've had the same thought myself. He's playing a game, isn't he? Laughing at us.”

Banks nodded. “And he likes the attention. Jenny said he's likely to be egocentric, but he's also probably impulsive and irresponsible. I've thought about that a lot.”

“So where would he head, given the way he thinks?”

“Back to where it started, I think,” said Banks. “I'll bet you a pound to a penny the bastard's back in Eastvale.”

II

It was late that Saturday evening when Banks and Gristhorpe arrived back in Eastvale. They were delayed by a six-car pile-up into a jackknifed lorry on the M1 just south of Leicester, and as they passed by Pontefract and Castleford on the A1, the rain fell in buckets, slowing traffic to a crawl.

So it was that on Sunday morning, as the bells rang in the church and people crossed the market square in their Sunday best for the morning service, the members of Eastvale CID sat in the conference room around the large circular table drinking coffee and pooling their findings.

Richmond and Susan brought the others up to date on John Fairley's information about Chivers and the fact that he owned a gun.

“Fairley seems the least involved of them all,” said Richmond. “We had a good long chat when we brought him in. He's got no prior form. I'm sure he's dealt with stuff that fell off the back of a lorry before, but the Fletcher's warehouse job is his first big bit of fencing, we're sure of that. Susan?”

“I agree,” said Susan Gay, looking up from the notes in front of her. “Seems it was Johnson's idea, and he recruited Les Poole easily. They were mates of Fairley's, genuinely helping out at the shop for a bit of under-the-counter pocket money. Chivers was the prime mover. Without him, I don't reckon the others would have had the guts to go through with it. It was Chivers drugged the guard dogs and cut through the chain-link fence. Poole drove the van, backed it up to the loading bay and away they went. The back of Fairley's shop is just a quiet backstreet, so they got unloaded without any trouble. It wasn't too hard to make a few sales through their pub mates, word of mouth, and they'd already got rid of most of the stuff by the time we called.”

“Was there any falling out over the loot?” Banks asked.

“No,” said Richmond. “Not as far as we could tell. Everyone seemed happy with his share. Poole took the television and stereo as part of his cut. Johnson got a thousand in cash. Fairley's got no idea why Johnson was killed, though he said he wouldn't be surprised to hear that Chivers had done him. Chivers scared him, seemed the type who'd do it for fun.”

“And he's seen or heard nothing of him since?”

“No, sir. And doesn't want to.”

“What about Gemma?” Banks asked. “Does Fairley know anything about what happened to her?”

“Just confirms what Poole told us, that's all,” said Richmond. “After we spotted the whitewash in the cellar, we had the team do a thorough search last night, but they've turned up nothing to indicate Gemma was there.”

“Right,” said Gristhorpe, standing up and looking at his watch. “I've told you what Alan thinks about Chivers being in the area, and I agree with him. What I propose is that we start trying to flush him out. Phil, I'd like you to muster as many men as you can and start knocking on doors, asking questions. Somebody must have seen the bastard. The station and the bus station are obvious places to start. He left his car in Weymouth and unless he stole one, the odds are that he took some other form of transport. The lads down there are doing their bit, too. We're co-ordinating with a DI Loder. I'll get in touch with the media and we'll see if we can't get something on the local news tonight. I want it all in the open. If he is here, I want him to know we're closing in on him. I want him to panic and make a run for it.

“Susan, get in touch with as many of those concerned citizens who helped in the search for Gemma and get them to ask around. Tell them to make sure they don't take any risks, though. This one's dangerous. You know the kind of thing to ask about. Smoke from a cottage that's supposed to be empty, odd noises, suspicious strangers, that kind of thing. Especially anyone who insists on paying cash in large amounts. We'd better put a watch on Fairley's shop, Brenda Scupham's place and the holiday cottage, too, just in case. And we'll ask around the pubs. He's not the type to lie low. He'll be wanting to see the effect he's having. And remember, he
may have altered his appearance a bit. He's done it before, so don't rely on hair colour. The one thing he can't change is that bloody smile. All right?”

Everyone nodded and dispersed. Banks returned to his office and looked out on the church-goers pouring into the market square: women in powder blue suits holding onto their broad brimmed hats in the wind, clutching handbags; husbands in dark suits at their sides, collars too tight, shifting from foot to foot as their wives chatted, thinking maybe now they'd done their duty they'd be able to sneak off to the Queen's Arms or the Crooked Billet for a quick one before dinner; restless children dreaming of an afternoon at Kinley Pond catching frogs, or climbing trees to collect birds' eggs in Brinely Woods—either that or sniffing glue under the railway bridge and planning a bit of recreational B and E. And somewhere, in the midst of all that quotidian human activity and aspiration, was Jeremy Chivers.

Banks didn't notice Susan in his doorway until she cleared her throat. He turned.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, “it slipped my mind at the meeting, but you had a call from Piet Kuypers, Amsterdam police. Said to call him back, you'd know what it was about.”

“Did he leave a message?”

“No. Just said he had a few interesting speculations for you.”

Susan handed him a piece of paper. “The top's his work number,” she said, pointing, “and that one's home.”

“Thank you.” Banks took the paper and sat down. In the excitement of the chase for Chivers, he realized, he had quite forgotten asking Piet to check up on Adam Harkness. He hadn't liked the man much, but as soon as it became clear that Chivers had more than likely killed Carl Johnson, there had seemed no real reason to consider Harkness any longer.

Puzzled, he dialled Piet's home number. A child's voice answered. Banks couldn't speak Dutch, and the little girl didn't seem to understand English. The phone banged down on a hard surface and a moment later a man's voice came over the line, again in Dutch.

“Piet? It's me. Alan Banks in Eastvale?”

“Ah, Alan,” said Piet. “That was my daughter, Eva. She only began to learn her English this year.” He laughed. “How are you?”

“I'm fine, Piet. Hope I didn't disturb your lunch but I've been out of town and I got a message to call you.”

“Yes. You have a moment?”

“Yes, of course.”

Banks heard the receiver placed, more gently this time, on the hard surface, and he put his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette while he waited for Piet to come back. He realized he had been talking too loudly, as one does on the telephone to foreigners, and reminded himself that Piet's English was almost as good as his own.

“Sorry about that,” said Piet. “Yes, I did a little snooping, as you call it, about that man Harkness.” His voice bore only traces of a Dutch accent.

“Anything interesting?”

“Interesting, yes, I think so. But nothing but rumours, you understand. Hearsay. I found his wife. She has since remarried, and she didn't want to talk about her relationship with Harkness, but she hinted that part of the reason they separated was that he had what she called filthy habits.”

“Filthy habits?”

“Yes. Like what, I thought? What do you English regard as a filthy habit? Picking his nose in bed? But I couldn't get her to say any more. She is very religious. She had a strict Dutch Protestant upbringing in a small town in Friesland. I'm sorry, Alan, but I couldn't force her to talk if she did not want to.”

Banks sighed. “No, of course not. What happened next?”

“I talked to some of my colleagues on drugs and vice, but they don't know him. Mostly they're new. You don't last that long working on drugs and vice, and Harkness has been gone, how long did you say, two years?”

“Something like that,” said Banks.

“So I had an idea,” Piet went on. “I went to see Wim Kaspar. Now Wim is a strange man. Nobody really knows how far it all went, but he was, how do you English say, made to leave work early?”

“Fired?”

“No. I know that word. Not exactly fired.”

“Made redundant?”

Piet laughed. “Yes, that's it. Such an odd phrase. Well, there was something of a cloud over Wim, you see. Nobody could prove anything, but it was suspected he took bribes and that he was involved with the drugs and girls in the Red Light district. But Wim worked many years in the Red Light district, ever since patrolman, and he knows more than anybody else what goes on there. And I don't care what people say—maybe it is true—but he is a good man in many ways. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Banks, remembering now that Piet was a nice bloke but took ages getting to the bloody point.

“Wim heard and saw many things that went no further. It's give and take in that world. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Especially if what they say about him is true. So I talked to him and he remembers something. Now you must understand, Alan, that there is no proof of this. It's just rumours. And Wim will never repeat officially what he told me.”

“Tell me, Piet.”

“According to Wim's contacts, your Mr Harkness visited the Red Light district on several occasions.”

“Piet, who doesn't visit the Red Light district? It's one of your main tourist attractions.”

“No, wait. There's more. There are some places, very bad places. Not just the pretty women in the windows, you understand?”

“Yes?”

“And Wim told me that your Mr Harkness visited one of these places.”

“How did your source know who he was?”

“Alan, you must remember Mr Harkness is well known in Amsterdam, and not without influence. Do you want me to go on?” “Yes, please.”

“It was a very bad place,” Piet continued. “You understand prostitution is not illegal here, that there are many brothels?”

“Yes.”

“And the live sex shows and the whips and chains and all the rest. But this one brothel, Wim says, was a very special place. A place that caters for people who like little girls.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“It happens, Alan. What can I say? Girls disappear from the big cities, they turn up in these places. Sometimes they are used for snuff films. You know what they are?”

“I know. Why wasn't he arrested?”

“Sometimes it is better to leave the little fish. Also, Harkness was an important man and, how shall I say, perhaps pressure could be brought to bear. He could have been useful.”

Banks sighed. He knew the scenario. Get something on a man like Harkness and you've got him in your pocket: the police version of blackmail.

“Alan, in Amsterdam, just as, I suspect, in your London, you can get anything you want if you have the money to pay for it. Anything. If we can find these places and find evidence, we close them down and arrest the people responsible. But these men are very clever. And sometimes policemen can be bought, protection can be paid. Or blackmailed. We all have skeletons in our closets. Alan? Are you still there?”

“Yes. Yes, Piet, I know. I was thinking. Listen, I'd like you to do me a big favour. I assume places like this are still in existence?”

“There is one place now we are suspicious of. On the surface, it seems like an ordinary brothel, but rumour has it that young girls can be had there, for a price. Our undercover men are watching, but we have no proof yet.”

“I'd like you to find out if there are any new girls.” He gave Piet Gemma's description, praying he was wrong. At least it meant she might still be alive, if Harkness kept his connections in Amsterdam. He still couldn't work out the whys and the wherefores, how everything linked up, but he knew it would not have been so difficult for Harkness or someone else to smuggle Gemma out of the country, even during the search. The ferry from Immingham, for example, was always crowded; it would be easy enough to slip in among the other families with a sleeping child on the overnight journey, when everyone was tired. “I don't care whether you get enough proof to lock them up or not. Rumours will do fine for me. Use your contacts, informers. Maybe even your friend Wim might be able to help?”

“Yes,” said Piet slowly. “I understand. I'll try. What more can I say?”

“And Piet.”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. You did a great job.” Then Banks slammed down the receiver and rushed to find Gristhorpe.

III

It was about time the place had a good cleaning, Brenda thought, wielding the Hoover like a lawnmower. She knew she wasn't good at housekeeping, but now she had so much time on her hands and nothing but bad thoughts and terrifying dreams, she had to do something or she would fall apart. The ground-in dirt and the food stains wouldn't come out, of course, they would need shampooing, but the dust would. At least it was a start.