A Necessary End (40 page)

“True enough, Rosie,” Banks said. “I'll have two pints of your best bitter, please.”

“Right you are, Mr Banks.”

They stood at the bar and chatted with the regulars, who knew better than to ask too many questions about their work. Banks was beginning to feel unusually pleased with himself, considering he still hadn't found the answer. Whether it was the chat with Sandra, the nap, Richmond's success or the drink, he didn't know. Perhaps it was a combination of all four. He was close to the end of the case, though, he knew that. If he could solve the problem of two mutually exclusive explanations for Gill's and Seth's deaths, then he would be home and dry. Tomorrow should be an interesting day. First he would track down Liz Dale and discover what she knew; then there was the other business. . . . Yes, tomorrow should be very interesting indeed. And the day after that, Sandra was due home.

“Last orders, please!” Rosie shouted.

“Shall we?” Richmond asked.

“Go on. Why not,” said Banks. He felt curiously like celebrating.

SIXTEEN

I

Dirty Dick was conspicuous by his absence the following morning. Banks took the opportunity to make a couple of important phone calls before getting an early start.

Just south of Bradford, it started to rain. Banks turned on the wipers and lit a cigarette from the dashboard lighter. On the car stereo, Walter Davis sang, “You got bad blood, baby, / I believe you need a shot.”

It was so easy to get lost in the conurbation of old West Yorkshire woollen towns. Built in valleys on the eastern edges of the Pennines, they seemed to overlap one another, and it was hard to tell exactly where you were. The huge old textile factories, where all the processes of clothes-making had been gathered together under one roof in the last century, looked grim in the failing light. They were five or six storeys high, with flat roofs, rows of windows close together, and tall chimneys you could see for miles.

Cleckheaton, Liversedge, Heckmondwike, Brighouse, Rastrick, Mirfield—the strange names Banks usually associated only with brass bands and rugby teams—flew by on road signs. As he drew nearer to Huddersfield, he slowed and peered out through his rain-spattered windscreen for the turn-off.

Luckily the psychiatric hospital was at the northern end of the town, so he didn't have to cross the centre. When he saw the sign-post, he followed directions to the left, down a street between two derelict warehouses.

The greenery of the hospital grounds came as a shock after so
many miles of bleak industrial wasteland. There was a high brick wall and a guard at the gate, but beyond that, the drive wound its way by trees and a well-kept lawn to the modern L-shaped hospital complex. Banks parked in the visitors' lot, then presented himself at reception.

“That'll be Dr Preston,” said the receptionist, looking up Elizabeth Dale in her roll file. “But the doctor can't divulge any information about his patients, you know.”

Banks smiled. “He will see me, won't he?”

“Oh, of course. He's with our bursar right now, but if you'll wait he should be finished in ten minutes or so. You can wait over in the canteen if you like. The tea's not too bad.”

Banks thanked her and walked towards the cluster of bright orange plastic tables and chairs.

“Oh, Mr Banks?” she called after him.

He turned.

She put her hands to the sides of her mouth and spoke quietly and slowly, mouthing the words as if for a lip-reader. “You won't wander off, will you?” She flicked her eyes right and left as if to indicate that beyond those points lay monsters.

Banks assured her that he wouldn't, bought a cup of tea and a Penguin biscuit from the pretty teenage girl at the counter and sat down.

There was only one other person in the canteen. A skinny man with a pronounced stoop and hair combed straight back from his creased brow, he was dressed as a vicar. Seeing Banks, he brought his cup over and sat down. He had a long, thin nose and a small mouth. The shape of his head, Banks noticed, was distinctly odd; it was triangular, and the forehead sloped sharply backwards. With his hair brushed straight back, standing at forty-five degrees, he looked as if his entire face had been sculpted by a head-on wind.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, smiling in a way that screwed up his features grotesquely.

“Not if you don't mind my smoking,” Banks replied.

“Go ahead, old chap, doesn't bother me at all.” His accent was educated and southern. “Haven't seen you here before?”

It should have been a comment, but it sounded like a question.

“That's not surprising,” Banks said. “I've never been here before. I'm a policeman.”

“Oh, jolly good!” the vicar exclaimed. “Which one? Let me guess: Clouseau? Poirot? Holmes?”

Banks laughed. “I'm not as clutzy as Clouseau,” he said. “Nor, I'm afraid, am I as brilliant as Poirot and Holmes. My name's Banks. Chief Inspector Banks.”

The vicar frowned. “Banks, eh? I haven't heard of him.”

“Well, you wouldn't have, would you?” Banks said, puzzled. “It's me. I'm Banks. I'm here to see Dr Preston.”

The vicar's expression brightened. “Dr Preston? Oh, I'm sure you'll like him. He's very good.”

“Is he helping you?”

“Helping me? Why, no. I help him, of course.”

“Of course,” Banks said slowly.

A nurse paused by the table and spoke his name. “Dr Preston will see you now,” she said.

The vicar stuck out his hand. “Well, good luck, old boy.”

Banks shook it and muttered his thanks.

“That man back there,” he said to the nurse as she clicked beside him along the corridor, “should he be wandering around freely? What's he in for?”

The nurse laughed. “That's not a patient. That's the Reverend Clayton. He comes to visit two or three times a week. He must have thought
you
were a new patient.”

Bloody hell, Banks thought, you could soon go crazy hanging around a place like this.

Dr Preston's office lacked the sharp polished instruments, kidney bowls, hypodermics and mysterious odds and ends that Banks usually found so disconcerting in Glendenning's lair. This room was more like a comfortable study with a pleasant view of the landscaped grounds.

Preston stood up as Banks entered. His handshake was firm and brief. He looked younger than Banks had expected, with a thatch of thick, shiny brown hair, a complexion as smooth as a baby's bottom, and cheeks just as chubby and rosy. His eyes, enlarged behind spectacles, were watchful and serious.

“What can I do for you, er, Chief Inspector?” he asked.

“I'm interested in an ex-patient of yours called Elizabeth Dale. At least, I think she's an ex-patient.”

“Oh, yes,” Preston said. “Been gone ages now. What exactly is it you wish to know? I'm sure you realize that I'm not at liberty to—”

“Yes, doctor, I understand that. I don't want the details of her illness. As I understand it, she was suffering from depression.”

“Well—” The doctor unbent a paper-clip on his blotter “—I suppose in layman's terms . . . But you said that's not what you came about?”

“That's right. I just want to know where she is. Nothing confidential about that, is there?”

“We don't usually give out personal information.”

“It's important. A murder inquiry. I could get a court order.”

“Oh, I don't think that will be necessary,” Preston said quickly.

“The problem is, though, I'm afraid we don't know where Miss Dale is.”

“No idea?”

“No. You see, we don't keep tabs on ex-patients as a rule.”

“When did she leave here?”

Preston searched through his files. “She stayed for two months.”

He read off the dates.

“Is that usual? Two months?”

“Hard to say. It varies from patient to patient. Miss Dale was . . . well, I don't think I'm giving too much away if I tell you she was difficult. She'd hardly been here a couple of days before she ran off.”

“Yes, I know.” Banks explained his involvement. “As far as I understand, though, she admitted herself in the first place, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you treated her as if she had escaped from a high-security prison.”

Preston leaned back in his chair and his jaw muscles twitched. “You have to understand, Chief Inspector, that when anyone arrives here, they are given a whole range of tests, and a complete physical examination. On the basis of these, we make a diagnosis and prescribe treatment. I had examined Miss Dale and decided she required treatment. When she disappeared we were naturally worried that
she. . . . Well, without the proper treatment, who knows what might have become of her? So we took steps to persuade her to come back.”

“Doctor knows best, eh?”

Preston glared at him.

“How was she when she'd completed her treatment?” Banks asked. “Given your hostile attitude, I don't know that I care to answer that.”

Banks sighed and reached for a cigarette. “Oh, come on doctor, don't sulk. Was she cured or wasn't she?”

Preston passed an ashtray as Banks lit up. “That'll kill you, you know.” He seemed to take great pleasure in the observation.

“Not before I get an answer from you, I hope.”

Preston pursed his lips. “I imagine you know about Elizabeth Dale's drug problem?”

“Yes.”

“That was part of the cause of her mental illness. When she came to us she said she'd been off heroin for about a month. Naturally, we're not equipped to deal with addicts here, and if Miss Dale had been still using drugs we would have had to send her elsewhere. However, she stayed, on medication I prescribed, and she made some progress. At the end of two months, I felt she was ready to leave.”

“What did
she
feel?”

Preston stared out of his window at the landscaped garden. A row of topiary shrubs stood close to the building, cut in the shapes of birds and animals.

“Miss Dale,” Preston started slowly, “was afraid of life and afraid of her addiction. The one led to the other, an apparently endless circle.”

“What you're saying is that once she'd got used to the idea she'd have been happy to stay here forever. Am I right?”

“Not just here. Any institution, anywhere she didn't have to make her own decisions and face the world.”

“And that's the kind of place I'm likely to find her in?”

“I'd say so, yes.”

“Can you be any more specific?”

“You might try a DDU.”

“DDU?”

“Yes. A Drug-Dependency Unit, for the treatment of addicts.

Elizabeth had been in and out of one a couple of times before she came to us.”

“So she hadn't been cured?”

“How many are? Oh, some, I agree. But with Elizabeth it was on and off, on and off. The cure worked for a while—Methadone hydrochloride in gradually decreasing doses. It's rather like chewing nicotine gum when you're trying to stop smoking. Helps with some of the severe physical symptoms, but—”

“That's not enough?”

“Not really. Many addicts get hooked again as soon as the opportunity for a fix arises. Unfortunately, given the network of friends they have, that can be very soon.”

“So you think this DDU might have Liz as a patient, or might know where she is?”

“It's likely.”

“Where is it?” Banks slipped out his notebook.

“The only local one is just outside Halifax, not too far away.”

Preston continued to give directions. “I hope she's not in any trouble,” he said finally.

“I don't think so. Just need her to help us with our inquiry.” Preston adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You do have a way with words, you policemen, don't you?”

“I'm glad we've got something in common with doctors.” Banks smiled and stood up to leave. “You've been a great help.”

“Have I?”

Banks beat a hasty retreat from the hospital back onto the rain-swept roads and headed for Halifax. He soon found the DDU, using the Wainhouse Tower as a landmark, as Dr Preston had suggested. Originally built as a factory chimney, the tall, black tower was never used as one and now stands as a folly and a lookout point, its top ornamented in a very unchimneylike pointed Gothic style.

Banks found the DDU up a steep side street. It was set back from the road at the top of a long sloping lawn and looked like a Victorian mansion. It also had an eerie quality to it, Banks felt. He shivered as he made his approach. Not the kind of place I'd want to find myself in after dark, he thought.

There were no walls or men at the gate here. Banks walked straight
inside and found himself standing in a spacious common room with a high ceiling. On the walls hung a number of paintings, clearly the work of patients, dominated by an enormous canvas depicting an angel plummeting to earth, wings ablaze and neck contorted so that it looked straight at the viewer, eyes red and wild, raw muscles stretched like knotted ropes. It could have been Satan on his way to hell. Certainly the destination, impressionistically rendered in the lower half of the painting, was a dark and murky place. He shuddered and looked away.

“Can I help you?” A young woman came up to him. It wasn't clear from her appearance whether she was a member of staff or a patient. She was in her early thirties, perhaps, and wore jeans and a dark-brown jacket over a neck-high white blouse. Her long black hair was plaited into wide braids and pinned at the back.

“Yes,” Banks said. “I'm looking for Elizabeth Dale. Is she here, or do you know where I can find her?”

“Who are you?”

Banks showed her his identification.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Police? What do you want?”

“I want to talk to Elizabeth Dale,” he repeated. “Is she here or isn't she?”