Wednesday's Child (27 page)

“What kind of evil?”

“You name it. If what Carl says is right, this bloke worked with some of the London mobs, you know, peddling porn and hurting people who wouldn't pay up, but now he's gone freelance. Bit of a rover. Never stays in one place very long. Got lots of contacts.”

“And he's never been inside?”

“Not as anyone knows of.” Poole leaned forward. “Look, Mr Banks,” he said, licking his lips. “This bloke's really nasty, know what I mean? Carl told me he was in a fish-and-chip shop once and got arguing with the woman in front. She was carrying a dog with her, like, one of those little Pekinese things, and this bloke just plucked it out of her arms and flung it in the frier then walked out cool as a cucumber. He's a nutter. I didn't want nothing to do with him.”

“Can't say I blame you,” said Banks. “What's his name?”

“Dunno. Carl never said.”

“Les!”

“Look, I don't want anyone knowing I—”

“Just between you and me, Les. Off the record.”

“You promise?”

“I'm in the business of preventing crime, remember? It'd hardly be in my interests to have another murder on my patch, would it? And you've no idea how much I'd miss you.”

“Huh. Even so …”

“Les.”

Poole paused. “All right, all right. I'll trust you—still 'ypothetical, like. All I know is his name is Chivers. It's pronounced with a ‘sh', like in shivers. I don't know if it's his real name or a nickname.”

“What does he look like?”

“I don't know. I told you, I never met him.”

Banks wasn't convinced. For a start, he was certain that Poole
had
been connected with the Fletcher's warehouse job, and now it seemed a good bet that Johnson and this Chivers person had been involved, too, along with John Fairley, the junk-shop owner. He could understand Poole's not wishing to implicate himself, of course, especially as it was now a matter of murder.

The thing to remember about Les Poole was that he had spent time inside; he knew the value of information and of silence. He
knew how to get as much slack as he could while giving as little as possible in return. Maybe he was a small-time crook, a coward and a bully, not too bright, but he knew the ropes; he knew how to duck and dodge to save his own neck, how to measure out exactly enough co-operation to get himself out of trouble. Banks sensed that he was holding back, that he
had
met this Chivers, but there was no percentage in pushing him yet. They needed more leverage, and Poole was right about one thing: impounding Brenda Scupham's television would look very bad indeed.

“Is he still in Eastvale?”

“Dunno. Don't think so.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“No. 'Cept I'd stay out of his way if I were you. Carl said he had this bird and—”

“What bird's this, Les?”

“This bird Chivers had with him. Some blonde bint. Apparently, he always has a bit of spare with him. The lasses like him. Must be his unpredictable, violent nature.”

They liked Les, too, Banks remembered, and wondered if there had been a spot of bother about this blonde. Maybe Les had made a pass and Chivers put a scare in him. Or maybe Carl Johnson had. It wasn't so difficult, he thought, to fill in the rest from the scraps Poole dished out.

“What did Carl say about Chivers's girlfriend?” he asked.

“Just that Chivers knifed a bloke once for looking at her the wrong way. Didn't kill him, like, just cut him up a bit. Anyway, like I said, he never had any shortage of birds. Not scrubbers either, according to Carl. Quality goods. Maybe it was his smile,” Les added.

“What smile?”

“Nothing. Just that Carl said he had this really nice smile, like. Said his mates called him ‘Smiler' Chivers.”

When Banks heard Poole's last comment, the warning bells began to ring. “Susan,” he said, looking over Poole's shoulder. “Do you know if the super's still here?”

II

Brenda Scupham couldn't concentrate on the television programme. For a moment she thought of going out, maybe to the pub, but decided she couldn't stand the questions and the looks people would give her. She hadn't enjoyed going out much at all since Gemma had gone. For one thing, people had given her dirty looks when they saw her, as if they blamed her or she wasn't obeying the proper rules of mourning or something. Instead, she took another tranquillizer and poured herself a small measure of gin. Again she wondered what the hell was going on.

All she knew was that the police had called at her house earlier that evening looking for Les. He'd been out of course, and she hadn't known where, though she was sure the policeman hadn't believed her. When she asked what they wanted, they wouldn't tell her anything. Surely, she thought, if it had anything to do with Gemma, they should tell her?

She looked over at the television and video. Maybe that's what it was all about? She knew they were stolen. She wasn't
that
stupid. Les hadn't said so, of course, but then he wouldn't; he never gave away anything. He had dropped them off in John's van one afternoon and said they were bankrupt stock. All the time the police had been coming and going because of Gemma, Brenda had been worried they would spot the stolen goods and arrest her. But they hadn't. Perhaps now they had some more evidence and had decided to arrest Les after all.

How her life could have changed so much in just one week was beyond her. But it had, and even the tranquillizers did no real good. She had enjoyed going on television with Lenora Carlyle— that had been the high spot of her week—but nothing had come of it. Just as nothing had come of the police search, the “Crimewatch” reconstruction, or her appeals through the newspapers. And now, as she sat and thought about the police visit, she wondered if Les might have been involved in some way with Gemma's disappearance. She couldn't imagine how or why— except he hadn't got on very well with Gemma—but he
had
been acting strangely of late.

And the more she thought about it, the more she lost faith in Lenora's conviction that Gemma was still alive. She couldn't be. Not after all this time, not after the bloodstained clothing they had brought for her to identify. And apart from that one statement, Lenora had come up with nothing else, had she? Surely she ought to be able to picture where Gemma was if she was any good as a psychic? But no, nothing. And what if Gemma was alive somewhere? It didn't bear thinking about. She felt closer to her daughter now she was gone than she ever had while Gemma had been around.

Time after time her thoughts circled back to Mr Brown and Miss Peterson. Should she have known they weren't who they said they were? And if she hadn't felt so guilty about not loving Gemma the way a good mother should and about shaking her the week before, would she have let her go so easily? They had been so convincing, kind and understanding rather than accusing in their approach. They had looked so young, so official, so competent, but how was she to know what child-care workers were supposed to look like?

Again she thought of the police officers who had come to her house earlier. Maybe they had found Gemma and some clue had led them to Les. But still she couldn't imagine what he could possibly have to do with it. He had been out when the child-care workers called. Still, there was no denying the police were after him. If he had anything to do with Gemma's abduction, Brenda thought, she would kill him. Damn the consequences. It was all his fault anyway. Yes, she thought, reaching for the gin bottle again. She would kill the bastard. For now, though, she was sick of thinking and worrying.

The only thing that worked, that took away the pain, even though it lasted such a short time, was the video. Slowly, she got up and went over to the player. The cassette was still in. All she had to do was rewind and watch herself on television again. She had been nervous, but she was surprised when she watched the playback that it didn't show so much. And she had looked so pretty.

Brenda poured herself another generous measure, turned on one element of the fire and reclined on the sofa with her dressing-gown wrapped around her. She had watched the video once and was
rewinding for a second viewing when she heard Les's key in the door.

III

“You don't believe for a moment he told you everything, do you?” Gristhorpe asked Banks later in the Queen's Arms. It was a quiet Wednesday evening, a week since the first news of Gemma Scupham's disappearance—and despite the helicopters and search tactics learned from the North American Association of Search and Rescue, she still hadn't been found. Banks and Gristhorpe sat at a table near the window eating the roast beef sandwiches that they had persuaded Cyril, the landlord, to make for them.

Banks chewed and swallowed his mouthful, then said, “No. For a start, I'm sure he's seen this Chivers bloke, but he couldn't really admit to it without implicating himself in the warehouse job. We let him walk. For now. Les won't stray far. He's got nowhere to go.”

“And then?”

Banks grinned. “Just an idea, but I'd like to find out if Les really does know anything about Gemma's abduction. I had a phone call just after I'd finished with Poole. Jim Hatchley's coming into town. Seems his mother-in-law's commissioned him to install a shower—”

Gristhorpe slapped the table. One of the customers at the bar turned and looked. “No, Alan. I'm not having any of Hatchley's interrogation methods in this one. If Gemma's abductors get off because we've bent the rules I'd never bloody forgive myself. Or Sergeant Hatchley, for that matter.”

“No,” said Banks, “that's not what I had in mind.” He outlined his plan and both of them ended up laughing.

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe, nodding slowly. “Aye, he'd be the best man for
that
job, all right. And it might work, at that. Either way, we've nothing to lose.”

Banks washed his sandwich down with a swig of Theakston's bitter and lit a cigarette. “So where do we go now?” he asked.

Gristhorpe leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Let's start with a summary. I find it helps to get everything as
clear as possible. In the first place, we know that a couple who called themselves Chris and Connie Manley rented a cottage and changed their appearance. Then they ‘borrowed' a dark blue Toyota from Bruce Parkinson, passed themselves off as social workers called Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, and conned Brenda Scupham into handing over her daughter on Tuesday afternoon. After that, they drove a hundred and twenty-seven miles before returning the car to its owner.

“As far as we know, they left the cottage on Thursday in a white Fiesta. We don't have the number, and Phil's already checked and re-checked with the rental outlets. Nothing. And it hasn't been reported stolen. We could check the ownership of every white Fiesta in the country, and we bloody well will if we have to, but that'll take us till doomsday. They might not be registered as owners, anyway. Nobody saw them with the child in Eastvale, and there was no evidence of a child's presence in the cottage, but she could have been there—the whitewash supports that—and we found her prints in Parkinson's car. Why they took her, we don't know. Or where. All we know is they most likely didn't bring her back, which to me indicates that she could well be lying dead and buried somewhere in a hundred-and-twenty-mile radius. And that includes the area of the North York Moors where we found the bloodstained clothes. Vic says there wasn't enough blood on them to cause death, but that doesn't mean the rest didn't spill elsewhere, or that she might not have died in some other way. Poole told you that this Chivers person was involved in the porn trade in London, so that's another ugly possibility to consider. I've been onto the paedophile squad again, but they've got nothing on anyone of that name or description.

“Anyway. Next we find Carl Johnson's body in the old lead mine on Friday morning. Dr Glendenning says he was probably killed sometime after dark on Thursday. You follow all the leads you can think of in the Johnson murder, and we arrive at this same man called Chivers with a smile that people notice, a blonde girlfriend and a nasty disposition. You think Poole knows a bit more. Maybe he does. There are too many coincidences for my liking. Chivers and the girl are the ones who took Gemma.
Maybe one or both of them also killed Carl Johnson. Chivers, most likely, as it took a fair bit of strength to rip his guts open. But why? What's the connection?”

“Johnson could have double-crossed them on the warehouse job, or maybe he knew about Gemma and threatened to tell. Whatever Johnson was, he wasn't a paedophile.”

“Assuming he found out they'd taken her?”

“Yes.”

“That's probably our best bet. Makes more sense than killing over a bloody TV set, though stranger things have happened.”

“Or it could have been over the girlfriend,” Banks added. “Especially after what Poole told me about the knifing.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “That's another strong possibility. But let's imagine that Carl Johnson found out Chivers and his girlfriend had taken Gemma and … well, done whatever they did to her. Now Johnson's no angel, and he seems to have an unhealthy fascination with bad 'uns, from what you tell me, but somehow, they've gone too far for him. He doesn't like child-molesters. He becomes a threat. They lure him out to the mine. Maybe the girl does it with promises of sex, or Chivers with money, I don't know. But somehow they get him there and …” Gristhorpe paused. “The mine might be a connection. I know the area's been thoroughly searched already, but I think we should go over it again tomorrow. There's plenty of spots around there a body could be hidden away. Maybe the clothes on the moors were just a decoy. What do you think, Alan?”

Banks frowned. “It's all
possible,
but there are still too many uncertainties for my liking. I'd like to know more about the girl's part in all this, for a start. Who is she? What's in it for her? And we've no evidence that Chivers killed Johnson.”