Wednesday's Child (32 page)

Banks let the silence stretch. Poole squirmed in his hard chair. “I need a piss,” he said finally.

Banks stood up. “Come on, then.”

They walked down the corridor to the gents and Banks stood by the inside of the door while Poole went to the urinal.

“Tell us where Gemma is, Les,” Banks said, as Poole relieved himself. “It'll save us all a lot of trouble.”

All of a sudden, the stall door burst open. Poole turned. A red-faced giant in a rumpled grey suit with short fair hair and hands like hams stood in front of him. Poole pissed all over his shoes and cursed, cringing back against the urinal, holding his arms out to ward off an attack.

“Is that him?” the giant said. “Is that the fucking pervert who—”

Banks dashed over and held him back. “Jim, don't. We're still questioning—”

“Is that the fucking pervert or isn't it?”

Hatchley strained to get past Banks, who was backing towards the door with Poole scrabbling behind him. “Get out, Les,” Banks said. “While you can. I'll keep him back. Go on. Hurry!”

They backed into the corridor and two uniformed constables came to hold Hatchley, still shouting obscenities. Banks put a
protective arm around Poole and led him back to the interview room. On the way, they passed Susan Gay, who looked at Poole and blushed. Banks followed her gaze. “Better zip it up, Les,” he said, “or we'll have you for indecent exposure as well.”

Poole did as he was told and Banks ushered him back into the room, Hatchley cursing and shouting behind them, held back by the two men.

“What the hell's going on?” Gristhorpe asked.

“It's Jim,” Banks explained, sitting Poole down again. “You know what he's been like since that bloke interfered with his little girl.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe, “but can't we keep a leash on him?” “Not easy, sir. He's a good man. Just a bit unhinged at the moment.”

Poole followed the exchange, paling.

“Look,” he said, “I ain't no pervert. Tell him. Keep him away from me.”

“We'll try,” Banks said, “but we might have a hard time getting him to believe us.”

Poole ran a hand through his greasy hair. “All right,” he said. “All right. I'll tell you all I know. Okay? Just keep him off me.”

Banks stared at him.

“Then you can tell them all I'm not a pervert and I had nothing to do with it, all right?”

“If that's the way it turns out. If I believe you. And it's a big if, Les, after the bollocks you've been feeding us this past week.”

“I know, I know.” Poole licked his lips. “Look, first off, you've got to believe me, I had nothing to do with what happened to Gemma. Nothing.”

“Convince me.”

Outside, they could hear Hatchley bellowing about what he would do to perverts if he had his way: “I'd cut your balls off with a blunt penknife, I bloody would! And I'd feed them down your fucking throat!” He got close enough to thump at the door and rattle the handle before they could hear him being dragged off still yelling down the corridor. Banks could hardly keep from laughing. Jim and the uniforms sounded like they were having the time of their lives.

“Christ,” said Les, with a shudder. “Just keep him off me, that's all.”

“So you had nothing to do with Gemma's disappearance?” Banks said.

“No. See, I used to talk about the kid down the pub, over a jar, like. I admit I wasn't very flattering, but she was a strange one was Gemma. She could irritate you just by looking at you that way she had, accusing like. Make you feel like dirt.”

“So you complained about your girlfriend's kid. Nothing odd in that, is there, Les?”

“Well, that's just it, isn't it? What I've been saying. It was just pub talk, that's all. Now, I never touched her, Mr Banks. Never. Not a word of a lie. But Brenda got pissed off that time after Gemma spilled her paints on my racing form and gave her a bloody good shaking. First time I seen her do it, and it scared me, honest it did. Left big bruises on the kid's arm. I felt sorry for her, but I'm not her fucking father, what am I supposed to do?”

“Get to the point, Les. Those lads out there can't hold Sergeant Hatchley down forever.”

“Aye, well, I didn't exactly tell you the truth before. You see, I did meet this Chivers and his bird a couple of times, with Carl at the pub. Never took to him. She wasn't a bad-looking bint, mind you. A bit weird, but not bad. He thought I was coming on to her once and warned me, all quiet and civilized, like, that if I went so much as within a yard of her he'd cut off my balls and shove them up my arse.” Poole paused and swallowed. No doubt he was realizing, Banks thought, that threats to his privates were coming thick and fast from all sides. “He gave me the creeps, Mr Banks. There was something not right about him. About the pair of them, if you ask me.”

“Did this Chivers seem interested when you talked about Gemma?”

“Well, yeah, about as interested as he seemed in anything. He was a cool one. Cold. Like a fucking reptile. There was just no reading him. He'd ask about her, yeah, just over a few drinks, like, but I thought nothing of it. And once he told me about a case he'd read in the papers where some couple had pretended to be
child-care workers and asked to examine a child. Thought that was funny, he did. Thought it showed bottle. I put it out of my mind. To be honest, soon as we'd done the Fl—soon as we'd finished our bit of business, I wouldn't go near him or her. I can't explain it. They seemed nice and normal enough on the surface, all charm and that nice smile of his, but inside he was hard and cold, and you never knew what he was going to do next. I suppose that's the kind of thing she liked. There's no figuring out some women's taste.”

“So Chivers showed some interest in Gemma and he told you about the newspaper story, right?”

“Right. And that's as far as it went.”

“Did Chivers give you any reason to believe he was interested in little children?”

“Well, no, not directly. I mean, Carl told me a few stories about him, how he'd been involved in the porn trade down The Smoke and how he wasn't averse to a bit of bondage and that. Just titillating stories, that's all. And when you saw him and his bird together, they were weird, like they had something going that no one could get in on. She hung on his every word and when he told her to do something, she did. I mean … it was … Once, we was in the car, like, plann—, just talking, with them two in the front and me and Carl in the back, and he told her to suck him off. She got right down there and did it, and all the time he kept talking, just stopping once, like, to give a little sigh when he shot his load. Then she sat back up again as if nothing had happened.”

“But they never made any direct reference to children?”

“No. But you see what I mean, don't you, Mr Banks? I mean, as far as I'm concerned, them two was capable of anything.”

“I see what you mean. What did you do?”

“Well, I kept quiet, didn't I? I mean, there was no way of knowing it was them took Gemma. The descriptions weren't the same. And then when Carl turned up dead, I had a good idea who might have liked killing someone that way and … I was scared. I mean, wouldn't you be? Maybe Carl had made the same connection, too, and Chivers had offed him while the bint looked on and laughed. That's the kind of feeling they gave you.”

“Do you have any evidence that Chivers killed Carl?”

“Evidence? That's down to you lot, isn't it? No, I told you. I kept away from him. It just seemed like something he would do.”

“Where are they now, Les?”

“I've no idea, honest I don't. And you can turn your gorilla on me and I can't tell you any different. I haven't seen nor heard of them since last week. And I don't want to.”

“Do you think they're still in Eastvale, Les?”

“Be daft if they were, wouldn't they? But I don't mind saying I was scared shitless those two nights sleeping out. I kept thinking there was someone creeping up on me to cut my throat. You know what it's like out in the country, all those animal noises and the wind blowing barn doors.” He shuddered.

“Is that everything, Les?”

“Cross my heart.”

Banks noticed he didn't say “hope to die” this time. “It'd better be,” said Banks, standing and stretching. He walked over to the door and peered outside, then turned to Gristhorpe. “Looks like they've got Jim away somewhere. What shall we do now?”

Gristhorpe assessed Poole with a steady gaze. “I think he's told us all he knows,” he said finally. “We'd better take him to the charge room then lock him up.”

“Good idea,” Banks said. “Give him a nice warm cell for the day. For his own safety.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “What'll we charge him with?”

“We could start with indecent exposure.”

They spent another hour or so going over Poole's statement with him, and Poole made no objections as the constable finally led him down to the charge room. He just looked anxiously right and left to make sure Hatchley wasn't around. Banks wandered to his office for a cigarette and another cup of coffee. Gristhorpe joined him there, and a few minutes later Jim Hatchley walked in with a big grin on his face.

“Haven't had as much fun since the last rugby club trip,” he said. “How did you know he'd be going for a piss anyway? I was getting a bit fed up stuck in there. I'd read the
Sport
twice already.”

“People want to urinate a lot when they're anxious,” Banks said. “He did before. Besides, tea's a diuretic, didn't you know that?”

Hatchley shook his head.

“Anyway, he'd have wanted to go eventually. We'd just have kept him as long as necessary.”

“Aye,” said Hatchley, “and me in the fucking shithouse.”

Banks smiled. “Effective, though, wasn't it? More dramatic that way.”

“Very dramatic. Thinking of doing a bit of local theatre, are you?”

Banks laughed. “Sometimes that's what I think I am doing already.” He walked over to the window and stretched. “Christ, it's been a long morning,” he muttered.

The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock stood at ten-twenty. Susan Gay walked in and out with the latest developments. Not much. There had been more reports of Chivers, from Welshpool, Ramsgate and Llaneilian, and all had to be checked out by the locals. So far, they didn't have one clear lead. Just after eleven, the phone rang, and Banks picked it up.

“Detective Inspector Loder here. Dorset CID.”

Banks sighed. “Not another report of Chivers?”

“More than that,” said Loder. “In fact, I think you'd better get down to Weymouth if you can.”

Banks sat upright. “You've got him?”

“Not exactly, but we've got a dead blonde in a hotel room, and she matches the description you put out.”

TWELVE

I

Gristhorpe sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked police car with a road map spread out on his knees. Banks drove. He would have preferred his own Cortina, mostly because of the stereo system, but Sandra needed it for all her gallery work. Besides, Gristhorpe was tone deaf; for all his learning, he couldn't appreciate music. Banks had packed his Walkman and a couple of tapes in his overnight bag; he knew it wouldn't be easy getting to sleep in a strange hotel room, especially after what awaited them in Weymouth, and music would help.

They were heading down the M1 past Sheffield with its huge cooling towers, shaped like giant whalebone corsets, and its wasteland of disused steel factories. It was almost one-thirty in the afternoon, and despite the intermittent rain they were making good time.

Gristhorpe, after much muttering to himself, decided it would be best to turn off the motorway just south of Northampton and go via Oxford, Swindon and Salisbury. Banks drove as fast as he could, and just over an hour later they reached the junction with the A43. They skirted Oxford in the late afternoon and didn't get held up until they hit Swindon at rush-hour.

After Blandford Forum, they passed the time reading signposts and testing one another on Hardy's names for the places. They managed to keep abreast until Gristhorpe went ahead with Middleton Abbey for Milton Abbas.

After a traffic snarl-up in the centre of Dorchester, they approached Weymouth in the early evening. Loder had given clear
directions to the hotel, and luckily it was easy to spot, one of the Georgian terraces on the Dorchester Road close to the point where it merged with The Esplanade.

A plump, curly-haired woman called Maureen greeted them in the small lobby and told them that Inspector Loder and his men had been gone for some time but had left a guard outside the room and requested she call them at the station as soon as Banks and Gristhorpe arrived. Their booking for the night had already been made: two singles on the third floor, one floor down from where the body had been discovered.

Out of courtesy, Banks and Gristhorpe waited for Loder to arrive before going up to the room. They had requested that, as far as possible, things should be left as they were when the chambermaid discovered the body that morning. Of course, Loder's scene-of-crime men had done their business, and the Home Office pathologist had examined the body
in situ,
but the corpse was still there, waiting for them, in the position she been found.

Loder walked in fifteen minutes later. He was a painfully thin man with a hatchet face and a sparse fuzz of grey hair. Close to retirement, Banks guessed, and tired. His worn navy blue suit hung on him, and his wire-rimmed glasses seemed precariously balanced near the end of his long, thin nose. As he spoke, his grey-green eyes peered over the tops of the lenses.

After the formalities were over, the three men headed up the thickly carpeted stairs to room 403.

“We tried to do as you asked,” Loder said as they climbed. “You might see some traces of the SOCO team's presence, but otherwise …” He had a local accent, a kind of deep burr like a mist around his vowels, and he spoke slowly, pausing between thoughts.