Wednesday's Child ib-6

by Peter Robinson

  “It is spectacular, isn’t it?” Harkness said. “It’s one of the reasons I bought the place. It’s much too big for me, of course. I don’t even use half the rooms.”

  Banks had noticed the dust in the hall and a certain mustiness to the atmosphere. Even the library was untidy, with a large desk littered with papers, pens, rubber bands and a few books placed in small piles on the floor beneath the shelves.

  “How long have you been here?” Banks asked.

  “Two years. I still travel a fair bit. I’m not retired yet, you know, still got a lot of life in me. But I thought it was time I deserved to take things easy, put in a bit more golf.”

  Harkness looked about fifty-five. He was Banks’s height, with silver hair and that brick-red, lined complexion peculiar to the Englishmen who have spent years in warmer climates. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and navy-blue trousers. The pot-belly and sagging breasts showed he wasn’t a man who took much exercise off the golf course.

  “Drink?”

  “A small Scotch, please,” Banks said.

  “Sit down.” Harkness offered Banks the wicker chair

  and pulled a swivel chair for himself from behind the desk.

  Banks sat. Music played softly in the background: the Radio Three Dvorak concert, by the sound of it. He glanced at the books on the shelves and, for some reason, got the impression they were more for show than use, bought by the yard. A full set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, some Book Club editions of Jane Austen and Dickens, a mail-order “Great Writers” series.

  Harkness passed Banks the drink in a heavy crystal glass then joined him, carefully tugging up the creases of his trousers before he sat. “You didn’t tell me very much on the telephone,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  “I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Carl Johnson.”

  Harkness shook his head slowly. “I still find it hard to believe such a thing could happen. We live in dangerous times.” His accent was an odd mix of South African and public-school English, his manner relaxed. A man used to being in charge, Banks guessed.

  “Did you know much about Mr Johnson? About his life, his background?”

  Harkness shook his head. “I rarely saw him. He would come and put in his hours whether I was here or not. That was our arrangement. I’m afraid I know nothing at all about his personal life.”

  “Did you know he had a criminal record?”

  Harkness raised an eyebrow and looked at Banks over the top of his glass. “I know he’d been in jail, if that’s what you mean.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “He told me when he came for the interview.” Harkness allowed a brief smile. “In fact, he told me that’s where he learned the job.”

  “And that didn’t bother you?”

  “The man had served his time. He was obviously honest enough to let me know about his past right from the start. Besides, I believe in giving everyone another chance. Everyone’s capable of change, given the right conditions. Carl was a good, hard worker. And he was always very open and honest in his dealings with me. Anyway, I’m not an easy man to defraud.”

  “I thought you hardly ever talked to him.”

  “We had to discuss his work occasionally.”

  “How much did you pay him?”

  “Five pounds an hour. I know that’s not very much for a skilled worker, but he seemed grateful enough. And it was … how shall I say? … cash in hand.”

  “How long had he been working for you?”

  “Since March.”

  “How did you make contact with him?”

  “My previous gardener left. I placed an advertisement in the local paper and Carl Johnson replied. He seemed to know his stuff, and I was impressed with his frankness, so I took him on. I never regretted it.” He pointed towards the windows. “As you can see, he did a fine job.”

  Banks put his glass down. Harkness offered him another, but he refused. The light had almost gone now, and the river seemed to hoard its last rays and glow from deep within. Harkness turned on the desk lamp.

  “Do you know any reason,” Banks asked, “why someone might want to kill him?”

  “None. But as I said, I knew nothing about his personal life.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Monday.”

  “Did he seem worried about anything?”

  “Not that I could tell. We had a brief conversation about the lawn and the roses, as far as I can remember,

  and that’s all. As I said, he didn’t confide in me.”

  “He didn’t seem different in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever mention any of his friends or acquaintances, a girlfriend, perhaps?”

  “No. I assumed he acted like any normal young man on his own time.”

  “Ever heard of a bloke called Les Poole?”

  “No.”

  Banks scratched the scar by his right eye and crossed his legs. “Mr Harkness,” he said, “can you think of any reason why Johnson had over a thousand pounds hidden in his flat?”

  “A thousand pounds, you say? Well … no. I certainly didn’t pay him that much. Perhaps he saved up.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He may have worked for others, too. We didn’t have an exclusive contract.”

  “You never asked?”

  “Why should I? He was always available when I needed him.”

  “Where were you on Thursday evening?”

  “Really, Chief Inspector! You can’t believe I had anything to do with the man’s death?”

  “Just a matter of elimination, sir.”

  “Oh, very well.” Harkness rubbed his chin. “Let me see … Well, Thursday, I’d have been at the Golf Club. I played that afternoon with Martin Lambert, and after the game we had dinner at the club.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Not until well after eleven. The others will vouch for me.”

  Banks nodded. He felt that Harkness was enjoying the game, one he knew he could win. There was a kind of smugness and arrogance about him that irked Banks. He

  had come across it before in powerful and wealthy people and had never been able accept it.

  “I understand you were born around these parts?” he asked.

  “Yes. Lyndgarth, as a matter of fact. We emigrated when I was four.”

  “South Africa?”

  “Yes. Johannesburg. My father saw opportunities there. He liked to take risks, and this one paid off. Why do you ask?”

  “Out of interest. You took over the business?”

  “When he died. And, I might add, I succeeded him out of ability, not nepotism. I worked with him for years. He taught me all he knew.”

  “Is the company still in existence?”

  “Very much so. And our mines are still productive. But I’ve had very little to do with that part of the operation of late. I moved to Amsterdam over ten years ago to handle the sales end of the business.” He looked down, swirled the amber liquid in his crystal snifter, then looked Banks in the eye. “Quite frankly, I couldn’t stomach the politics over there. Apartheid disgusted me, and I lacked the courage to become a revolutionary. Who wants another white liberal, anyway?”

  “So you moved to Amsterdam?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you kept your business interests in South Africa?”

  “I said I couldn’t stand living with the politics, Chief Inspector. I didn’t say I was a fool. I also don’t believe in sanctions. But that’s not what you came to hear about.”

  “Still, it is fascinating. Are you married?”

  “Divorced, back in Amsterdam.” He shifted in his chair. “If you don’t mind—”

  “I’m sorry.” Banks put down his empty glass and

  stood up. “It’s just a copper’s instinct. Curiosity.”

  “It’s also what killed the cat.”

  Harkness said it with a smile, but Banks could hardly miss the cutting edge. He ignored
it and walked to the library door.

  As they walked down the gloomy hall with its waist-high wainscoting, Banks turned to one of the doors. “What’s in here?” he asked.

  Harkness opened the door and turned on a light. “Living room.”

  It was a spacious, high-ceilinged room with wall-to-wall thick pile carpeting and a burgundy three-piece suite. Next to the fireplace stood a tall bookcase stacked with old National Geographic magazines. A couple of landscapes hung on the walls: original oils, by the look of them. Banks couldn’t tell who the artists were, but Sandra would probably know. Again, Banks noticed how untidy the room was and how dusty the fixtures. Beside the sofa was a long, low table, and at its centre stood a tarnished silver goblet encrusted with dirt. Banks picked it up. “What’s this?” he asked.

  Harkness shrugged. “Carl found it when he was digging the garden one day and he brought it to me. It looks old. I keep meaning to get it cleaned up and valued. He thought it might be worth something. I suppose,” he went on, “you could take that as another example of his honesty. He could have kept it.”

  Banks examined the goblet. It had some kind of design engraved on it, but he couldn’t make out what it was through the grime. It looked like a coat of arms. He put it back down on the table. It was something Tracy would be interested in, he thought. Would have been, he corrected himself.

  Harkness noticed him looking around. “It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. But as I said, the house is too big and I

  don’t use all of it anyway.”

  “Don’t you have a cleaning lady?”

  “Can’t abide maids. Ever since I was a child in South Africa we had them, and I never could stand them. Always fussing around you. And I suppose as much as anything I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone having to clean up after anyone else. It seemed so undignified, somehow.”

  Banks, whose mother had charred at a Peterborough office block to bring in a bit of extra money, said, “Yet you employed a gardener?”

  Harkness led the way to the front door. “That’s different, don’t you think? A gardener is a kind of artist in a way, and I’ve no objection to being a patron of the arts. I always thought of the grounds as very much Carl’s creation.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Banks said at the door. “Just one more question: Did he ever mention the old lead mine near Relton?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I just wondered if it was special to him for some reason. Can you think of any reason he might have been there?”

  Harkness shook his head. “None at all. Digging for hidden treasure, perhaps?” His eyes twinkled.

  “Perhaps,” Banks said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Harkness closed the door slowly but firmly and Banks got into his car. As he drove back to Eastvale in the blue-grey twilight with the haunting piano music playing, he wondered about Harkness. Many business dealings don’t bear close scrutiny, of course, and you don’t get as rich as Harkness without skirting the law and stepping on a few toes here and there. Is that what Harkness was getting at with his remark about curiosity killing the cat? If

  that was so, where did Johnson fit in? It might be useful having a criminal for a gardener if you wanted other kinds of dirty business done. On the other hand, it might also, after a while, turn out to be very inconvenient, too. At least, Banks concluded, it might be worthwhile asking a few questions about Mr Adam Harkness.

  II

  “This must be it, sir,” said DS Richmond as he pulled in

  behind Patricia Cummings outside the last cottage in a

  terrace of four, right on the north-western edge of

  Eastvale, where the road curved by the side of River

  Swain into the dale. It was a pleasant spot, handy for

  both the town life, with its cinemas, shops and pubs, and

  for getting out into the more rural reaches of the dale itself.

  The holiday cottages were small—just right for a

  couple—and the view of the entry into the dale proper

  was magnificent. Of course, the slopes there were not

  as dramatic as they became beyond Fortford and

  Helmthorpe, but looking down the valley even in the fading

  light one could make out the grey, looming shapes of

  the higher fells and peaks massed in the distance, and the

  nearer, gentler slopes with their drystone walls and grazing

  sheep showed a promise of what was to come.

  Patricia Cummings opened the door, and Richmond entered the living-room with Gristhorpe, who had returned to the station just a few minutes after Richmond had been to see Patricia. She turned on the light, and they looked around the small room that the estate agent would probably describe as cosy, with its two little armchairs arranged by the fireplace. Gristhorpe felt he had to stoop under the low ceiling, even though a few inches remained. He felt like Alice must have done before she

  took the shrinking potion.

  What struck Gristhorpe immediately was the absolute cleanliness of the place. It reminded him of his grandmother’s cottage, a similarly tiny place in Lyndgarth, in which he had never seen a speck of dust nor a thing out of place. The dominant smell was pine-scented furniture polish, and the gleaming dark surfaces of wood stood testament to its thorough application. They glanced in the kitchen. There, too, everything shone: the sink, the small fridge, the mini-washer and dryer unit under the counter.

  “Did the cleaner do the place?” Gristhorpe asked.

  Patricia Cummings shook her head. “No. It was like this when she found it. Spotless. She phoned me because she was sure they were supposed to be staying another two weeks.”

  “And were they?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’d already paid the rent?”

  “For a month, altogether. Cash in advance.”

  “I see.”

  Mrs Cummings shifted from one foot to the other. She was a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed in a grey suit with a pearl blouse and ruff. She had a small lipsticked mouth and pouchy rouged cheeks that wobbled as she spoke. Gristhorpe noticed a gold band with a big diamond cluster biting into the flesh of her plump ring finger.

  “They said they were responding to an advertisement we placed in The Dalesman” she said.

  “What names did they give?”

  “Manley. Mr and Mrs Manley.”

  “Did you see any identification?”

  “Well, no … I mean, they paid cash.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not really. Not normal, but it happens.”

  “I see.” Gristhorpe looked over towards Richmond, who seemed similarly constrained by the tininess of the place. “Let’s have a look around, shall we, Phil?”

  Richmond nodded.

  “I’ll show you,” Patricia Cummings said.

  “If you don’t mind,” Gristhorpe told her, “it would be best if you waited here. It would give forensics one less person to eliminate, if it comes to that.”

  “Very well. Is it all right if I sit down?”

  “By all means.”

  The stone staircase was narrow and its whitewashed ceiling low. Both men had to stoop as they went up. Upstairs were two small bedrooms and a bathroom-toilet. Everywhere was just as spotless as the living-room, ceramic surfaces gleaming.

  “Someone’s really done a job on this, sir,” Richmond said as they entered the first bedroom. “Look, they’ve even washed the sheets and folded them.” It was true; a small pile of neatly folded sheets lay on the mattress, and the oak chest of drawers shone with recent polish. The same pine scent hung in the air. The second bedroom was a little shabbier, but it was easy to see why. From the neatly made bed and the thin patina of dust that covered the wardrobe, it was clear the room hadn’t been used by the cottage’s most recent occupants.

  “I can’t imagine why there’d even be two bedrooms,” Richmond said. “I mean, it’d feel crowded enough i
n this place with two people, let alone children as well.”

  “Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “It’s old-world rustic charm all right.”

  Both the sink and the bathtub had been thoroughly cleaned out, and shelves and medicine cabinet emptied.

  “Come on,” said Gristhorpe. “There’s nothing for us here.”

  They went back downstairs and found Patricia Cummings painting her nails. The sickly smell of the polish pervaded the small room. She raised her eyebrows when they entered.

  “Are all the cottages rented out?” Gristhorpe asked.

  “All four,” she said.

  They went outside. The row reminded Gristhorpe of Gallows View, a similar terrace not too far away, where he and Banks had investigated a case some years ago. The light of the cottage next door was on, and Gristhorpe thought he saw the curtains twitch as they walked towards it. Gristhorpe knocked, and a few moments later a skinny young man with long, greasy hair answered.

  Gristhorpe introduced himself and Richmond, and the young man let them in. The place was furnished exactly the same as next door: sideboard along one wall, a small television on a stand, two armchairs, an open fireplace, wall-to-wall dark carpets and wallpaper patterned with grapevines against an off-white background. Job lot, no doubt. The young man had made his mark by arranging a row of books along the sideboard, using wine bottles as bookends. They were mostly poetry, Gristhorpe noticed, and a couple of local wildlife guides.

  “This won’t take long,” he said to the youth, who had introduced himself as Tony Roper. “I’d just like to know if you can tell me anything about your neighbours.”

  “Not really,” said Tony, leaning against the sideboard. “I mean, I came here mostly for the isolation, so I didn’t do much mixing.” He had a Scottish accent, Gristhorpe noticed, leaning more towards Glasgow than Edinburgh.