Wednesday's Child ib-6

by Peter Robinson

  Gristhorpe and Richmond stood in the rain outside

  Parkinson’s house. Semi-detached, with a frosted-glass

  door and a pebble-dash façade, it was more modern than

  the row of tiny limestone cottages that faced it across the

  lopsided square of unkempt grass. Gristhorpe hadn’t realized

  that Parkinson’s house was so close to the abandoned

  cottage. This was the extreme north-western edge

  of Eastvale, and both the new and the old houses shared

  a superb view west along the valley bottom. Not today,

  though; everything was lost in the grey haze of rain.

  Richmond wore a belted navy-blue Aquascutum over his suit, and Gristhorpe a rumpled fawn raincoat with the collar turned up. Neither wore a hat. It was the kind of rain that you felt inside rather than out, Gristhorpe thought, already registering the aches in his joints. Outside you merely got beaded in moisture, but inside you were damp and chilled to the marrow.

  They had already tried the semis to the west, the last pair, with only the Helmthorpe Road and a drystone

  wall between them and the open country, but found nobody home. In fact, as Gristhorpe stood there looking around, he noticed how quiet and secluded the area was. Given that Parkinson had kept his car in the garage at the back of his house, it wouldn’t have been at all difficult for someone to “borrow” it without being seen. Apart from a few cars and delivery vans on the main road, there was nothing else around.

  They walked up the path and rang the bell of the semi adjoining Parkinson’s. A few moments later a man answered and, after they had showed their identification, he invited them in.

  “Come in out of the rain,” he said, taking their coats. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  He was about forty, small and thickset, with sparse fair hair and lively grey eyes. His right arm, encased in plaster, hung in a sling over the lower part of his chest.

  They settled down in the cheerful living-room, where the element of an electric fire took some of the chill out of their bones, and their host, Mr David Ackroyd, came in with mugs of tea and joined them. Two women were talking on the radio about menopause. He turned it off and sat down. Richmond installed himself in the armchair opposite, long legs crossed, notebook and pen in hand.

  “What happened?” Gristhorpe asked, indicating the arm.

  “Broke it on Sunday. Doing a bit of climbing out Swainshead way.” He shook his head. “Silly bugger I am. I ought to know I’m too old for that sort of thing.”

  “So you’re not usually home weekdays?”

  “Good lord, no. I’m a civil servant … well, civil as I can be to some of the riff-raff w.: get in the job centre these days.” His eyes twinkled. “And servant to the devil, according to some. I’ll be back at work again in a

  couple of days. The doctor says I just need a bit of a rest to get over the shock.”

  “Are you married?”

  He frowned. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Does your wife work?”

  “She’s an auditor with the tax office.”

  “So she’s usually out all day, too?”

  “Yes. Most people around here are. Have to be to pay the mortgages, prices being the way they are. What’s going on?”

  “Just trying to feel out the lie of the land, so to speak,” Gristhorpe said. “Did you know Mr Parkinson’s car was stolen while he was away?”

  “Yes. He came dashing in to tell me as soon as he checked the mileage. I told him to go to the police.”

  “Did you notice anything at all?”

  “No. Of course, I was out at work all the time until the weekend. Everything seemed quite normal.”

  “Did he often make these trips?”

  “Yes. Quite proud of himself he was about it too. He got a promotion in the company a short while ago. Exports. They do a bit of business with the Common Market countries. You know how it is, everything’s Euro-this and Euro-that these days.”

  “And he always left his car in the garage?”

  “Yes. Look, between you and me, Bruce is a bit tight. Short arms and deep pockets, if you know what I mean. He hasn’t quite got to the company-car level yet but his boss, the bloke who usually goes with him, has. He lives a few miles north of here, so it’s easy for him to pick Bruce up.”

  “How many people do you think knew about this arrangement?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “But Mr Parkinson was the sort to talk about such

  things in public?”

  “Well, I suppose so. I mean, it’s nothing, is it, really? Just idle chatter, pub talk. He liked to let people know how important he was, how he got to travel to Europe on business and all that. I don’t think he was worried that someone might overhear him and take off with his car.”

  “Could that have happened?”

  “Easily enough, I suppose.” He rubbed the plaster on his arm. Gristhorpe noticed that a couple of people had signed it in ball-point just below the elbow. “We ought to be more careful, oughtn’t we?” Ackroyd went on. “Lord knows, we hear enough about crime prevention on telly, we should know better than to go blabbing all our holiday and business plans in a pub. You just don’t think, do you?”

  “Which pub is this, Mr Ackroyd?”

  “Pub? Well, I was speaking figuratively, really, but there’s a local in the next street. It’s called The Drayman’s Rest. Nothing special really, but they do a decent pint and the company’s all right.”

  “Do you and Mr Parkinson go there regularly?”

  “I suppose you could say that. Not that we’re big drinkers, mind you.” He laughed. “Bruce always drinks halves and makes them last. It’s just the social thing, the local, isn’t it? A chat and a few laughs with the lads after work, that sort of thing.”

  “Do you know most of the regulars?”

  “Oh, aye. Except we get a few strangers in from the holiday cottages over the road. They never cause any trouble, though, and we make them welcome enough.”

  “Get friendly with them, do you?”

  “Well, some are easier than others, if you know what I mean. Some just like to keep to themselves, grab a sandwich and a pint and sit in the corner reading the paper. But there’s outgoing ones. I like talking to people. That’s

  how you learn, isn’t it?”

  “Have you met any interesting strangers in there recently?”

  “What?”

  “The past couple of weeks. Anyone been especially friendly?”

  Ackroyd rubbed his chin. “Aye, well now you mention it, there was Chris and Connie.”

  Gristhorpe looked over at Richmond. “The Manleys?”

  “That’s it. I always thought it a bit odd that they liked to stand at the bar and talk to the locals.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, with a bird like her I wouldn’t be in the pub in the first place,” Ackroyd said, and winked. “But usually it’s the couples tend to keep to themselves.”

  “They didn’t?”

  “No. Oh, they weren’t pushy or anything. Just always there with a hello and a chat. Nowt special. It might be the weather, the news … that kind ofthing.”

  “And Mr Parkinson’s European business trips?”

  “Well, he did go on a bit… . Now wait a minute, you can’t be suggesting that Chris and Connie … ? No, I don’t believe it. Besides, they had a car of their own. I saw them in it.”

  “A white Fiesta?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What kind of impression did they give you, Mr Ackroyd?”

  “They just seemed like regular folk. I mean, Chris liked to talk about cars. Bit of a know-it-all, maybe. You know, the kind that likes to dominate conversations. And she seemed happy enough to be there.”

  “Did she say much?”

  “No, but she didn’t need to. I mean most of the men in that place would’ve given their right arms—” He

  stopped, looked at his cast and l
aughed. “No, that wasn’t how I got it, honest. But what I’m trying to say is that it wasn’t just that she was a looker, though she was that all right. The long blonde hair, those lovely red lips and the blue eyes. And from what I could tell she had all her curves in the right places, too. No, it wasn’t just that. She was sexy. She had a presence. Like she didn’t have to do anything. Just walk in, smile, stand there leaning on the bar. There was something about her you could feel, like an electric charge. I am rambling on, aren’t I? Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so, Mr Ackroyd.” Some women just gave out an aura of sex, Gristhorpe knew. That kind of sex appeal was common enough on screen—the way Marilyn Monroe’s clothes always seemed to want to slip off her body, for example—but it also happened in real life. It was nothing to do with looks, though a combination of beauty and sex appeal could be deadly when it occurred, and some women didn’t even realize they had it.

  “How did Mr Manley act towards her?” he asked.

  “No special way in particular. I mean, he wasn’t much to look at himself. I got the impression he was sort of pleased that so many men obviously fancied her. You knew she was his and you could look but you couldn’t touch. Now I think about it, he definitely seemed to be showing her off, like.”

  “Nobody tried to chat her up?”

  “No.” He scratched his cheek. “And that’s a funny thing, you know. Now you’ve got me talking I’m thinking things that never really entered my head at the time. They were just an interesting couple of holidaymakers, but the more I think about them …”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, the thing that really struck you about Chris was his smile. When he smiled at you, you immediately

  wanted to trust him. I suppose it worked with the women too. But there was something … I mean, I can’t put my finger on it, but you just sort of knew that if you really did try it on with Connie, outside a bit of mild flirting, that is, then he’d be something to reckon with. That’s the only way I can express it. I suppose everyone picked up on that because nobody tried it on. Not even Andy Lumsden, and he goes after anything in a skirt as a rule.”

  “Where were they from?”

  “Chris and Connie? Do you know, I couldn’t tell you. He didn’t have a Yorkshire accent, that’s for certain. But it was hard to place. South, maybe. It was sort of characterless, like those television newsreaders.”

  “They didn’t say where they were from?”

  “Come to think of it, no. Just said they were taking some time off and travelling around for a while, having a rest from the fast lane. They never really said anything about themselves. Funny that, isn’t it?”

  “They didn’t even say what they were taking time off from?”

  “No.”

  Gristhorpe stood up and nodded to Richmond. He shook Mr Ackroyd’s good hand and wished him well, then they walked back out into the drizzle.

  “What now?” Richmond asked.

  Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “It’s half past two,” he said. “I reckon we’ve just got time for a pint and a sandwich at The Drayman’s Rest, don’t you?”

  IV

  Susan Gay parked her red Golf outside and went up to

  her flat. She had had a busy day going over mugshots

  with Edwina Whixley—to no avail—and questioning the

  other occupants of 59 Calvin Street again. She had also made an appointment to see the governor of Armley Jail, where Johnson had served his time, at four-thirty the following afternoon. She knew she could probably have asked him questions over the phone, but phone calls, she always felt, were too open to interruptions, and too limiting. If the governor needed to consult a warden for additional information, for example, that might prove difficult over the phone. Besides, she was old-fashioned; she liked to be able to watch people’s eyes when she talked to them.

  She put her briefcase by the door and dropped her keys on the hall table. She had made a lot of changes to the place since her promotion to CID. It had once been little more than a hotel suite, somewhere to sleep. But now she had plants and a growing collection of books and records.

  Susan favoured the more traditional, romantic kind of classical music, the ones you remember bits from and find yourself humming along with now and then: Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, bits of opera from films and TV adverts. Most of her records were “greatest hits,” so she didn’t have their complete symphonies or anything, just the movements everyone remembered.

  Her reading was still limited mostly to technical stuff, like forensics and criminology, but she made space on her shelves for the occasional Jeffrey Archer, Dick Francis and Robert Ludlum. Banks wouldn’t approve of her tastes, she was sure, but at least now she knew she had tastes.

  As usual, if she was in, she had “Calendar” on the television as she fussed around in the kitchen throwing together a salad. Normally, she would just be listening, as the TV set was in the living-room, but this evening, an item caught her attention and she walked through, salad

  bowl in hand and stood and watched openmouthed.

  It was Brenda Scupham and a gypsyish looking woman on the couch being interviewed. She hadn’t caught the introduction, but they were talking about clairvoyance. Brenda, in a tight lemon chiffon blouse tucked into a black mini-skirt much too short for a worried mother, sat staring blankly into the camera, while the other woman explained how objects dear to people bear psychic traces of them and act as conduits into the extrasensory world.

  Brenda nodded in agreement occasionally. When Richard Whiteley turned to her and asked her what she thought, she said, “I don’t know. I really don’t know,” then she looked over at the other woman. “But I’m convinced my Gemma is still alive and I want to beg whoever knows where she is to let her come back to her mother, please. You won’t be punished, I promise.”

  “What about the police?” he asked. “What do they think?”

  Brenda shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think they believe she’s dead. Ever since they found her clothes, I think they’ve given up on her.”

  Susan flopped into her armchair, salad forgotten for the moment. Bloody hell, she thought, Superintendent Gristhorpe’s going to love this.

  I

  Gristhorpe was indeed furious when he heard about

  Brenda Scupham’s television appearance. As he had no

  TV set of his own, though, he didn’t find out until

  Wednesday morning.

  “It’s been over a week now since Gemma Scupham disappeared,” he said, shaking his head over coffee and toasted teacakes with Banks at the Golden Grill. “I can’t say I hold out much hope. Especially since we found the clothes.”

  “I can’t, either,” Banks agreed. “But Brenda Scupham’s got some bloody psychic to convince her that Gemma’s alive. Who would you rather listen to, if you were her?”

  “I suppose you’re right. Anyway, it all connects: the abandoned cottage, the borrowed car, the hair-dye. We’ve got descriptions of the Manleys out—both as themselves and as Peterson and Brown. Somebody, somewhere must know them. How about you?”

  Banks sipped some hot black coffee. “Not much. The lab finally came through with the scene analysis. The blood in the mill matched Johnson’s, so we can be pretty certain that’s where he was killed. Glendenning says it was a right-handed upthrust wound. Six-inch blade,

  194

  single-edged. Probably some kind of sheath-knife, and you know how common those are. No handy footprints or tire tracks, and no sign of the weapon. I’m off to see Harkness again, though I don’t suppose it’ll do much good.”

  “You think he did it?”

  “Apart from the mysterious stranger seen leaving Johnson’s building, he’s the only lead I’ve got. I keep telling myself that just because I didn’t take to the man it doesn’t mean he’s a killer. But nobody gets that rich without making a few enemies. And Johnson was a crook. He could have been involved somewhere along the line.”

  “A
ye, maybe you’re right. Be careful, though, the last thing I need right now is the ACC on my back.”

  Banks laughed. “You know me. Diplomacy personified.”

  “Aye, well … I’d better be off to see Mrs Scupham. See if I can’t talk some sense into her. I want a word with that bloody psychic, too. I’ve got Phil out looking for her.” He looked outside. A fine mist nuzzled the window.

  “Hang on a minute, sir,” Banks said. “You know, Brenda Scupham might be right.”

  “What?”

  “If Gemma is alive, a television appeal won’t do any harm. It might even do some good.”

  “I realize that. We can’t have any idea what the woman’s going through. All I want to do is reassure her that we are doing the best we can. If Gemma is alive, we’ve more chance of finding her than some bloody tea-leaf reader. There’s a trail to follow somewhere in all this, and I think we’re picking it up. But these people, the Manleys or whatever they call themselves now, they talked to enough people, got on well enough with the locals, but they gave nothing away. We don’t even know

  where they come from, and we can’t be sure what they look like, either. They’re still two-dimensional.”

  “What about the notes they used to pay for the cottage?”

  “Patricia Cummings, the estate agent, said she paid the cash directly into the bank. Right now it’s mixed up with all the rest of the money they’ve got in their vaults.”

  “How did they hear about the cottage? Did they say?”

  “Told her they’d read about it in The Dalesman.”

  “You could get—”

  “I know, I know—the list of subscribers. We’re checking on it. But you can buy The Dalesman at almost any newsagent’s, in this part of the country, anyway.”

  “Just a thought.”

  Gristhorpe finished his teacake and wiped his mouth with the paper serviette. “At the moment it looks like our best bet lies with the descriptions—if that’s what they really look like. Christ knows, maybe they’re Hollywood special-effects people underneath it all. We’ve got the artist working with Parkinson and the crowd in The Drayman’s Rest. Should be ready for tomorrow’s papers. And I was thinking about the whitewash they found on Gemma’s clothes, too. I’ve seen it in two places recently: Melville Westman’s, the Satanist, or whatever he calls himself, and the holiday cottage.”