Piece Of My Heart

by Peter Robinson

  “About what?”

  “About the girl who was killed. About those dead people in Los Angeles. About me.”

  “What did he say about you?”

  Yvonne looked down. “He was rude. I don’t want to repeat it.”

  “All right. Stay calm. Did he touch you?”

  “He grabbed my arm and he touched my face. He was just so frightening. I was terrified he was going to do something.”

  Chadwick felt his teeth grinding. “What happened?”

  “I waited until he had his back turned to me and I ran away.”

  “Good girl. Did he come after you?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t look.”

  “Okay. You’re doing fine, Yvonne. You’re safe now.”

  “But, Dad, what if he…”

  “What if he what? Was he at Brimleigh?”

  “Yes.”

  “With you?”

  “No, he was wandering around the field.”

  “Did you see him go in the woods?”

  “No. But it was dark most of the time. I wouldn’t have seen.”

  “Where did it happen this afternoon?”

  “Just down the road, Springfield Mount. Look, Dad, they’re all right, really, the others, Steve. It’s just him. There’s something wrong with him, I’m sure of it.”

  “Did he know Linda Lofthouse?”

  “Linda? I don’t… yes, yes, he did.”

  Chadwick’s ears pricked up at the familiarity with which Yvonne mentioned Linda’s name. “How do you know? It’s all right, Yvonne, you can tell me the truth. I’m not going to be angry with you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Yvonne smiled. It was an old ritual. “It was at another house, on Bayswater Terrace,” she said. “There’s three places people, like, gather, to listen to music and stuff. Springfield Mount and Carberry Place are the other two. Anyway, sometime during the summer I was with Steve, and Linda was there. McGarrity too. I mean they didn’t know one another, they weren’t close or anything, but he had met her.”

  Chadwick paused a moment to take it all in. Bayswater Terrace. Dennis, Julie and the rest. So Yvonne was part of that crowd. His own daughter. He held himself in check, remembering he’d promised not to be angry. Besides, the poor girl had been through a trauma, and it had taken a lot for her to open up; the last thing she needed now was a lecture from her father. But it was hard to keep his rage inside. He felt so wound up, so tight, that his chest ached.

  “You met Linda, too?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Tears filled Yvonne’s eyes. “Once. We didn’t talk much, really. She just said she liked my dress and my hair, and we talked about what a drag school can be. She was so nice, Dad, how could anyone do that to her?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” Chadwick said, stroking his daughter’s silky blond hair. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think it was him? McGarrity?”

  “I don’t know that, either, but I’m going to have to have a talk with him.”

  “Don’t be too hard on Steve or the others, Dad. Please. They’re all right. Really they are. It’s only him, only McGarrity who’s weird.”

  “I understand,” said Chadwick. “How do you feel now about getting up and having something to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, at least come downstairs and see your mother. She’s worried sick about you.”

  “Okay,” said Yvonne. “But give me a few minutes to get changed and wash my face.”

  “Right you are, sweetheart.” Chadwick kissed the top of her head, left the room and headed for the telephone, jaw set hard. Later tonight, someone was going to be very sorry he had ever been born.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Annie Cabbot tried to control her temper as she waited to knock and enter Detective Superintendent Gervaise’s office after Banks had left for Whitby. It was difficult. She had sensed that Gervaise hadn’t liked her from the start and sussed her as another ambitious woman who got where she was the hard way, who was damned if she was going to give any other woman anything less than her worst. So much for female solidarity.

  Annie took several deep, calming breaths, the way she did when she was meditating or practicing yoga. It didn’t work. She knocked anyway and entered even before the slightly puzzled voice called out, “Enter.”

  “I’d like a word, ma’am,” said Annie.

  “DI Cabbot. Please, sit down.”

  Annie sat. She remembered how she had always felt slightly awed and nervous when Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had called her into this same office, but this time she felt nothing of the kind.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “You were seriously out of order back there,” Annie said. “At the morning briefing.”

  “I was?” Gervaise feigned surprise. At least Annie believed it was feigned.

  “You have no right to make public comments about my private life.”

  Superintendent Gervaise held her hand up. “Now, let’s wait a moment before we go any further. Just exactly what was it I said that has upset you so much?”

  “You know damn well what it was. Ma’am.”

  “We don’t seem to be getting off on the right foot here, do we?”

  “You said you had no desire to argue sexual mores, especially with me.”

  “These meetings aren’t a forum for argument, DI Cabbot, they’re called to bring everyone up-to-date and set the scene for more actions and lines of inquiry. You know that.”

  “Yet you deliberately insulted me in front of my colleagues.”

  Superintendent Gervaise regarded her as she might a particularly troublesome schoolgirl. “Well, seeing as we’re on the subject,” she said, “you do have something of a checkered history with us, don’t you?”

  Annie said nothing.

  “Let me remind you. You’d not been in North Yorkshire five minutes before you were jumping into bed with DCI Banks. And let me also remind you that fraternizing between fellow officers is seriously frowned upon, and liaisons between a DS, as you were then, and a DCI, are particularly fraught with dangers, as I’m sure you found out. He was your superior officer. What were you thinking of?”

  Annie felt her heart beating hard in her chest. “My private life is my affair.”

  “You’re not a stupid woman,” Superintendent Gervaise went on. “I know that. We all make mistakes, and they’re rarely fatal.” She paused. “But your last one was, wasn’t it? Your last mistake almost cost DCI Banks his life.”

  “We weren’t involved in anything then,” Annie said, aware as she spoke of how weak her response sounded.

  “I know that.” Gervaise shook her head. “DI Cabbot, I’m not entirely certain how you’ve managed to last here so long, let alone how you were promoted to DI so quickly in the first place. Things must have been very easygoing around here back then. Or perhaps DCI Banks had a certain amount of influence with the ACC?”

  Annie felt her heart about to explode at the insult, but a dreadful calm flooded her, disconcerting at first, like a sort of cooling numbness in her blood, a falling-away of feeling. Then it warmed a little, transformed into a calm, altered state. It didn’t matter. Whatever Superintendent Gervaise thought, said or did, it didn’t matter. Annie cared about her career, but there were some things she just wouldn’t take, not for anything, not from anyone, and that knowledge made her feel free. She almost smiled. Gervaise must have sensed some change in the air, because there was a new edge to her voice when she noticed she wasn’t getting the desired response from Annie.

  “Anyway, in case you haven’t noticed it, things have changed around here now. I won’t countenance romantic relationships among my officers. They’re distracting and sow the seeds for all kinds of mistakes and future difficulties, as you have discovered. And in the future, I would strongly suggest that you think again about continuing your relationship with DCI Banks.”

  Did
Gervaise really believe that Annie and Banks had got back together? Why? Had someone told her? A few moments ago Annie would have leaped out of her seat and throttled Gervaise at such words, but now she took it all in calmly. The superintendent had also known about Banks having a pint in the Cross Keys on the night of the murder. Who had told her about that? Was there a spy in their midst? Annie didn’t react.

  “DI Cabbot?”

  “Sorry,” said Annie. “I was miles away.”

  “That’s very irresponsible of you. You come barging in here telling me I’m not doing my job properly, and the minute you realize you’re in the wrong, you start daydreaming.”

  “It wasn’t that,” Annie said. “Are we finished here?”

  “Not until I say we are.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “This other business. Kelly Soames.”

  “It’s not other business,” said Annie. “It’s all connected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I defended Kelly Soames’s sexual mores so you attacked mine. It’s connected.”

  “I thought we’d left that behind.”

  “Look, you want me to subject the poor girl to the ordeal of her father finding out she’d had a sexual relationship with Nick Barber, and I said I’d given her some assurances that wouldn’t happen.”

  “Those assurances weren’t yours to give.”

  “I’m aware of that. Even so, you can hardly attack me for wanting to stand by my word.”

  “Admirable as that may seem, it’s not workable here. This job isn’t about saving your conscience and keeping your promises. I want that girl confronted with what happened in the presence of her father, and if you won’t do it I’ll find someone who will.”

  “What is it with you? Are you a sadist or something?”

  Gervaise’s lips narrowed in a nasty smile. “I’m a professional detective just doing her job,” she said. “Which is something you should take a little more seriously. Sympathy for victims is all very well, in its place, but remember that Nicholas Barber is the victim here, not Kelly Soames.”

  “Not yet,” said Annie.

  “Insubordination will get you nowhere.”

  “No, but it feels good.” Annie stood up to leave. “There’s obviously no further point talking to you, so if you’re thinking of taking action against me, do it. I don’t care. Either shit or get off the pot.”

  Gervaise’s face fell. “What did you say?”

  Annie walked toward the door. “You heard me,” she said.

  “Right,” said Superintendent Gervaise. “I want you on statement reading as of now. And send in DS Templeton.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Annie, and shut the door softly behind her as she left. Templeton. Now that made sense.

  Sunday, 21st September, 1969

  Chadwick went in with the Springfield Mount team because that was the house where Yvonne had been accosted by McGarrity. Two other teams, also with search warrants, carried out simultaneous raids on Bayswater Terrace and Carberry Place. They waited until well after midnight, by which time Yvonne was fast asleep in bed. As any prior announcement of their presence was likely to result in drugs being flushed down the toilet, they were authorized to enter by force.

  The streets were deserted, most of the houses in darkness apart from the lonely light of an insomniac here and there, or a student burning the midnight oil; a sheen of rain reflected the amber streetlights on the pavements and tarmac. Directly across from Springfield Mount was a small triangular park, locked up for the night, wedged between two merging main roads. At the end of the street, across the road, loomed the local grammar school, all in darkness now, with its bell tower and high windows.

  The unmarked police car pulled up at the end of the street behind a patrol car. There were five officers altogether: Chadwick, Bradley and three uniforms, one of whom would guard the back. Geoff Broome was leading the Carberry team, and his colleague, Martin Young, the raid on Bayswater Terrace. They didn’t expect any resistance or problems, except perhaps from McGarrity, if he had his knife.

  Chadwick could hear music coming from the front room, and candlelight flickered behind the curtains. Good, someone was at home. Surprise was of the essence now. When everyone was in position, Chadwick gave a nod to the uniform with the battering ram and one smash was enough to break the lock and send the door banging back on its hinges.

  As arranged, the two uniformed constables dashed upstairs to secure the upper level and Chadwick and Bradley entered the front room. The officer on guard at the back would take care of the kitchen.

  In the living room, Chadwick found three people lying on the floor in advanced stages of intoxication – marijuana, judging by the smell that even two smoldering joss sticks couldn’t mask. Candles flickered, and dreadful wailing electric guitar music came from the record player, a kangaroo with a pain in its testicles, by the sound of it, Chadwick thought.

  It didn’t look as if their arrival had interrupted any deep conversations, or any conversations at all for that matter, as they all seemed beyond speech, and one of them could only manage a quick “What the fuck?” before Chadwick announced who he was and told them the police were there to search the premises for drugs and for a knife that may have been used in the committing of a homicide. Bradley switched on the electric light and turned the music off.

  Things didn’t look so bad, Chadwick realized with surprise, not what he had expected, just three scruffy long-haired kids lounging around stoned, listening to what passed for music. There was no orgy; nobody was crawling around naked and drooling on the floor or committing outrageous sex acts. Then he saw the LP cover leaning against the wall. It showed a girl with long wavy red hair and full red lips. She was naked from the belly button up, and she couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve. In her hands she cradled a chrome model airplane. What kind of perverts was he dealing with? Chadwick wondered. And one of them had been seeing his daughter. This was where Yvonne would have been tonight, had McGarrity not scared her off. This was what she would have been doing. She had been here before, done this, and that set his teeth on edge.

  Bradley took their names: Steve Morrison, Todd Crowley and Jacqueline McNeil. They all seemed docile and sheepish enough. Chadwick took Steve aside to a corner of the room and gripped the front of his shirt in his fist. “Whatever comes of this,” he hissed, “I want you to stop seeing my daughter. Understand?”

  Steve turned pale. “Who? Who am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “Her name’s Yvonne. Yvonne Chadwick.”

  “Shit, I didn’t know she…”

  “Just stay away from her. Okay?”

  Steve nodded, and Chadwick let him go. “Right,” he said, turning to the others. “Where’s McGarrity?”

  “Dunno,” said Todd Crowley. “He was here earlier. Maybe he’s upstairs.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Nothing. Just listening to music.”

  Chadwick gestured toward the LP cover. “Where did you get that filth?”

  “What?”

  “The naked child. You realize we could probably prosecute you under the Obscene Publications Act, don’t you?”

  “That’s art, man,” Crowley protested. “You can buy it at any record shop. Obscenity’s in the eye of the beholder.”

  There were greasy fish-and-chip wrappers and newspapers on the floor beside empty bottles of beer. Bradley went over to the ashtray and extracted the remains of a number of hand-rolled cigarettes he identified by their smell as being a mix of tobacco and hash. That, in itself, was enough to charge them with possession.

  What the hell did Yvonne see in this dump? Chadwick wondered. Why did she come here? Was her life at home so bad? Was she so desperate to get away from him and Janet? But there was no point trying to work it out. As Enderby had said, it was probably down to freedom.

  Chadwick heard a brief scuffle and a bang upstairs, followed by a series of loud thumps, each one getting closer. When he went to the fo
ot of the stairs, he saw the two uniformed constables, one without his hat, holding the arms of a man who was struggling to get up.

  “He didn’t want to come with us, sir,” one of the officers said.

  It looked as if they had held his arms and dragged him down the stairs backward, which shouldn’t have done much damage to anything except his dignity and maybe his tailbone. Chadwick watched as the unruly black-clad figure with the lank dark hair and pockmarked face got to his feet and dusted himself off, the superior smirk already back in place, if indeed it had ever been gone.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, “Mr. McGarrity, I assume? I’ve been wanting a word with you.”

  Enderby’s local, two streets down, was like his house: comfortable and unremarkable. It was a relatively new building, late sixties from its low squat shape and the large picture windows facing the sea. The advantages, from Banks’s point of view, were that it was practically empty at that time in the afternoon, and they sold cask-conditioned Tetley’s. One pint wouldn’t do him any harm, he decided, as he bought the drinks at the bar and carried them over.

  Enderby looked at him. “Thought your resolve might weaken.”

  “It often does,” Banks admitted. “Nice view.”

  Enderby took a sip of beer. “Mmm.”

  The window looked out over the glittering North Sea, dotted here and there with fishing boats and trawlers. Whitby was still a thriving fishing town, Banks reminded himself, even if the whaling industry it had grown from was long extinct. Captain Cook had got his seafaring start in Whitby, and his statue stood on top of West Cliff, close to the jawbone of a whale.

  “When did this real murder happen?” Banks asked.

  “September the year before. In 1969. By Christ, Banks, you’re taking me on a hell of a trip along Memory Lane today. I haven’t thought about that business in years.”

  Banks knew all about trips down Memory Lane, having not so long ago looked into the disappearance of an old schoolfriend whose body was found buried in a field outside Peterborough. Sometimes, as he got older, it seemed as if the past was always overwhelming the present.