of these, but for some reason he still couldn’t convince himself that Boyd had done it-and not only because he took the responsibility for letting the kid out of jail. Boyd certainly had a record, and he had taken off when the knife was discovered. He could be a lot tougher and more clever than anyone realized. If he was faking his claustrophobia, for example, so that even Burgess was more inclined to believe him because of his fear of incarceration, then anything was possible. But so far they had nothing but circumstantial evidence, and Banks still felt that the picture was incomplete.
He lit a cigarette and walked over to look down on the market square. It brought no inspiration today.
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Finally, he decided it was time to tidy his desk before lunch. Almost every available square inch was littered with little yellow Post-it notes, most of which he had acted on ages ago. He screwed them all up and dropped them in the waste basket. Next came the files, statements and records he’d read to refresh his memory of the people involved. Most information was stored in the records department, but Banks had developed the habit of keeping brief files on all the cases he had a hand in. At the top was his file on Elizabeth Dale. Picking it up again, he remembered that he had just pulled it out of the cabinet, after some difficulty in locating it, when Sergeant Rowe had called with the news of Seth Cotton’s death.
He opened the folder and brought back to mind the facts of the case-not even a case, really, just a minor incident that had occurred some eighteen months ago.
Elizabeth Dale had checked herself into a psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Huddersfield, complaining of depression, apathy and general inability to cope with the outside world. After a couple of days’ observation and treatment, she had decided she didn’t like the service and ran off to Maggie’s Farm, where she knew that Seth Cotton, an old friend from Hebden Bridge, was living. The hospital authorities informed Eastvale that she had spoken about her friend with the house near Relton, and they asked the local social services to please check up and see if she was there.
She was. Dennis Osmond had been sent to the farm to try to convince her to return to the hospital for her own good, but Ms Dale remained adamant: she was staying at the farm. Osmond also had the nerve to agree that the place would probably do her good. In anger and desperation, the hospital sent out two men of its own, who persuaded Elizabeth to return with them. They had browbeaten her and threatened her with committal, or so Seth Cotton and Osmond had complained at the time.
Because Elizabeth Dale also had a history of drug addiction, the police were called out when the hospital employees said they suspected the people at the farm were using drugs.
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Banks had gone out there with Sergeant Hatchley and a uniformed constable, but they had found nothing. Ms Dale went back to the hospital, and as far as Banks knew, everything returned to normal.
In the light of recent events, though, it became a more intriguing tale. For one thing, both Elizabeth Dale and Dennis Osmond were connected with PC Gill via the complaints they had made independently. And now it appeared there was yet another link between Osmond and Dale.
Where was Elizabeth Dale now? He would have to go to Huddersfield and find her himself. He’d learned from experience that it was absolutely no use at all dealing with doctors over the phone. But that would have to wait until tomorrow.
First, he wanted to talk to Mara again, if she was well enough. Before setting off, he considered phoning Jenny to try to make up the row they’d had on Sunday lunchtime.
Just as he was about to call her, the phone rang.
“Chief Inspector Banks?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Lawrence Courtney, of Courtney, Courtney and Courtney, Solicitors.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of the firm. What can I do for you?”
“It’s what I might be able to do for you,” Courtney said. “I read in this morning’s newspaper that a certain Seth Cotton has died. Is that correct?”
“That’s right, yes.”
“Well, it might interest you to know, Chief Inspector, that we are the holders of Mr Cotton’s will.”
“Will?”
“Yes, will.” He sounded faintly irritated. “Are you interested?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Would it be convenient for you to call by our office after lunch?”
“Yes, certainly. But look, can’t you tell me-“
“Good. I’ll see you then. About two-thirty, shall we say? Goodbye, Chief Inspector.”
Banks slammed the phone down. Bloody pompous solicitor. He cursed and reached for a cigarette. But a will? That
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was unexpected. Banks wouldn’t have thought such a nonconformist as Seth would have bothered making a will. Still, he did own property, and a business. But how could he have had any idea that he was going to die in the near future?
Banks jotted down the solicitor’s name and the time of the meeting and stuck the note to his desk. Then he took a deep breath, phoned Jenny at her university office in York, and plunged right in. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I know what it must have sounded like, but I couldn’t think of a better way of telling you.”
“I overreacted.” Jenny said. “I feel like an idiot. I suppose you were only doing your job.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you, not until I realized that being around Osmond really might be dangerous.”
