to
that. Thus, when they finally got to talk to Chivers, the
custody record had been opened; he had been offered the
right to legal advice, which he had repeatedly refused;
offered the chance to inform a friend or relative of his arrest,
at which he had laughed; and even offered a cup of
tea, which he had accepted. The desk sergeant had managed
to rustle up a disposable white boiler suit to replace
his wet clothes, as according to the Police and Criminal
Evidence Act, “a person may not be interviewed unless
adequate clothing has been offered to him.” And the interview room they sat in, while not especially large, was at least “adequately heated, lit and ventilated” according to the letter of the law. If questioning went on for a long time, Chivers would be brought meals and allowed periods of rest.
In addition, Jenny Fuller had turned up at the station and asked if she could be present during the questioning. It was an unusual request, and at first Banks refused. Jenny persisted, claiming her presence might even help, as Chivers seemed to like to show off to women. Finally, Banks asked Chivers’s permission, which galled him, and Chivers said, “The more the merrier.”
Back at Harkness’s house, Banks knew, the SOCO team would be collecting evidence, Glendenning poring over Harkness’s body, a group of constables digging up the garden that Carl Johnson had so lovingly tended, and police frogmen searching the river.
Sometimes, thought Banks, the creaking machinery of the law was a welcome prophylactic on his desire to reach out and throttle someone. Hampered as he had often felt by the Act, today, ironically enough, he was glad of it as he sat across the table looking at the man who had murdered at least three people, wounded Superintendent Gristhorpe and abducted Gemma Scupham.
As he looked, he certainly felt the impulse to kill Chivers, simply to swat him as one would a troublesome wasp. But it wasn’t an impulse he was proud of. All his life, both in spite of and because of his job, Banks had tried to cultivate his own version of compassion. If crime really was part of what made us human, he thought, then it merited deep study. If we simply kill off the pests that bother us, we make no progress at all. He knew that he could, in some strange way, learn from Chivers. It was a knowledge he might deeply wish to reject, but spiritual
and intellectual cowardice had never been among his failings.
Banks sat opposite Chivers, Richmond stood behind him, by the door, and Jenny sat by the window, diagonally across from him.
Close up, the monster didn’t look like much at all, Banks noted. About Banks’s height, and with the same kind of lean, wiry strength, he sat erect, hands placed palms down on the table in front of him, their backs covered with ginger down. His skin was pale, his hair an undistinguished shade of sandy brown, and his general look could only be described as boyish?the kind of boy who pulled pranks and was amused to see their effects on the victims.
If there was anything outstanding about him at all, it was his eyes. They were the kind of green the sea looks sometimes, and when he wasn’t smiling they looked just as cold, as deep and as unpredictable as the ocean itself. When he did smile, though, they lit up with such a bright, honest light you felt you could trust him with anything. At least, it was almost like that, Banks thought, if it weren’t for that glint of madness in them; not quite insanity, but close enough to the edge. Not everyone would notice, but then not everyone was looking at him as a murderer.
Banks turned on the tape-recorder, repeated the caution and reminded Chivers of his rights. “Before we get onto the other charges against you,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Gemma Scupham.”
“Why not?” said Chivers. “It was just a lark really.” His voice, a little more whiny and high-pitched than Banks had expected, bore no trace of regional accent; it was as bland and characterless as a BBC 2 announcer’s.
“Whose idea was it?”
“Mr Harkness wanted a companion.”
“How did he get in touch with you?”
“Through Carl Johnson. We’d known each other for a while. Carl was … well, between you and me he wasn’t too bright. Like that other chap, what’s his name?”
“Poole?”
“That’s right. Small-time, the two of them. Lowlifes.”
“How did you first meet Harkness?”
“Look, does any of this really matter? It’s very dull stuff for me, you know.” He shifted in his chair, and Banks noticed him look over at Jenny.
“Humour us.”
Chivers sighed. “Oh, very well. Harkness knew Carl was a gutless oaf, of course, but he had contacts. Harkness needed someone taken care of a couple of months ago.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Someone had been stealing from him in the London office, apparently, and Harkness wanted him taught a lesson. Carl got in touch with me.”
“What happened?”
“I did the job, of course. Harkness paid well. I got an inkling from our little chats that this was a man with unusual tastes and plenty of money. I thought a nice little holiday in Yorkshire might turn out fruitful.” He smiled.
“And did it?”
“Of course.”
“How much?”
