Chivers’s eyes dulled. “Fatal flaw, I suppose. I can’t bear to miss anything. Besides, you only caught me because I wanted you to, you know. I’ve never been on trial, never been in jail. It might be interesting. And, remember, I’m not there yet.” He shot Jenny a quick smile and began to rub harder at the coffee stain, still making no impression. He was clearly uncomfortable in the boiler suit they had found for him, too, scratching now and then where the rough material made his skin itch.
Banks walked over to the door and opened it to the two uniformed officers who stood outside and nodded for them to take Chivers down to the holding cells for the time being.
Chivers sat at the desk staring down at the stain he was rubbing and rubbing. Finally, he gave up and banged the table once, hard, with his fist.
Ill
Banks stood by his office window with the light off and
looked down on the darkening market square again, a
cigarette between his fingers. Like Phil and Jenny, he
had felt as if he needed a long, hot bath after watching
and listening to Chivers. It was odd how they had drifted
away to try to scrub themselves free of the dirt: Jenny,
pale and quiet, had gone home; Richmond had gone to
the computer room. They all recognized one another’s
need for a little solitude, despite the work that remained.
Little people like Les Poole and others Banks had met in Eastvale sometimes made him despair of human intelligence; someone like Chivers made him wonder seriously about the human soul. Not that Banks was a religious man, but as he looked at the Norman church with its low square tower and the arched door with its carvings of the saints, he burned with unanswered questions.
They could wait, though. The hospital had called to tell him that Gristhorpe had a flesh wound in his thigh and was already proving to be a difficult patient. The SOCOs had called several times from The Leas area; no luck so far in finding Gemma’s body, and it was getting dark. The frogmen had packed up and gone home. They had found Chivers’s gun easily enough, but no trace of Gemma. They would be back tomorrow, though they didn’t hold out much hope. The garden was in ruins, but so far the men had uncovered nothing but stones and roots.
Harkness’s body lay in the mortuary now, and if anyone had to make him look presentable for the funeral, good luck to them. Banks shuddered at the memory. He had washed and washed his face, but he could still smell the blood, or so he thought. And he had tossed away his jacket and shirt, knowing he could never wear them again, and changed into the spares he always kept at the station.
And he thought of Chelsea. So that was her name, the poor twisted shape on the hotel bed in Weymouth. Why had she been so drawn to a monster like Chivers? Can’t people see evil when it’s staring them right in the face? Maybe not until it’s too late, he thought. And the baby. Chivers knew his own evil, revelled in it. Chelsea. Who was she? Where did she come from? Who were her parents and what were they like? Bit by bit, he would find out.
He had been alone with his thoughts for about an hour, watching dusk fall slowly on the cobbled square and the people dribble into the church for the evening service. The glow from the coloured-glass windows of the Queen’s Arms looked welcoming on the opposite corner. God, he could do with a drink to take the taste of blood out of his mouth, out of his soul.
The harsh ring of the telephone broke the silence. He picked it up and heard Gristhorpe say, “The buggers wouldn’t let me out to question Chivers. Have you done it? Did it go all right?”
Banks smiled to himself and assured Gristhorpe that all was well.
“Come and see me, Alan. There’s a couple of things I want to talk about.”
Banks put on his coat and drove over to Eastvale General. He hated hospitals, the smell of disinfectant, the starched uniforms, the pale shadows with clear fluid
dripping into them from plastic bags being pushed on trolleys down gloomy hallways. But Gristhorpe had a pleasant enough private room. Already, someone had sent flowers and Banks felt suddenly guilty that he had come empty-handed.
Gristhorpe looked a little pale and weak, mostly from shock and blood loss, but apart from that he seemed in fine enough fettle.
“Harkness never expected any trouble from the police over Gemma’s abduction, did he?” he asked.
“No,” said Banks. “As Chivers told us, why should he? It was almost the perfect crime. He’d managed to keep a very low profile in the area. Nobody knew how sick his tastes really were.”
“Aye, but everything changed, didn’t it, after Johnson’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“And you were a bit hard on Harkness, given that chip on your shoulder, weren’t you?”
“I suppose so. What are you getting at?”
Gristhorpe tried to sit up in bed and grimaced. “So much so that he might think we’d get onto him?” he said.
“Probably.” Banks rearranged the pillows. “I think he felt quite certain I’d be back.” The superintendent was wearing striped pyjamas, he noticed.
“And he claimed harassment and threatened to call the Commissioner and probably the Prime Minister for all I know.”
“Yes.” Banks looked puzzled. What was Gristhorpe getting at? It wasn’t like him to beat about the bush. Had delirium set in?
“Let’s assume that Chivers is telling the truth,” Gristhorpe went on, “and he delivered Gemma to Harkness on Tuesday evening and killed Johnson on Thursday evening. Now Harkness could have spirited
Gemma out of the house, say to Amsterdam, before Johnson’s murder, but why should he? And if he hadn’t done it by then, he’d probably be too nervous to make such a move later.”
“I suppose he would,” Banks admitted. “And he could have taken her clothes up to the moors to put us off the scent on Thursday evening or Friday, whenever Chivers told him Johnson was dead and came to collect his fee. Harkness must have known we’d visit him then, given his connection with Johnson. But he could have buried her
