the upper pastures.
Banks drove into the village and passed the green, to his left, where a group of elderly locals sat gossiping and passing the time on a bench below the partially excavated Roman fort on the round hillock opposite. Smoke from their pipes drifted slowly on the hazy evening air.
It felt like a summer evening, Banks thought, and wondered just how long the fine weather would last; not long, if you believed the forecasters. Still, at least for now he could drive with his window down and enjoy the fresh air, except when it was permeated by the overripe tang of manure. Sometimes, though, a different smell would drift in, a garden bonfire, burning vegetation acrid on the air. He listened to Gurney’s “Preludes” and felt that the piano music possessed the same starkly beautiful
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quality as the songs, unmistakably Gurney, heartrending in the way it snatched moments of order from chaos.
At the corner, by the whitewashed sixteenth-century pub, he turned right onto the Lyndgarth road. Way ahead, about halfway up the daleside, he could see Lyndgarth itself, limestone cottages clustered around a small green, and the stubby, square tower of St Mary’s. About half a mile north of the village, he could make out Gristhorpe’s old grey farmhouse. Just to the left of Lyndgarth, a little lower down the hillside, stood the dark ruin of Devraulx Abbey, partially hidden by trees, looking eerie and haunted in the smoky evening light.
Banks drove only as far as the small stone bridge over the River Swain and turned left into a gravelled drive. Sheltered on all sides but the water by poplars, “Leasholme” was an ideal, secluded spot for a reclusive millionaire to retire to. Banks had phoned Adam Harkness earlier and been invited that very evening. He doubted he would find out much from Carl Johnson’s employer, but he had to try.
He parked at the end of the drive beside Harkness’s Jaguar. The house itself was a mix of Elizabethan and seventeenth-century styles, built mostly of limestone, with grit-stone lintels and cornerstones and a flagged roof. It was, however, larger than most, and had clearly belonged to a wealthy, landowner. Over the door, the date read 1617, but Banks guessed the original structure had been there earlier. The large garden had little to show but roses that time of year, but it looked well designed and cared for. Carl Johnson’s green fingers, no doubt.
Finally, irritated by the cloud of gnats that hung over him, Banks rang the bell.
Harkness opened the door a few moments later and beckoned him inside, then led him along a cavernous hallway into a room at the back of the house, which
turned out to be the library. Bookcases, made of dark wood, covered three walls, flanking a heavy door in one and a stone hearth in another. A white wicker armchair faced the fourth wall, where french windows opened into the garden. The well-kept lawn sloped down to the river bank, fringed with rushes, and just to the left, a large copper beech framed a view of the Leas, with Lyndgarth and Aldington Edge beyond, just obscuring Devraulx Abbey behind its thick foliage. The river possessed a magical quality in the fading light; slow-moving, mirror-like, it presented a perfect reflection of the reeds that grew by its banks.
“It is spectacular, isn’t it?” Harkness said. “It’s one of the reasons I bought the place. It’s much too big for me, of course. I don’t even use half the rooms.”
Banks had noticed the dust in the hall and a certain mustiness to the atmosphere. Even the library was untidy, with a large desk littered with papers, pens, rubber bands and a few books placed in small piles on the floor beneath the shelves.
“How long have you been here?” Banks asked.
“Two years. I still travel a fair bit. I’m not retired yet, you know, still got a lot of life in me. But I thought it was time I deserved to take things easy, put in a bit more golf.”
Harkness looked about fifty-five. He was Banks’s height, with silver hair and that brick-red, lined complexion peculiar to the Englishmen who have spent years in warmer climates. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and navy-blue trousers. The pot-belly and sagging breasts showed he wasn’t a man who took much exercise off the golf course.
“Drink?”
“A small Scotch, please,” Banks said.
“Sit down.” Harkness offered Banks the wicker chair
and pulled a swivel chair for himself from behind the desk.
Banks sat. Music played softly in the background: the Radio Three Dvorak concert, by the sound of it. He glanced at the books on the shelves and, for some reason, got the impression they were more for show than use, bought by the yard. A full set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, some Book Club editions of Jane Austen and Dickens, a mail-order “Great Writers” series.
Harkness passed Banks the drink in a heavy crystal glass then joined him, carefully tugging up the creases of his trousers before he sat. “You didn’t tell me very much on the telephone,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Carl Johnson.”
Harkness shook his head slowly. “I still find it hard to believe such a thing could happen. We live in dangerous times.” His accent was an odd mix of South African and public-school English, his manner relaxed. A man used to being in charge, Banks guessed.
“Did you know much about Mr Johnson? About his life, his background?”
Harkness shook his head. “I rarely saw him. He would come and put in his hours whether I was here or not. That was our arrangement. I’m afraid I know nothing at all about his personal life.”
“Did you know he had a criminal record?”
Harkness raised an eyebrow and looked at Banks over the top of his glass. “I know he’d been in jail, if that’s what you mean.”
“How did you find out?”
“He told me when he came for the interview.” Harkness allowed a brief smile. “In fact, he told me that’s where he learned the job.”
“And that didn’t bother you?”
“The man had served his time. He was obviously honest enough to let me know about his past right from the start. Besides, I believe in giving everyone another chance.
