politics over there. Apartheid disgusted me, and I lacked the courage to become a revolutionary. Who wants another white liberal, anyway?”
“So you moved to Amsterdam?”
“Yes.”
“But you kept your business interests in South Africa?”
“I said I couldn’t stand living with the politics, Chief Inspector. I didn’t say I was a fool. I also don’t believe in sanctions. But that’s not what you came to hear about.”
“Still, it is fascinating. Are you married?”
“Divorced, back in Amsterdam.” He shifted in his chair. “If you don’t mind?”
“I’m sorry.” Banks put down his empty glass and
stood up. “It’s just a copper’s instinct. Curiosity.”
“It’s also what killed the cat.”
Harkness said it with a smile, but Banks could hardly miss the cutting edge. He ignored it and walked to the library door.
As they walked down the gloomy hall with its waist-high wainscoting, Banks turned to one of the doors. “What’s in here?” he asked.
Harkness opened the door and turned on a light. “Living room.”
It was a spacious, high-ceilinged room with wall-to-wall thick pile carpeting and a burgundy three-piece suite. Next to the fireplace stood a tall bookcase stacked with old National Geographic magazines. A couple of landscapes hung on the walls: original oils, by the look of them. Banks couldn’t tell who the artists were, but Sandra would probably know. Again, Banks noticed how untidy the room was and how dusty the fixtures. Beside the sofa was a long, low table, and at its centre stood a tarnished silver goblet encrusted with dirt. Banks picked it up. “What’s this?” he asked.
Harkness shrugged. “Carl found it when he was digging the garden one day and he brought it to me. It looks old. I keep meaning to get it cleaned up and valued. He thought it might be worth something. I suppose,” he went on, “you could take that as another example of his honesty. He could have kept it.”
Banks examined the goblet. It had some kind of design engraved on it, but he couldn’t make out what it was through the grime. It looked like a coat of arms. He put it back down on the table. It was something Tracy would be interested in, he thought. Would have been, he corrected himself.
Harkness noticed him looking around. “It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. But as I said, the house is too big and I
don’t use all of it anyway.”
“Don’t you have a cleaning lady?”
“Can’t abide maids. Ever since I was a child in South Africa we had them, and I never could stand them. Always fussing around you. And I suppose as much as anything I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone having to clean up after anyone else. It seemed so undignified, somehow.”
Banks, whose mother had charred at a Peterborough office block to bring in a bit of extra money, said, “Yet you employed a gardener?”
Harkness led the way to the front door. “That’s different, don’t you think? A gardener is a kind of artist in a way, and I’ve no objection to being a patron of the arts. I always thought of the grounds as very much Carl’s creation.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Banks said at the door. “Just one more question: Did he ever mention the old lead mine near Relton?”
“No. Why?”
“I just wondered if it was special to him for some reason. Can you think of any reason he might have been there?”
Harkness shook his head. “None at all. Digging for hidden treasure, perhaps?” His eyes twinkled.
“Perhaps,” Banks said. “Thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure.”
Harkness closed the door slowly but firmly and Banks got into his car. As he drove back to Eastvale in the blue-grey twilight with the haunting piano music playing, he wondered about Harkness. Many business dealings don’t bear close scrutiny, of course, and you don’t get as rich as Harkness without skirting the law and stepping on a few toes here and there. Is that what Harkness was getting at with his remark about curiosity killing the cat? If
that was so, where did Johnson fit in? It might be useful having a criminal for a gardener if you wanted other kinds of dirty business done. On the other hand, it might also, after a while, turn out to be very inconvenient, too. At least, Banks concluded, it might be worthwhile asking a few questions about Mr Adam Harkness.
II
“This must be it, sir,” said DS Richmond as he pulled in
behind Patricia Cummings outside the last cottage in a
terrace of four, right on the north-western edge of
Eastvale, where the road curved by the side of River
Swain into the dale. It was a pleasant spot, handy for
both the town life, with its cinemas, shops and pubs, and
for getting out into the more rural reaches of the dale itself.
The holiday cottages were small—just right for a
couple—and the view of the entry into the dale proper
