“Now, what can you tell me about Adam Harkness?”
“Ah-hah, the interrogation at last. As I said, I can’t tell you very much, really. But I don’t believe all that phoney anti-apartheid rubbish, for a start.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t square with what I’ve heard. Oh, I’m sure he probably even believes it himself now, and it’s a trendy enough position for white South African expatriates to take. But how do you think his father made his money? You can’t tell me he didn’t exploit the blacks. Everybody did. And you won’t see Adam Harkness giving his money away to support the ANC.”
“He told me he left South Africa because he didn’t agree with the politics.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“It’s just rumours, but I’ve a friend lives there, a writer, and she said there was some kind of scandal about to break but the Harknesses hushed it up.”
“What kind of scandal?”
“Nobody really knows. My friend suspects he killed someone, a black mine-worker, but there’s no proof.”
It was possible, Banks supposed, ten or more years
ago to cover up the murder of a black by a rich and powerful white man in South Africa. For all he knew, despite the scrapping of racial classification, it probably still was. Attitudes don’t change overnight, whatever politicians might decree.
“Have you ever heard of a man called Carl Johnson?” Banks asked.
“Only from the papers. He was the one killed, wasn’t he, at the old lead mine?”
“That’s right. He worked as a gardener for Harkness.”
“Did he now?” She leaned forward. “And you think there might be some connection?”
“There might be.”
“You surely don’t think Adam Harkness murdered him?”
“Harkness has an alibi. But a man like him can afford to have things done.”
Her eyes opened wide. They looked like oysters on a half-shell. “Do you mean that kind of thing really goes on? In England? Hit men and contracts and all that.”
Banks smiled. “It has been known.”
“Well … there’s obviously more to this crime business than I realized. But I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.”
“Could you get in touch with your friend? Ask her for more information?”
“I could try, but I got the impression they put a lid on it pretty securely. Still, if it might help …”
“It might.”
“I’ve just had a thought.”
“Yes?”
“If the rumour’s true, about Harkness and the black miner, and if that Johnson person was killed at an old mine, there’s a sort of symmetry to that, isn’t there?”
“I suppose there is,” Banks agreed. Symmetry, for
Christ’s sake, he thought. Plenty of it in books, but not in real life. “It’s just a very isolated spot,” he said. “So why would anyone go there to meet a killer?” “Obviously it was someone he trusted. He didn’t have a car, so someone must have picked him up, or met him somewhere, and taken him there. Perhaps he thought he was going to get money.”
“Oh, yes,” said Linda. “I see. Well, I’d better leave the police work to you, hadn’t I? But, you know, that’s exactly the kind of thinking I’m interested in. Now, I’m going to have a chocolate sundae and you can tell me all about your most interesting case.”
Ill
Gristhorpe and Richmond stood in the rain outside
Parkinson’s house. Semi-detached, with a frosted-glass
door and a pebble-dash facade, it was more modern than
the row of tiny limestone cottages that faced it across the
lopsided square of unkempt grass. Gristhorpe hadn’t realized
that Parkinson’s house was so close to the abandoned
cottage. This was the extreme north-western edge
of Eastvale, and both the new and the old houses shared
a superb view west along the valley bottom. Not today,
though; everything was lost in the grey haze of rain.
Richmond wore a belted navy- blue Aquascutum over his suit, and Gristhorpe a rumpled fawn raincoat with the collar turned up. Neither wore a hat. It was the kind of rain that you felt inside rather than out, Gristhorpe thought, already registering the aches in his joints. Outside you merely got beaded in moisture, but inside you were damp and chilled to the marrow.
They had already tried the semis to the west, the last pair, with only the Helmthorpe Road and a drystone
wall between them and the open country, but found nobody home. In fact, as Gristhorpe stood there looking around, he noticed how quiet and secluded the area was. Given that Parkinson had kept his car in the garage at the back of his house, it wouldn’t have been at all difficult for someone to “borrow” it
