“How did they hear about the cottage? Did they say?”
“Told her they’d read about it in The Dalesman.”
“You could get?”
“I know, I know?the list of subscribers. We’re checking on it. But you can buy The Dalesman at almost any newsagent’s, in this part of the country, anyway.”
“Just a thought.”
Gristhorpe finished his teacake and wiped his mouth with the paper serviette. “At the moment it looks like our best bet lies with the descriptions?if that’s what they really look like. Christ knows, maybe they’re Hollywood special-effects people underneath it all. We’ve got the artist working with Parkinson and the crowd in The Drayman’s Rest. Should be ready for tomorrow’s papers. And I was thinking about the whitewash they found on Gemma’s clothes, too. I’ve seen it in two places recently: Melville Westman’s, the Satanist, or whatever he calls himself, and the holiday cottage.”
“I suppose the Manleys could have kept Gemma there,” Banks said. “Perhaps they drugged her. She’s not very big. It wouldn’t be difficult to get her out of the cottage after dark.”
“Aye, that’s true enough. Still, I’m getting a warrant and sending a few lads to give Westman’s place a good going-over.”
“You don’t like him any better than 1 like Harkness, do you?”
Gristhorpe grinned. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t.” He
pushed his chair back. “Must be off. See you later, Alan.” And he walked out into Market Street.
II
Adam Harkness’s house clearly hadn’t been vacuumed or
tidied since Banks’s last visit. At least a crackling fire
took the chill out of the damp air in the library. The
french windows were firmly closed. Beyond the streaked
glass, drops of rain pitted the river’s surface. Lyndgarth
and Aldington Edge were shrouded in a veil of low grey
cloud.
“Please, sit down,” Harkness said. “Now what can I do for you, Chief Inspector? Have you found Carl’s killer?”
Banks rubbed his hands in front of the fire, then sat. “Not yet,” he said. “There’s a couple of points you might be able to help me clear up, though.”
Harkness raised a challenging eyebrow and sat in the chair opposite Banks. “Yes?”
“We’ve learned that Johnson might have met with a certain individual on a couple of occasions shortly before his murder. Did he talk to you about any of his friends?”
“I’ve already told you. He was my gardener. He came a couple of times a week and kept the garden in trim. That’s all.”
“Is it? Please think about it, Mr Harkness. Even if Johnson was only the hired help, it would be perfectly natural to have a bit of a chat now and then about innocuous stuff, wouldn’t it?” He felt that he was giving Harkness a fair chance to come up with something he may have forgotten or chosen not to admit earlier, but it did no good.
Harkness folded his hands in his lap. “I knew nothing whatsoever about Carl Johnson’s private life. The moment he left my property, his life was his own, and I neither know nor care what he did.”
“Even if it was of a criminal nature?”
“You might believe he was irredeemably branded as a criminal. I do not. Besides, as I keep telling you, I have no knowledge of his activities, criminal or otherwise.”
Banks described the man Edwina Whixley had seen coming down the stairs of Johnson’s building: thickset, medium height, short dark hair, squarish head. “Ever see or hear about him?”
Harkness shook his head. “Carl always came here alone. He never introduced me to any of his colleagues.”
“So you never saw this man?”
“No.”
“How did Johnson get here?”
“What?”
“Carl Johnson? How did he get here? He didn’t have a car.”
“There are still buses, Chief Inspector, including a fairly regular service from Eastvale to Lyndgarth. There’s a bus-stop just by the bridge.”
“Of course. Did Johnson ever mention any of his old prison friends?”
“What? Not to me. It would hardly have been appropriate, would it?” Harkness picked up the poker and jabbed at the fire. “Look, why don’t you save us both a lot of wasted time and energy and accept that I’m telling the truth when I say I knew nothing about Carl’s private life?”
“I don’t know what gives you the impression I don’t believe you.”
“Your attitude, for a start, and the questions you keep on asking over and over again.”
“Sir,” said Banks, “you have to understand that this is a murder investigation. People forget things. Sometimes
they don’t realize the importance of what they know. All I’m doing is trying to jog your memory into giving up something that Johnson might have let slip in a moment of idle chatter. Anything. It might mean nothing at all to you?a name, a date, an opinion, whatever?but it might be vital to us.”
