Harkness paused. “Well … of course, yes … I suppose I see what you mean. The thing is, though, there really is nothing. I’m sure if he’d said anything I would have remembered it by now. The fact is we just didn’t talk beyond discussing the garden and the weather. Basically, we had nothing else in common. He seemed a reticent sort of fellow, anyway, kept himself to himself, and that suited me fine. Also, remember, I’m often away on business.”
“Was there ever any evidence that Johnson had used the house in your absence?”
“What do you mean, ‘used the house’? For what purpose?”
“I don’t know. I assume he had a key?”
“Yes. But…”
“Nothing was ever out of place?”
“No. Are you suggesting he might have been stealing things?”
“No. I don’t think even Carl Johnson would have been that stupid. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m getting at.” Banks scratched his head and glanced at the river and the copper beech, leaves dripping, beyond the french windows. “This is a fairly out-of-the-way place. It could be suitable for criminal activities in any number of ways.”
“I noticed nothing,” Harkness said, with a thin smile. “Not even a muddy footprint on my carpet.”
“You see,” Banks went on, “Johnson’s life is a bit of a mystery to us. We’ve got his record, the bald facts. But
how did he think? We don’t seem to be able to find anyone who was close to him. And there are years missing. He may have been to Europe, Amsterdam perhaps. He may even have had friends from South Africa.”
Harkness sat bolt upright and gripped the arms of the chair. “What are you insinuating?”
“I’ve heard rumours of some sort of a scandal. Something involving you back in South Africa. There was some sort of cover-up. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Harkness snorted. “There are always scandals surrounding the wealthy, Chief Inspector. You ought to know that. Usually they derive from envy. No, I can’t say I do know what you’re talking about.”
“But was there any such scandal involving you or your family out there?”
“No, nothing that stands out.”
Banks got that almost-infallible tingle that told him Harkness was holding back. He gave his man-of-the-world shrug. “Of course, I’m not suggesting there was any truth in it, but we have to investigate everything that comes up.”
Harkness stood up. “It seems to me that you are spending an unusual amount of time investigating me when you should be looking for Carl Johnson’s killer. I suggest you look among his criminal cronies for your killer.”
“You’ve got a point, there. And, believe me, we’re trying to track them down. Just out of interest, did Johnson ever mention South Africa to you?”
“No, he did not. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re getting at. You’re suggesting he was blackmailing me over some secret or other, aren’t you, and that I killed him to silence him? Come on, is that what you’re getting at?”
Banks stood up and spoke slowly. “But you couldn’t have killed him, could you, sir? You were dining at the Golf Club at the time of the murder. A number of very influential people saw you there.” He regarded Harkness, who maintained an expression of outraged dignity, then said, “Thank you very much for your time,” and left.
As he drove down to the main road with the windscreen-wipers tapping time to Gurney’s “Sleep,” he smiled to himself. He had got at least some of what he had wanted: a sure sense that Harkness was holding something back; and the satisfying knowledge that the man, rich, confident and powerful notwithstanding, could be rattled. Time now to make a few overseas phone calls, then perhaps have another chat with Mr Adam Harkness.
Ill
“You think I acted dishonestly, is that what you’re saying?”
“Irresponsibly is the word I had in mind,” Gristhorpe replied. He was sitting opposite Lenora Carlyle in a small interview room at the station. A WPC sat by the window to take notes. With her wild black hair, her high, prominent cheekbones and blazing dark eyes, Lenora certainly looked dramatic. She seemed composed as she sat there, he noticed, arms folded across her jumper, a slightly superior smile revealing stained teeth. It was the kind of smile, Gristhorpe thought, that she probably reserved for the poor, lost disbelievers with whom she no doubt had to deal now and then.
“I do my job, Superintendent,” she said, “and you do yours.”
“And just what is your job? In this case it seems to
consist of giving a poor woman false hope.” Gristhorpe had just been to see Brenda Scupham, and he had noticed the fervour in her eyes when she spoke of what Lenora had told her.
“I can tell there’s no convincing you, but I don’t happen to believe it’s false. Look, are you upset because Brenda criticized you on television? Is that why you’ve got me in here?”
“What was the source of your information about Gemma Scupham?”
“I’m a psychic. You know that already.”
“So the ‘other side’ is the source?”
“If you want to put it like that, yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“What are you getting at?”
Gristhorpe leaned back and rested his forearms on the table. “Ms Carlyle, we’re investigating the abduction of a child, a very serious crime, and one that happens to be especially odious to me. All of a sudden, you walk into Brenda Scupham’s house and tell her you know the child is still alive. I’d be a bloody idiot if I didn’t ask you how you know.”
“I’ve told you.”
