“What did Carl say about Chivers’s girlfriend?” he asked.
“Just that Chivers knifed a bloke once for looking at her the wrong way. Didn’t kill him, like, just cut him up a bit. Anyway, like I said, he never had any shortage of birds. Not scrubbers either, according to Carl. Quality goods. Maybe it was his smile,” Les added.
“What smile?”
“Nothing. Just that Carl said he had this really nice smile, like. Said his mates called him ‘Smiler’ Chivers.”
When Banks heard Poole’s last comment, the warning bells began to ring. “Susan,” he said, looking over Poole’s shoulder. “Do you know if the super’s still here?”
II
Brenda Scupham couldn’t concentrate on the television
programme. For a moment she thought of going out,
maybe to the pub, but decided she couldn’t stand the
questions and the looks people would give her. She
hadn’t enjoyed going out much at all since Gemma had
gone. For one thing, people had given her dirty looks
when they saw her, as if they blamed her or she wasn’t
obeying the proper rules of mourning or something.
Instead, she took another tranquillizer and poured herself
a small measure of gin. Again she wondered what the
hell was going on.
All she knew was that the police had called at her house earlier that evening looking for Les. He’d been out of course, and she hadn’t known where, though she was sure the policeman hadn’t believed her. When she asked what they wanted, they wouldn’t tell her anything. Surely, she thought, if it had anything to do with Gemma, they should tell her?
She looked over at the television and video. Maybe that’s what it was all about? She knew they were stolen. She wasn’t that stupid. Les hadn’t said so, of course, but then he wouldn’t; he never gave away anything. He had dropped them off in John’s van one afternoon and said they were bankrupt stock. All the time the police had been coming and going because of Gemma, Brenda had been worried they would spot the stolen goods and arrest her. But they hadn’t. Perhaps now they had some more evidence and had decided to arrest Les after all.
How her life could have changed so much in just one week was beyond her. But it had, and even the tranquillizers did no real good. She had enjoyed going on television with Lenora Carlyle—that had been the high spot of her week—but nothing had come of it. Just as nothing
had come of the police search, the “Crimewatch” reconstruction, or her appeals through the newspapers. And now, as she sat and thought about the police visit, she wondered if Les might have been involved in some way with Gemma’s disappearance. She couldn’t imagine how or why?except he hadn’t got on very well with Gemma?but he had been acting strangely of late.
And the more she thought about it, the more she lost faith in Lenora’s conviction that Gemma was still alive. She couldn’t be. Not after all this time, not after the bloodstained clothing they had brought for her to identify. And apart from that one statement, Lenora had come up with nothing else, had she? Surely she ought to be able to picture where Gemma was if she was any good as a psychic? But no, nothing. And what if Gemma was alive somewhere? It didn’t bear thinking about. She felt closer to her daughter now she was gone than she ever had while Gemma had been around.
Time after time her thoughts circled back to Mr Brown and Miss Peterson. Should she have known they weren’t who they said they were? And if she hadn’t felt so guilty about not loving Gemma the way a good mother should and about shaking her the week before, would she have let her go so easily? They had been so convincing, kind and understanding rather than accusing in their approach. They had looked so young, so official, so competent, but how was she to know what child-care workers were supposed to look like?
Again she thought of the police officers who had come to her house earlier. Maybe they had found Gemma and some clue had led them to Les. But still she couldn’t imagine what he could possibly have to do with it. He had been out when the child care workers called. Still, there was no denying the police were after him. If he had anything to do with Gemma’s abduction, Brenda thought,
she would kill him. Damn the consequences. It was all his fault anyway. Yes, she thought, reaching for the gin bottle again. She would kill the bastard. For now, though, she was sick of thinking and worrying.
The only thing that worked, that took away the pain, even though it lasted such a short time, was the video. Slowly, she got up and went over to the player. The cassette was still in. All she had to do was rewind and watch herself on television again. She had been nervous, but she was surprised when she watched the playback that it didn’t show so much. And she had looked so pretty.
Brenda poured herself another generous measure, turned on one element of the fire and reclined on the sofa with her dressing-gown wrapped around her. She had watched the video once and was rewinding for a second viewing when she heard Les’s key in the door.
I’ll
“You don’t believe for a moment he told you everything,
do you?” Gristhorpe asked Banks later in the Queen’s
Arms. It was a quiet Wednesday evening, a week since
the first news of Gemma Scupham’s disappearance—and
despite the helicopters and search tactics learned from
the North American Association of Search and Rescue,
she still hadn’t been found. Banks and Gristhorpe sat at a
table near the window eating the roast beef sandwiches
that they had persuaded Cyril, the landlord, to make for
them.
Banks chewed and swallowed his mouthful, then said, “No. For a start, I’m sure he’s seen this Chivers bloke, but he couldn’t really admit to it without implicating himself in the warehouse job. We let him walk. For now. Les won’t stray far. He’s got nowhere to go.”
“And then?”
