“Aye,” said the man next door.
“Hey,” said Les, “Now, come on.” He looked up at the window again. “Brenda, let me in. I don’t like the look of this lot.”
“Too bad.” Brenda swung the suitcase behind her as far as she could, then let it fly out the window. It hit the gatepost and burst open, showering its contents over the garden and street. Les put his hands up to try and stop it from hitting him, but all he managed to catch was the packet of tampons. It spilled its contents on him as he grasped it too tightly. One of the neighbours noticed and started laughing. Les stood there in the rain, half in shadow, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of his life and a packet of tampons spilled like cigarettes at his feet. He looked up at Brenda and shouted one last appeal. Brenda closed the window. Before she pulled the curtains on him, she noticed some of the neighbours edging forward in a semi-circle towards Les, who was backing down the street, looking behind him for a clear escape route.
11
I
“Les Poole’s done a bunk, sir.”
“Has he, now?” Banks looked up from his morning coffee at Susan Gay standing in his office door. She was wearing a cream skirt and jacket over a powder-blue blouse fastened at the neck with an antique jet brooch. Matching jet teardrops hung from her small ears. Her complexion looked fresh-scrubbed under the tight blonde curls that still glistened from her morning shower. Her eyes were lit with excitement.
“Come in and tell me about it,” Banks said.
Susan sat down opposite him. He noticed her glance at the morning papers spread out on his desk. There, on the front pages of all of them, the police artist’s impression of Smiler Chivers and his blonde girlfriend stared out.
“There was a bit of a barney last night on the East Side Estate,” Susan began. “According to PC Evans, who walks the beat down there, Les Poole was out in the street yelling at Brenda to let him in.”
“She locked him out?”
“Seems like it.”
“Why?”
“Well, that’s where it gets interesting. PC Evans talked
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to some of the neighbours. Most of them were a bit tight lipped, but he found one chap who’d been watching it all from his bedroom window down the street. He said it looked like the others had turned into a mob and were about to attack Poole. That’s why he ran off.”
“Any idea why, apart from his sparkling personality?”
“While they were yelling at each other, Brenda apparently made some comment about Poole being responsible for Gemma’s disappearance.”
“What?”
“That’s all he heard, sir, the neighbour. Brenda kept asking Poole what he’d done with Gemma.”
Banks reached for a cigarette, his first of the day. “What do you think?” he asked.
“About Poole?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I mean it could just have been something Brenda thought up on the spur of the moment to hit out at him, couldn’t it?”
“I know Poole’s been holding something back,” Banks said. “That’s just his nature. But I never really thought …” He stubbed out his unfinished cigarette and stood up. “Come on. First, let’s send some of the lads out looking for him. And then we’d better have another word with Brenda.” He picked up one of the newspapers. “We’ll see if she recognizes the artist’s impression, too.”
They drove in silence to East Side Estate. It was a blustery morning, with occasional shafts of sunlight piercing the clouds and illuminating a bridge, a clump of trees or a block of maisonettes for a few seconds then disappearing. There ought to be a shimmering dramatic soundtrack, Banks thought, something to harmonize with the odd sense of revelation the fleeting rays of light conveyed.
Banks knocked on the frosted pane of Brenda’s door,
but no one answered. He knocked harder. Across the street, a curtain twitched. Discarded cellophane wrapping and newspaper blew across the road, scraping against the tarmac.
“They’ll be having the time of their lives,” Susan said, nodding towards the houses opposite. “Twice in two days. A real bonanza.”
Banks renewed his efforts. Eventually he was rewarded by the sight of a blurry figure walking down the stairs.
“Who is it?” Brenda asked.
“Police.”
She fiddled with the bolts and chain and let them in.
“Sorry,” she said, rubbing the back of her hand over her eyes. “I was fast asleep. Must have been those pills the doctor gave me.”
She looked dreadful, Banks thought: knotted and straggly hair in need of a good wash, puffy complexion, mottled skin, red eyes. She wore a white terry-cloth robe, and when she sat down in the living-room under the gaze of Elvis, it was clear she wore nothing underneath. As she leaned forward to pick up a cigarette from the table, the bathrobe hung loose at the front, revealing her plump, round breasts. Unembarrassed, she pulled the lapels together and slouched back in the chair. Banks and Susan sat on the sofa opposite her.
“What is it?” Brenda asked after she had exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Have you found Gemma?”
