“No. Just a feeling.”
“Okay. I’m not dismissing that. What you told us, about this Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, that was all true, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s how it happened.”
Banks showed her the newspaper pictures of Chivers and the blonde. “Do you recognize these people?”
She squinted at the pictures. “It could be him. The hair’s sort of the same, but a different colour. I don’t know about her, though. People look so different with their hair up. Him, though … I think … yes … I think it might be.”
Banks put the paper aside. “You told us Les wasn’t in when they came.”
“That’s right. He was at the pub.”
“How did he react when you told him?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did he seem shocked, upset, what?”
Tears came to Brenda’s eyes. “He said I was a stupid cow for letting them take her … but…”
“But what?”
She rubbed the backs of her hands across her eyes. “I need a cup of tea. I can’t really get started without my cup of tea in a morning. Do you want some?”
“All right,” said Banks. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give her a couple of minutes to mull over his question.
He and Susan waited silently while Brenda went into the kitchen and made tea. Outside, a car went by, a dog barked, and two laughing children kicked a tin can down the street. The wind shrilled at the ill-fitting windows, stirring the curtains in its draught. Banks studied the portrait of Elvis. It really was grotesque: a piece of kitsch dedicated to a bloated and gaudy idol.
As a teenager, he had been a keen Elvis fan. He had
seen all those dreadful movies of the early sixties, where Elvis usually played a slightly podgy beach-bum, and he had bought all the new singles as soon as they came out. Somehow, though, after The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones and the rest, Elvis had never seemed important again.
Still, he remembered how he had listened to “They Remind Me Too Much of You” over and over again the night June Higgins chucked him for John Hill. He had been assembling a model Messerschmitt at the time, so maybe it was the glue fumes that had made his eyes water. Glue-sniffing hadn’t been invented back then. He had been thirteen; now Elvis was dead but lived on in garish oils on walls like this.
The whistle blew. When it stopped, Banks heard Brenda go upstairs. A few moments later she came in with the teapot and three mugs. She had taken the opportunity to get dressed, run a brush through her hair and put on a bit of makeup.
“Where were we?” she asked, pouring the tea. “There’s milk and sugar if you want it.” Susan helped herself to a splash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar. Both Banks and Brenda took theirs as it came.
“Les’s reaction when you told him about Gemma.”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about it while the tea was mashing,” Brenda said. “He didn’t believe me at first. I’d say more than anything he was surprised. It’s just that… well, he turned away from me, and I couldn’t see his face, but it was like he knew something or he suspected something, like he was frowning and he didn’t want me to see his expression. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“I could just feel it. I know I’ve not got any proof or anything, but sometimes you can sense things about people, can’t you? Lenora says she thinks I’m a bit psychic,
too, so maybe that’s it. But I never thought for a moment he had anything to do with it. I mean, how could I? What could Les have had to do with those two well-dressed people who came to the door? And we lived together. I know he didn’t care for Gemma much, she got on his nerves, but he wouldn’t hurt her. I mean he was surprised, shocked, I’m sure of that, but when it sank in, he seemed to be thinking, puzzling over something. I put it out of my mind, but it nagged. After that we never really got on well. I’m glad he’s gone.” She paused, as if surprised at herself for saying so much, then reached for a second cigarette.
“What made you accuse him last night?” Banks asked.
“It’s just something that had been at the back of my mind, that’s all. Like I said, I never really believed he had anything to do with it. I just had this nagging feeling something wasn’t right. I suppose I lashed out, just for the sake of it. I couldn’t help myself.”
“What about now?”
“What?”
“You said you didn’t think Les had anything to do with Gemma’s disappearance at first. What do you think now?”
Brenda paused to blow on her hot tea, cradling the mug in her palms, then she turned her eyes up to Banks and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just don’t know.”
II
Banks and Jenny dashed across the cobbles in the rain to
the Queen’s Arms. Once through the door, they shook
their coats and hung them up.
“Double brandy, then?” Banks asked.
“No. No, really, Alan. I didn’t mean it,” Jenny said. “Just a small Scotch and water, please.”
Now she was embarrassed. She put her briefcase on the chair beside her and sat down at a table near the window. She had been in Banks’s office going over all the material on the Carl Johnson murder—statements, forensic reports, the lot—and when she got to the photographs of his body, she had turned pale and said she needed a drink. She didn’t know why they should affect her that way—she had seen similar images in textbooks—
