Now, it seemed, Chivers was escalating, craving more dangerous thrills to satiate his needs. He was like a drug addict; he always needed more to keep him at the same level. Gemma Scupham, Carl Johnson, the blonde. How quickly was he losing control? Was he starting to get careless?
A wave soaked one foot and the bottom of his pant leg. He stepped back and did a little dance to shake the water off. Then he reached for a cigarette and, for some reason, thought of Brian, not more than seventy miles east of him, in Portsmouth. College had only just started, and he might be feeling lonely and alien in a strange city. It was so close, yet Banks wouldn’t be able to visit.
He missed his son. Much as Tracy had always seemed the favourite, with her interests in history and literature, her curiosity and intelligence, and Brian always the out
sider, the rebel, with his loud rock music and his lack of interest in school, Banks missed him. Certainly he felt the odd one out now that Tracy was only interested in boys and clothes.
Brian was eighteen, and Banks had turned forty in May. With a smile, he remembered the compact disc of Nigel Kennedy playing the Brahms violin concerto that Brian had bought him for his birthday. Well, at least the thought was there. And he also remembered his recent row with Tracy. In a way, she had been right: Brian had got away with a lot, especially that summer, before he had left for the polytechnic: late-night band practices; a week-long camping trip to Cornwall with his mates; coming in once or twice a little worse for drink. But of one thing Banks was certain: Brian wasn’t taking drugs. As an experienced detective, he knew the signs, physical and psychological, and had never observed them in his son.
He turned from the beach and found a phonebox on The Esplanade. It was eleven o’clock. Would he be in? He put his phonecard in and punched in the number Brian shared with the other students in the house. It started to ring.
“Hello?”
A strange voice. He asked for Brian, said it was his father.
“Just a minute,” the voice mumbled.
He waited, tapping his fingers against the glass, and after a few moments Brian came on the line.
“Dad! What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m just down the coast from you and I wanted to say hello. How are you doing?” Banks felt choked, hearing Brian’s voice. He wasn’t sure his words came out right.
“I’m fine,” Brian answered.
“How’s college?”
“Oh, you know. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Look, are you sure there’s nothing wrong? Mum’s okay, isn’t she?”
“I told you, everything’s all right. It’s just that I won’t be able to make the time to drop by and I thought, well, being so close, I’d just give you a ring.”
“Is it a case?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Are you still there, Dad?”
“Of course I am. When are you coming up to visit us again?”
“I’ll be up at Christmas. Hey, I’ve met some really great people down here. They play music and all. There’s this one guy, we’re going to form a band, and he’s been playing some great blues for me. You ever heard of Robert Johnson? Muddy Waters?”
Banks smiled to himself and sighed. If Brian had ever taken the trouble to examine his collection?and of course, no teenager would be seen dead sharing his father’s taste in music?he would have found not only the aforementioned, but Little Walter, Bessie Smith and Big Bill Broonzy, among several dozen others.
“Yes, I’ve heard of them,” he said. “I’m glad you’re having a good time. Look, keep in touch. Your mother says you don’t write often enough.”
“Sorry. There’s really a lot of work to do. But I’ll try to do better, promise.”
“You do. Look?”
His time ran out and he didn’t have another card. Just a few more seconds to say hurried goodbyes, then the electronic insect sound of a dead line. When he put the phone down and started walking back to the hotel, Banks felt empty. Why was it always like that? he wondered. You call someone you love on the phone, and when
you’ve finished talking, all you feel is the bloody distance between you. Time to try sleep, perhaps, after a little music. Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care. Some hope.
13
I
Hotel or bed and breakfast, it didn’t seem to make much
difference with regard to the traditional English breakfast,
thought Gristhorpe the following morning. Of
course, there was more choice at the Mellstock Hotel
than there would be in a typical B and B, but no one in
his right mind would want to start the day with a “continental”
breakfast—a stale croissant and a gob of
strawberry jam in a plastic container. As it was, Banks
sat struggling over a particularly bony kipper while
