“You must listen.” Lenora put her mug down and leaned forward, clasping her hands. “I saw animals. Jungle animals, Brenda. Lions, tigers, leopards. They’re connected with Gemma somehow.”
“What are you saying? She’s been taken to Africa or something?”
Lenora flopped back on the sofa. “I don’t know. The message is very weak. That’s all I see. Gemma and animals.”
“Look, I really don’t?”
“They’re not harming her, Brenda.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“But you must believe!”
“Why must I believe? What good has it done me?” “Don’t you want to see your Gemma again?” Brenda stood up. “Of course I want to see Gemma again. But I can’t. She’s dead. Can’t you understand? She’s dead. She must be. If she’s not dead by now she must be suffering so much. It’s best that she’s dead.” The tears and grief she had felt welling up for so long were breaking the dam.
“We must cling to the gift of life, Brenda.” “No. I don’t want to listen to this. You’re frightening me. Go away. Leave me alone.” “But Brenda, I?”
“Go on.” Brenda pointed at the door, tears burning her eyes. “Go away. Get out!”
Lenora shook her head slowly, then, shoulders slumped, she got up and left the room. When Brenda heard the door close, she sank back into her chair. She was shaking now and tears burned down her cheeks. Dammit, why wouldn’t they all leave her alone? And why couldn’t she know for sure? Every day that Gemma stayed missing was more like hell. Why couldn’t they find her body, then Brenda could get her grieving done with, organize the funeral, move on. But no. Just day after day of misery. And it was all her fault, all Brenda’s fault for not loving her daughter enough, for losing control and shaking her so much she was terrified what she might do the next time.
She stared at the large TV screen and saw her own reflection distorted through her tears. She remembered the interview she had watched over and over again. Vanity. Madness. It had all been madness. In a sudden burst of rage, she drew back her arm and flung her mug as hard as she could at the screen.
IV
Just a few hours ago the wind had been cool, and there
had been only enough blue sky to make baby a new bonnet.
Now, as Banks and Susan drove to Harkness’s, the
wind had dropped, the sun had come out and the afternoon
had turned out fine. Gristhorpe had been out when
Banks went to find him, so he had left a message and
found Susan, who happened to be in the corridor at the
time.
Enjoying probably the last fine weekend of the season, families sat out on the green at Fortford eating picnics, even though it wasn’t particularly warm and the grass must still be damp. Banks turned right on the Lyndgarth road, and as they approached the bridge, they saw even more people ambling along The Leas or sitting on the riverbank fishing.
Banks drove in silence, tense and angry over the forthcoming confrontation. They turned in the drive just before the old pack-horse bridge, and the car flung up gravel as they stopped. They had no evidence, he reminded himself, only supposition, and everything depended on bluffing and scaring Harkness into blabbing. It wouldn’t be easy; it never was with those so used to having things their own way. Piet’s information wasn’t anywhere near enough to get him in court. But Harkness had known Johnson, and Johnson had known Chivers. Jenny said the paedophile was likely to be over forty, lived alone, and probably knew Gemma. Well, Harkness hadn’t known Gemma, but he could have heard of her through Johnson and Chivers. It made sense.
After the conversation, Banks had checked the time and, finding they were only two hours ahead, tried the South African police again. They still had nothing to report, and he got the impression they were dragging their
feet. He could only speculate on the nature of the crime there, and on the depth of the cover-up. He had tried Linda Fish from the Writers’ Circle again, too, but she had heard no more from her writer friend. He had felt too edgy simply to wait around for more information to come in.
Harkness answered the door at the first ring. He seemed nervous to see them, Banks thought, fidgety and too talkative as he led them this time into the living-room and bade them sit.
“Have you found out who killed Carl?”
“We’re looking for a man called Jeremy Chivers,” Banks said. “Someone Johnson knew. Did he ever mention the name?”
“Let’s not go through all that again.” Harkness walked over to the mantelpiece. “Who is this Chivers?”
“A suspect.”
“So why have you come to pester me again?”
Banks scratched the little scar by his right eye. It wasn’t always reliable, but it did have a tendency to itch in warning when he hadn’t quite realized that something was wrong. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr Harkness. I’ve just had a chat with a friend of mine on the Amsterdam police, and he told me some very odd things.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You lived there for some time, didn’t you?”
“Yes, you know I did. But I can assure you I never came into contact with the police.”
“Clever there, sir, weren’t you?” said Susan suddenly.
Harkness looked from one to the other, reddening. “Look, what is this?” he said. “You can’t just come in here?”
Banks waved him to silence, ready to make his accusation. But just before he opened his mouth to speak, he paused. Something was definitely bothering him. Even
now, he didn’t know what it was: tension in the air, a feeling of dejr vu, or that little shiver when someone steps on your grave. It would come. He
