Piece Of My Heart

know any more or less about them than we did about him. You don’t get to know people that quickly, especially if they’re the quiet type.”

“Point taken,” said Banks. He knew quite well how long it took the locals to accept newcomers in a place like Fordham, and no holidaying cottager could ever stay long enough. “That just about wraps it up for now.” He looked at Annie. “Anything else you can think of?”

“No,” said Annie, putting away her notebook.

Banks drained his pint. “Right, then, we’ll be off, and someone will be over to take your statements.”

Kelly Soames was chewing on her plump pink lower lip, Banks noticed, glancing back as he followed Annie out of the pub.

Monday, 8th September, 1969

The newshounds had sniffed out a crime at about the same time that the incident van arrived, and the first on the scene was a Yorkshire Evening Post reporter, shortly followed by local radio and television, the same people who had no doubt been reporting on the festival. Chadwick knew that his relationship with them was held in a delicate balance. They were after a sensational story, one that would make people buy their newspapers or tune in to their channel, and Chadwick needed them on his side. They could be of invaluable help in identifying a victim, for example, or even in staging a reconstruction. In this case, there wasn’t much he could tell them. He didn’t go into details about the wounds, nor did he mention the flower painted on the victim’s cheek, though he knew that that was the sort of sensationalist information they wanted. The more he could keep out of the public domain, the better when it came to court. He did, however, get them to agree to let police look at the weekend’s footage. It would probably be a waste of time, but it had to be done.

When Chadwick was done at the field it was afternoon, and he realized he was hungry. He had DC Bradley drive him to the nearest village, Denleigh, about a mile to the northeast. It had turned into a fine day, and only a thin gauze of cloud hung in the sky to filter a little of the sun’s heat. The village had a sort of stunned appearance about it, and Chadwick noticed that it was unusually messy, the streets littered with wastepaper and empty cigarette packets.

At first it seemed there was nobody about, but then they saw a man walking by the village green and pulled up beside him. He was a tweedy sort with a stiff-brush mustache and a pipe. He looked to Chadwick like a retired military officer, reminded him of a colonel he’d had in Burma during the war.

“Anywhere to eat around here?” Chadwick asked, winding the window down.

“Fish-and-chip shop, just round the corner,” the man said. “Should be still open.” Then he peered more closely at Chadwick. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Chadwick said. “I’m a policeman.”

“Huh. We could have done with a few more of your lot around this weekend,” the man went on. “By the way, Forbes is the name. Archie Forbes.”

They shook hands through the window. “Unfortunately, we can’t be everywhere, Mr. Forbes,” said Chadwick. “Was there any damage?”

“One of them broke the newsagent’s window when Ted told them he’d run out of cigarette papers. Some of them even slept in Mrs. Wrigley’s back garden. Scared her half to death. I suppose you’re here about that girl they found dead in a sleeping bag?”

“News travels fast.”

“It does around these parts. Communism. You mark my words. That’s what’s behind it. Communism.”

“Probably,” said Chadwick, moving to wind up the window.

Forbes kept talking. “I still have one or two contacts in the intelligence services, if you catch my drift,” he said, putting a crooked finger to the side of his nose, “and there’s no doubt in my mind, and in the minds of many other right-thinking people, I might add, that this is a lot more than just youthful high spirits. Behind it all you’ll find those French and German student anarchist groups, and behind them you’ll find communism. Need I spell it out, sir? The Russians.” He took a puff on his pipe. “There’s no doubt in my mind that there are some very unscrupulous people directing events behind the scenes, unscrupulous foreigners, for the most part, and their goal is the overthrow of democratic government everywhere. Drugs are only a part of their master plan. These are frightening times we live in.”

“Yes,” said Chadwick. “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Forbes. We’ll be off for those fish and chips now.” He signaled for Bradley to drive off as he wound up the window, leaving Forbes staring after them. They had a laugh about Forbes, though Chadwick believed there might be something in what he’d said about foreign students fomenting dissent. They soon found the fish-and-chip shop and sat in the car eating.

When Chadwick had finished, he screwed up the newspaper, then excused himself, got out of the car and put it in the rubbish bin. Next he went into the telephone booth beside the fish-and-chip-shop and dialed home. Janet answered on the third ring. “Hello, darling,” she said. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” said Chadwick. “I was wondering about Yvonne. How is she today?”

“Back to normal, it seems.”

“Did she say anything about last night?”

“No. We didn’t talk. She left for school at the usual time and gave me a quick peck on the cheek on her way out. Look, let’s just leave it at that for the time being, darling, can’t we?”

“If she’s sleeping with someone, I want to know who it is.”

“And what good would that do you? What would you do if you knew? Go over and beat him up? Arrest him? Be sensible, Stan. She’ll tell us in her own time.”

“Or when it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, never mind,” said Chadwick. “Look, I have to go. Don’t bother keeping dinner warm tonight. I’ll probably be late.”

“How late?”

“I don’t know. Don’t wait up.”

“What is it?”

“Murder. A nasty one. You’ll hear all about it on the evening news.”

“Be careful, Stan.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Chadwick hung up and went back to the car.

“Everything all right, sir?” Bradley asked, window rolled down, halfway through his post-fish-and-chips cigarette. The car’s interior smelled of lard, vinegar and warm newsprint.

“Yes,” said Chadwick. “Right now, I think we’d better head back to Brimleigh Glen and see what’s been happening there, don’t you?”

Monday, 8th September, 1969

The search team had fastened tape to the four trees that surrounded the little grove deep in Brimleigh Woods, about two hundred yards from where the body had been found. The woods were dense enough that, from there, you couldn’t see as far as the field, and any noise would certainly have been drowned out by the music.

The police dog had found the spot easily enough by following the smell of the victim’s blood. Officers had also marked off the route the dog had taken, and painted little crosses on the trees. Every inch of the path would have to be searched. For the moment, though, Chadwick, Enderby and Bradley stood behind the tape gazing down at the bloodstained ground.

“This where it happened?” Chadwick asked.

“So the experts tell me,” said Enderby, pointing to bloodstains on the leaves and undergrowth. “There’s some blood here, consistent with the wounds the victim received.”

“Wouldn’t the killer have been covered in blood?” Bradley asked.

“Not necessarily,” said Enderby. “Peculiar things, stab wounds. Certainly with a slashed neck artery or vein, or a head wound, there’s quite a lot of spatter, but with the heart, oddly enough, the edges of the wound close and most of the bleeding is internal, it doesn’t spurt the way many people think it does. There’s quite a bit of seepage,