Piece Of My Heart

the festival, but that wasn’t surprising.

The bus carried on past the gasworks, over the canal and river and past the huge building site where they were putting up the new Yorkshire Post building at the corner of Wellington Street, then past the dark, high Victorian buildings to City Square, where Yvonne got off. There were a couple of new boutiques she wanted to visit and that little record shop down the ginnel off Albion Street might still have a copy of the Blind Faith LP. Her parents hadn’t let her go to the free concert in London’s Hyde Park last June, but at least she could enjoy the music on record. Later she was going over to Carberry Place to meet up with Steve and have a few tokes. A bunch of them were going to the Peel that night to see Jan Dukes de Grey. Derek and Mick were quite the local celebrities and they were like real people; they’d talk to you and sign their first LP cover, Sorcerers, not hide away backstage like rock stars.

Yvonne’s problem persisted, though: whether or not to tell her father about Linda. If she did, the police would be at Bayswater Terrace like a shot. Maybe Dennis and Martin and Julie and the others would get busted. And it would be her fault. If they found out, they’d never speak to her again. She was sure that none of them could have had anything to do with what happened to Linda, so why bring grief on them? Rick Hayes was a creep and McGarrity was weird, but neither of them would kill one of their own. How could knowing about Linda being at Bayswater Terrace in July possibly help the police investigation? Her father would find out who Linda was eventually – he was good at finding things out – but it wouldn’t be from her, and nobody would be able to blame her for what happened.

That was what she decided in the end, turning the corner into the wet cobbled ginnel; she would keep it to herself. There was no way she was going to the pigs, even if the chief pig was her father.

CHAPTER SIX

There were some advantages to being a DCI, Banks thought on Sunday morning as he lingered over a second cup of coffee in the conservatory and read his way through the Sunday papers. Outside, the wind had dropped over the past couple of hours, the sun was shining and the weather had turned a little milder, though there was an unmistakable edge of autumn in the air – the smell of the musty leaves and a whiff of acrid smoke from a distant peat fire.

He was still senior investigating officer, of course, and in a short while he would go to interview Calvin Soames. At some point he would also drop by at the station and the incident van to make his presence felt and get up-to- date with developments, if there were any. In an investigation like this, he could never be far away from the action for any length of time, but the team had enough to occupy itself for the moment, and the SOCOs had plenty of trace evidence to sift through. He was always only a phone call away, so barring a major breakthrough, there was no reason for him to appear at the office at the crack of dawn every day; he would only get lumbered with paperwork. First thing tomorrow morning, he and Annie would be on the train to London, and perhaps there they would find out more about Nick Barber. All Annie had been able to find out on Google was that he had written for MOJO magazine and had penned a couple of quickie rock star biographies. It was interesting, and Banks thought he recognized the name now he saw it in context, but it still wasn’t much to go on.

Just as Banks thought it was time to tidy up and set off for Soames’s farm, he heard a knock at the door. It couldn’t be Annie, he thought, because she had gone to see Nick Barber’s parents near Sheffield. Puzzled, he ambled through to the front room and answered it. He was stunned to see his son, Brian, standing there.

“Oh, great, Dad, you’re in.”

“So it would appear,” said Banks. “You didn’t ring.”

“Battery’s dead and the car charger’s fucked. Sorry. It is okay, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Banks said, smiling, putting his hand on Brian’s shoulder and stepping back. “Come on in. It’s always good to see you.”

Banks heard rather than saw a movement behind Brian, then a young woman came into view. “This is Emilia,” said Brian. “Emilia, my dad.”

“Hi, Mr. Banks,” said Emilia, holding out a soft hand with long, tapered fingers and a bangled wrist. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Can we bring the stuff in from the car?” Brian asked.

Still puzzled by it all, Banks just said okay and stood there while Brian and Emilia pulled a couple of hold-alls from the boot of a red Honda that looked as if it had seen better days, then walked back to the cottage.

“We’re going to stay for a few days, if that’s okay with you,” Brian said, as Banks gestured them into the cottage. “Only I’ve got some time off before rehearsals for the next tour, and Emilia’s never been to the Dales before. I thought I’d show her around. We’ll do a bit of walking – you know, country stuff.”

Brian and Emilia put their bags down, then Brian took his mobile phone from his pocket and searched for the lead in the side pouch of his holdall. “Okay if I charge up the phone?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Banks, pointing to the nearest plug socket. “Can I get you something?” He looked at his watch. “I have to go out soon, but we could have some coffee first.”

“Great. Coffee’s fine,” said Brian.

Emilia nodded in agreement. She looked terribly familiar, Banks thought.

“Come through to the conservatory, then,” said Banks.

“Conservatory. Lah-di-dah,” said Brian.

“Enough of your lip,” Banks joked. “There’s something very relaxing about conservatories. They’re like a sort of escape from the real world.”

But Brian was already poking his nose into the entertainment room. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Look at this stuff. Is this what you told me you got from Uncle Roy?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Your grandparents didn’t want it, so…”

“Fantastic,” said Brian. “I mean, it’s sad about Uncle Roy and all, but look at that plasma screen, all those movies. That Porsche out there is yours, too, isn’t it?”

“It was Roy’s, yes,” said Banks, feeling a bit guilty about it all now. He left Brian and Emilia nosing around the growing CD collection and headed for the kitchen, where he put the coffeemaker on. Then he picked up the scattered newspapers in the conservatory and set them aside on a spare chair. Brian and Emilia came through via the doors from the entertainment room. “I wouldn’t have had you down for a Streets fan, Dad,” he said.

“Just shows how little you know me,” said Banks.

“Yeah, but hip-hop?”

“Research,” said Banks. “Have to get to know the criminal mind, don’t I? Besides, it’s not really hip-hop, is it? And the kid tells a great story. Sit down, both of you. I’ll fetch the coffee. Milk? Sugar?”

They both said yes. Banks brought the coffee and sat on his usual white wicker chair opposite Brian and Emilia. He knew it was unlikely – Brian was in his twenties, after all – but his son seemed to have grown another couple of inches since he had last seen him. He was about six foot two and skinny, wearing a green T-shirt with the band’s logo, the Blue Lamps, and cream cargos. He had also had his hair cut really short and gelled. Banks thought it made him look older, which in turn made Banks feel older.

Emilia looked like a model. Only a couple of inches shorter than Brian, slender as a reed, wearing tight blue low-rise jeans and a skimpy belly-top, with the requisite wide gap between the two, and a green jewel gracing her navel, she moved with languorous grace and economy. Her streaky brown-blond hair hung over her shoulders and halfway down her back, framing and almost obscuring an oval face with an exquisite complexion, full lips, small nose and high cheekbones. Her violet eyes were unnaturally bright, but Banks suspected contact lenses rather than drugs. He’d seen her somewhere before; he knew it. “It really is good to see you again,” he said to Brian, “and nice to meet you, Emilia. I’m sorry you caught me unawares.”

“Don’t tell me, there’s no food in the house?” Brian said. “Or worse, no booze?”

“There’s wine, and a few cans of beer. But that’s about it. Oh, there’s also some leftover vegetarian lasagna.”

“You’ve gone veggie?”

“No. Annie was over the other evening.”