The Barbers looked at one another, then Louise replied. “No. Maybe a little preoccupied, but certainly not depressed. He seemed quite cheerful, as a matter of fact. Nick was never the most demonstrative of children, but he was generally even-tempered. He was no different this time from any other time he called by.”
“He wasn’t anxious about anything?”
“Not as far as we could tell. If anything, he was a bit more excited than usual.”
“Excited? About what?”
“He didn’t say. I think it might have been a story he was working on.”
“What was it about?”
“He never told us details like that. Not that we weren’t interested in his work, but I think he realized it would mean nothing to us. Besides, it was probably a ‘scoop.’ He’d learned to become secretive in his business.”
“Even from you?”
“The walls have ears. He’d developed an instinct. I don’t think it really mattered to whom he was talking.”
“So he didn’t mention any names?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Did he tell you why he was going to Yorkshire?”
“He said he’d found what sounded like a quiet place to write, and I think there was someone he wanted to see who lives up there.”
“Who?”
Mrs. Barber spread her hands. “I’m sorry. But I got the impression it was to do with what he was working on.”
Annie cursed under her breath. If only Nick had named names. If he’d thought his parents had the least interest in his passion, then he probably would have, despite his journalistic instinct to protect his scoop. “Is that what he was excited about?”
“I think so.”
“Can you add anything, Mr. Barber?”
Ross Barber shook his head. “No. As Louise said, the names of these groups and singers mean nothing to us. I think he’d learned there was no point in mentioning them. I’m afraid I glaze over in discussions like that. No doubt members of his own generation would be very impressed, but they went right over our heads.”
“I can understand that,” said Annie. “What do you know about Nick’s life in London?”
“He had a nice flat,” said Louise. “Didn’t he, Ross? Just off the Great West Road. We stayed there not so long ago on our way to Heathrow. He slept on the sofa and let us have his bedroom. Spotless, it was.”
“He didn’t live or share with anyone?”
“No. It was all his own.”
“Did you meet a girlfriend or a close friend? Anyone?”
“No. He took us out for dinner somewhere in the West End. The next day we flew to New York. Ross and I have old friends there, and they invited us for our fortieth wedding anniversary.”
“That’s nice,” said Annie. “So you don’t really know much at all about Nick’s life in London?”
“I think he worked all the hours God sent. He didn’t have time for girlfriends and relationships and that sort of thing. I’m sure he would have settled down eventually.”
In Annie’s admittedly limited experience, if someone had reached the age of thirty-eight without “settling down,” you were a fool if you held your breath and waited for him to do so, but she also knew that many more people were holding off committing to relationships for much longer these days, herself included. “I know this is a rather delicate question,” Annie asked, “and I don’t want it to upset you, but did Nick ever have anything to do with drugs?”
“Well,” said Ross, “we assumed he experimented, of course, like so many young people today, but we never saw him under the influence of anything more than a couple of pints of bitter, or perhaps a small whiskey. We’re fairly liberal about things like that. I mean, you can’t teach in a university for as long as I did and not have some knowledge of marijuana. But if he did use drugs at all, they didn’t interfere with his job or his health, and we certainly never noticed any signs, did we?”
“No,” Louise agreed.
It was a fair answer, if not entirely what Annie had expected. She sensed that Ross Barber was being as honest as he could be. The Barbers clearly loved their son and were distraught over his death, but there seemed to have been some sort of communication gap between them. They were proud of his achievements, but not interested in the actual achievements themselves. Nick might well have interviewed Coldplay or Oasis, but Annie could just imagine Ross Barber saying, “That’s very nice, son,” as he pored over his ancient tomes. She couldn’t think of anything else to ask and glanced over at Winsome, who shrugged. Perhaps Banks would have done better; perhaps she wasn’t asking the right questions, but she couldn’t think of any more. They would have a quick look in Nick’s room, just in case he had left anything of interest, then maybe catch a pub lunch somewhere on the way back. After that, Annie would check in at the incident van and give Banks a ring. He’d want to know what she had found out, no matter how little it was.
The young man in the greasy overalls was standing with a spanner in his hand surrounded by pieces of a dismantled motorbike when Chadwick arrived at the garage later that afternoon. According to the car radio, Leeds were one nil up.
“Vincent Black Lightning, 1952,” the young man said. “Lovely machine. How can I help you?”
Chadwick showed his warrant card. “Are you Donald Hughes?”
Hughes immediately looked cagey, put down the spanner and wiped his hands on his greasy overalls. “Maybe,” he said. “Depends why you want to know.”
Chadwick’s immediate inclination was to tell the kid to stop messing about and come up with some answers, but he realized that Hughes might not know yet about Linda’s murder, and that his reaction to the news could reveal a lot. Perhaps a softer approach would be best, then, at least to start with.
“Maybe you’d better sit down, laddie,” he said.
“Why?”
There were two fold-up chairs in the garage. Instead of answering, Chadwick sat on one. A little dazed, Hughes followed suit. The dim garage smelled of oil, petrol and warm metal. It was still raining outside and he could hear the steady dripping of water from the gutters.
“What is it?” Hughes asked. “Has something happened to Mum?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Chadwick. “Read the papers much?”
“Nah. Nothing but bad news.”
“Hear about the festival up at Brimleigh Glen last weekend?”
“Hard not to.”
“Were you there?”
“Nah. Not my cup of tea. Look, why are you asking all these questions?”
“A young girl was killed there,” he said. “Stabbed.” When Hughes said nothing, he continued, “We’ve good reason to believe that she was Linda Lofthouse.”
“Linda? But… she… bloody hell…” Hughes turned pale.
“She what?”
“She went off to live in London.”
“She was at Brimleigh for the festival.”
“I should have known. Look,” he said, “I’m really sorry to hear about what happened. It was a long time ago, though, me and Linda. Another lifetime, it seems.”
“Two years isn’t very long. People have held grudges longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Revenge is a dish that’s best eaten cold.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Let’s suppose we start at the beginning,” said Chadwick. “You and Linda.”
“We went out together for a couple of years when we were fifteen and sixteen, that’s all.”
