Piece Of My Heart

indicated that he was at all close to the truth, then Greaves might lash out, as Banks thought he had done at Nick Barber. He might already know who was at his door, might be lying in wait, armed and ready to attack. Banks moved cautiously through the dim kitchen. At least all the knives were in their slots in the wooden block where Greaves kept them. Banks stood still in the doorway that led through to the living room and listened. Nothing but the wind whipping the tree branches and the distant sounds of a car starting and a dog barking.

From what he could make out in the pale light that filtered through the curtains, the living room was just as it had been, too, with newspapers and magazines piled everywhere. Banks stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out Greaves’s name again. Still no answer.

Tense and alert, he started to walk up the stairs. They creaked as he moved. Every once in a while he would pause, but still he heard nothing. He stood on the upstairs landing and listened again. Nothing. It was a small cottage, and in addition to the toilet and bathroom there were only two bedrooms. Banks checked the first and found it almost as full of newspapers and magazines as the living room. Then he went into the second, which was obviously Greaves’s bedroom.

In one corner lay a mattress heaped with sheets and blankets. It reminded Banks of nothing so much as a nest of some kind. Carefully, he poked around with his toe in the bedsheets, but no one was there, either hiding or dead. Though the sheets were piled in an untidy mess, they were clean and smelled of apples. There was nothing else in the room except a wardrobe and a dresser full of old, but clean and neatly folded, clothes and underwear.

After a cursory glance in the toilet and bathroom, which told him nothing, Banks went back downstairs into the living room. It was an ideal opportunity for him to poke around, but it didn’t seem as if Greaves had anything worth poking around for. There were no mementos, no Mad Hatters memorabilia, no photos or keepsakes of any kind. In fact, as far as Banks could tell, the cottage contained nothing but a few basic toiletries, clothes, kitchenware and newspapers.

Idly, he started looking at some of the papers on the top of the pile: Northern Echo and Darlington amp; Stockton Times, along with the Yorkshire Evening Post dating back about three years, as far as he could tell. The magazines covered just about everything from computing, though Greaves had no computer as far as Banks had seen, to coin collecting, though there were none on the subject of rock music, or music of any kind. Many of the magazines still had free gifts stuck to their covers, and some hadn’t even been removed from their cellophane wrapping.

Finding nothing of interest among the papers, Banks headed for the shed in the backyard. It had a padlock, but it was already open, just hanging there loosely on the hasp. Banks opened the door. He expected more newspapers, at the very least, but the shed was empty. It had no particular smell except for soil and wood. Spiders went about their webs in the corners and one particularly large specimen scuttled across the window. Banks shuddered. He had hated spiders ever since he had found one under his pillow when he was about five.

Banks closed the door behind him and left it as it was. There was one thing, he guessed, that should have been there but wasn’t: Vic Greaves’s bicycle. So had Greaves gone rideabout, or had he gone somewhere specific?

Banks went back to his car and took out his mobile. The signal was poor, but at least there was one. Chris Adams answered almost immediately.

“Mr. Adams,” said Banks. “Where are you?”

“At home. Why?”

“Do you have any idea where Vic Greaves is?”

“I’m not his keeper, you know.”

“No, but you’re the closest he’s got to one.”

“Sorry, no. I don’t know. Why?”

“I’ve just been to see him and his bike’s not there.”

“He does go out from time to time.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“He just rides. I don’t know where he goes. Look, are you telling me there’s some reason to be worried?”

“Not at all. I’m just trying to find him to ask him a few more questions.”

“What about?”

“Things seem to be coming to a head. I think we’re almost there.”

“You know who killed Nick Barber?”

“Not yet, but I think I’m getting close.”

“And Vic knows this?”

“I don’t know what he knows. I’ll bet he can be remarkably perceptive at times, though.”

“You never know with Vic. What goes in, what goes straight through.”

“Any idea where he might go?”

“No. I told you. He goes for bike rides from time to time. Helps keep him in shape.”

“If you hear from him, please let me know.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing, Mr. Adams.”

“Yes?”

“The night Robin Merchant drowned. Were you up and around at the time?”

“Who told you that?”

“Were you?”

“Of course not. I was fast asleep.”

“You and I both know that’s a load of bollocks, Mr. Adams, and the police probably knew it even then. They just didn’t have any evidence to suggest Robin Merchant might have been murdered, or that his death might have been caused by someone else in some way.”

“This is absurd. Is it Tania? Have you been talking to Tania?”

“Why would that make a difference?”

“Because she was pissed. If you’ve talked to her, she’s no doubt told you we were what they call an item at the time. Her drug of choice was alcohol. Vodka mostly. She was probably so drunk she didn’t know her arse from her elbows.”

“So you weren’t up and about?”

“Of course not. Besides, Tania’s got it in for me. We haven’t exactly been on the best of terms these past few years.”

That wasn’t exactly what Tania had told him, Banks remembered. Who was lying? “Oh. Why’s that?”

“A mixture of business and personal matters. And none of your business, really. Now, look, this connection’s getting worse and worse. I’m going to hang up now.”

“I’d like to talk to you again. Can you come by the station?”

“I’ll be passing nearby on my way to London next week. I’ll try to drop in if I have the time.”

“Try to make time. And ring first.”

“I will if I can remember. Good-bye, Mr. Banks.”

As Banks was putting his mobile away, he noticed he had voice mail waiting. Curious, he pressed the button and after the usual introduction heard Annie’s voice. “I hope things are going well with Vic Greaves,” she said. “Winsome and I seem to be making some progress here and we’d like to have a chat with you about the possibilities we’ve raised. Can you come back to the station as soon as you have a moment? It could be important. Cheers.”

Well, Banks thought, turning his car toward Eastvale and slipping in an old Roy Harper CD, Flashes from the Archives of Oblivion, at least someone was making progress.

Winsome said she didn’t need to use the online computer anymore, so they adjourned to the privacy of Banks’s office. The market square was busy with tourists and shoppers coming in and out of the narrow streets that radiated from it. The day was warming up, so Banks opened his window about six inches to let some fresh air in. The noise of the cars, snatches of music, laughter and conversations all sounded distant and muffled. A whiff of diesel fumes from the revving coaches drifted in.

“You’ve been busy, by the looks of it,” Banks said as Winsome dropped a pile of paper on his desk.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ve been on the telephone or the Internet over three hours now, and I think you’ll find the results very interesting.”