“What about Robin Merchant?”
“He might have found out.”
“So you think Greaves killed him, too?”
“It wouldn’t have been difficult. Just a little nudge.”
“Trouble is,” said Banks, “we’re not likely to get much sense out of Greaves.”
“At least we can try.”
“Yes.” Banks stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Great work, Winsome. Carry on with the follow-up. Get all you can from the locals.”
“Where are you going?”
“I think I know where Vic Greaves is,” said Banks. “I’m going to have a word with him.”
“Don’t you think you should take backup, sir?” said Winsome. “I mean, if he really is the one, he could be dangerous if you corner him.”
“No,” said Banks, remembering that Annie had given him the same warning. “That’s one thing that’ll likely lose him to us for good. He can’t handle social interaction, and he’s especially afraid of strangers. I can only imagine how he’ll react if a few carloads of coppers turn up. At least he’s seen me before. I don’t think I’ve got anything to fear from him.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Annie.
So did Banks as he started the Porsche and negotiated his way out of East-vale toward Lyndgarth. He recalled the fear he had felt searching Greaves’s cottage and it made his mouth dry. People as disturbed as Vic Greaves could sometimes summon up amazing, almost superhuman, strength. At least Banks had told Annie and Winsome where he was going before he set off and asked them to give him a twenty-minute start before they sent in a patrol car as backup. He couldn’t be certain that Greaves was where he thought he was, he realized as he crossed the bridge over the Swain and headed for Lyndgarth, but he had a damned good idea.
The estate agent had told him that someone had been seen in the vicinity of Swainsview Lodge, and Greaves had turned uncommunicative at the mention of the place. It must have had very strong associations for him from a particular period of his life, and it would be natural enough for him to gravitate there in times of stress or confusion. Or so Banks hoped as he parked on the bleak daleside and the wind whipped at his face when he opened the car door.
The door through which he had previously entered was securely locked, and Banks was certain nobody could get in that way. An unpaved lane ran down the hill by the side of the lodge to the riverside hamlet of Brayke, and at the top of the lane was a side entrance leading to two large garages, both also locked. A fairly high drystone wall ran down the hill parallel to the lane, but it would be easy enough for anyone to climb, Banks thought, especially in one section which had lost a few stones. You might not be able to get into the house without breaking a window, he realized, but anyone could gain access to the grounds.
Banks’s first clue was a bicycle partially hidden in the ditch and covered with a blue plastic sheet held down by two stones, flapping in the wind. Clearly Greaves couldn’t get himself
Convinced that he was right now, Banks hopped the wall and found himself in the garden beyond the swimming pool, where the vast neglected lawn started its long slope down to the river. He moved up to the edge of the pool, the familiar dark cracked stone covered with moss and lichens, and the pool itself choked with weeds, littered with broken glass and empty Carlsberg tins.
He called out Vic Greaves’s name, but the wind blew it back. There were shadows everywhere and Banks found himself jumping at each one, a heavy knot at the center of his chest. He was in the open, he realized, and wished he could be more certain of his assessment that Vic Greaves was harmless.
An empty Coke tin came skittering out of the grass onto the patio and Banks turned, tense, ready to defend himself.
When he reached the side of the pool closest to the house, he thought he could see something sticking out from behind one of the pillars under the upper terrace, close to where the French windows from the studio opened into the courtyard. The area was in the shadows, so it was hard to be sure, but he thought it was the lower half of a leg, with the trousers tucked into the boot. When he got closer, he saw it was actually a bicycle clip.
“Hello, Vic,” he said. “Aren’t you going to come out?”
After what seemed like a long time, the leg moved and Vic Greaves’s shiny bald head appeared from behind the pillar.
“You remember me, don’t you, Vic?” Banks said. “There’s no need to be afraid. I came to see you at the cottage.”
Still Vic didn’t respond or move. He just kept looking at Banks.
“Come on out, Vic,” Banks said. “I just want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”
“Vic’s not here,” the small voice said finally.
“Yes, he is,” said Banks.
Vic held his ground. Banks circled a little, so he could at least get a better view. “All right,” he said. “If you want to stay there, stay. I’ll talk to you from here, okay?”
The wind was howling in the recess made by the overhanging terrace, but Banks could just about make out Greaves’s agreement. He was sitting with his back to the wall, hunched over, arms hugging his knees to his chest.
“I’ll do the talking,” said Banks, “and you can tell me whether I’m right or wrong. Okay?”
Greaves studied him with serious, narrowed eyes and said nothing.
“It goes back a long time,” Banks began. “To 1969, when the Mad Hatters played the Brimleigh Festival. There was a girl backstage called Linda Lofthouse. Your cousin. She got a backstage pass because of you. She was with her best friend, Tania Hutchison, who became a member of the band about a year later. But that’s getting ahead. Are you with me so far?”
Greaves still didn’t say anything, but Banks could swear he detected a flicker of interest in his expression.
“Cut forward to late on that last night of the festival. Led Zeppelin were playing and Linda needed a little space to clear her head, so she went for a walk in the woods. Someone followed her. Was that you, Vic?”
Greaves shook his head.
“Are you sure?” Banks persisted. “Maybe you were tripping, maybe you didn’t know what you were doing, but something happened, didn’t it? Something changed that night, something snapped in you, and you killed her. Perhaps you didn’t realize what you’d done, perhaps it was like looking down on someone else doing it, but you did it, didn’t you, Vic?”
Finally, Greaves found his voice. “No,” he said. “No, he’s wrong. Vic’s a good boy.” His words were almost blown into silence by the wind.
“Tell me how I’m wrong, Vic,” Banks went on. “Tell me what I’m wrong about. I want to know.”
“Can’t,” said Greaves. “Can’t tell.”
“Yes, you can. Am I wrong about how it happened? What about Cardiff? What about Brighton? And Plymouth? Were there any others?”
Greaves just shook his head from side to side, muttering something Banks couldn’t hear for the wind.
“I’m trying to help you,” said Banks, “but I can’t help if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“There is no truth,” said Greaves.
“There must be. Who killed those girls? Who killed Nick Barber? Did he find out? Is that why? Did he confront you with the evidence?”
“Why don’t you leave him alone?” said a deep voice behind Banks. “You can tell he doesn’t know what’s going on.”
Banks turned and saw Chris Adams standing by the pool, ponytail blowing in the wind, bulbous face red, potbelly sagging over his jeans. Banks walked over to him. “I think he does,” he said. “But seeing as you’re here, why don’t you tell me? I think you know as much about it as he does.”
“It was all over and done with years ago,” said Adams.
“You may wish it was, but it isn’t. That’s what Nick Barber found out about, isn’t it? So Vic here killed him.”
“No, that’s not what happened.”
