Soho was another world in the daytime. The clubs and love shops and peep shows were still there, but somehow the glitz and sleaze only managed to look anaemic in daylight. The gaudy lights held no allure; they were washed out, paled by even the grey winter light. In the daytime, the siren-song of sex for hire was muted to a distant, nagging whine; there was no hiding the cheap, shabby reality of the product.
But another kind of vital street life took the ascendant – the world of markets, of business. Banks wandered among the stalls on Berwick Street, which seemed to sell everything from pineapples and melons to cotton panties, cups and saucers, watches, mixed nuts and egg cutters. Under one stall, a big brown dog lay sheltered watching the passers-by with mournful eyes.
Feeling better, he found a phone booth on Great Marlborough Street and called Barney Merritt at Scotland Yard. As Banks had expected, and hoped, Ruth Dunne’s alibi checked out.
The stabbing of Reggie Becker was also as clear cut as could be. The killer, a seventeen-year-old prostitute called Brenda Meers, had stabbed Becker five times in broad daylight on Greek Street. At least two of the wounds had nicked major arteries and he had bled to death before the ambulance got there. Eyewitnesses abounded, though fewer came forward later than were present at the time. When asked why she had done it, Brenda Meers said it was because Reggie was trying to make her go with a man who wanted her to drink his urine and eat his faeces. She had been with him before and didn’t think she could stand it again. She had begged Reggie all morning not to make her go, but he wouldn’t relent, so she walked into Woolworth’s, bought a cheap sheath knife and stabbed him. As far as the police were concerned, Reggie Becker was no great loss, and Brenda would at least get the benefit of psychiatric counselling.
So that was that: the London connection ruled out. But maybe he hadn’t wasted his time entirely. He now had a much fuller picture of Caroline Hartley, even if he did have to throw out that neat theory of a connection between the Vivaldi
He looked at his watch. Just time to buy Sandra and Tracy presents in Liberty’s, and maybe something for Brian from Virgin Records on Oxford Street. Then it would be time to meet Veronica for lunch and set off. He wondered what, if any, developments would be waiting for him back in Eastvale.
11
ONE
‘You don’t think he did it, do you?’ Susan Gay asked Banks over coffee and toasted teacakes in the Golden Grill. It was two, largely frustrating days after his return from London.
‘Gary Hartley?’ Banks shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose it makes much sense. Gary finds out Caroline was abused as a child so he kills her? All I know is that she told him about it a couple of weeks before she was killed. But you’re right, we’ve no real motive at all. On the other hand, she
‘Does he know anything about classical music?’
‘We’ll have to find out. He’s certainly well read. Look at all those books around the place, and the way he speaks, his vocabulary. He’s way beyond the range of most teenagers. He could easily have come across the information about
‘So you’re going to see him?’
‘Yes. And I’d like you to come along if you can spare the time. Anything happening with the break-ins?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’
‘Good. Remember, Gary’s lied to us before. I want to see the old man, too. Who knows, we might be able to get something out of him.’
‘He was pretty useless last time,’ Susan said. ‘I’m not convinced he’s all there.’ She shivered.
‘Cold?’
She shook her head. ‘Just the thought of that house.’
‘I know what you mean. Let Phil know, will you? I want the three of us in on this. I’ll be with the super, filling him in.’ Banks looked at his watch. ‘Say half an hour?’
Susan nodded and left.
Thirty minutes later they sat in an unmarked police Rover with Susan at the wheel and Banks hunched rather glumly in the back, missing his music. Sandra was using the Cortina to buy photographic supplies in York, so they had had to sign a car out of the pool. Susan’s driving was assured, though not as good as Richmond’s, Banks noted Sergeant Hatchley had been the worst, he remembered, a bloody maniac on the road.
Despite more snow, road conditions were clear enough. It was, in fact, much brighter in the north, for once, than it had been in London, and a weak winter sun shone on the distant snow-covered fells, spreading a pastel coral glow.
In under an hour they pulled into the familiar Harrogate street and rang Hartley’s doorbell. As expected, Gary answered. Giving nothing but a ‘you again’ look, he wandered back into the front room, leaving them to follow.
The room hadn’t been cleaned or tidied since their last visit, and a few more beer cans and tab ends had joined the wreckage on the hearth. The air smelled stale, like a pub after closing time. Banks longed to open the window to let in some air. Before he could get there, Richmond beat him to it, yanking back the heavy curtains and raising the window. Gary squinted at the burst of sunlight but said nothing.
‘We’ve got a few more questions to ask you,’ Banks said, ‘but first I’d like a word with your father.’
‘You can’t. He’s sick, he’s resting.’ Gary gripped the chair arm and sat up. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
‘I’m sorry, Gary. I already know most of it. I just need him to fill me in on a few details.’
‘What do you know? What are you talking about?’
‘Caroline… your father.’
Gary sagged back into his chair. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘You know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you can hardly imagine he’s going to tell you anything, can you? He’s asleep, anyway. Practically in a bloody coma.’
Banks stood up. ‘Stay with him, will you, Phil? Susan, come with me.’
Susan followed Banks upstairs. They both heard Gary cry ‘No!’ as they went.
‘This way, sir.’ Susan pointed to Mr Hartley’s door and Banks pushed it open.
If only Gary had turned off the electric fire, Banks thought later, the smell wouldn’t have been so bad. As it was, Susan put her hand over nose and mouth and staggered back, while Banks reached for a handkerchief. Neither advanced any further into the room. The old man lay back on his pillows, emaciated almost beyond recognition. Judging by the reddish discolouration of the veins in his scrawny neck, Banks guessed he had been dead at least two days. It would take an expert to fix the time more exactly than that, though, as there were many factors to take into consideration, not least among them his age, the state of his health and the warm temperature of the room.
‘Call the local CID,’ Banks told Susan, ‘and tell them to arrange for a police surgeon and a scene-of-crime team You know the drill.’
Susan hurried downstairs and went to phone while Banks gently closed the door and returned to the front room. Gary looked at him as he entered. The boy seemed drained of all emotion, tired beyond belief. Banks motioned for Richmond to stand by the window, where Gary couldn’t see him, then sat down close to Gary and leaned forward.
‘Want to tell me about it, son?’ he asked.
‘What’s to tell?’ Gary lit a new cigarette from the stub of his old one. His long fingers were stained yellow with nicotine around the nails.
‘You know.’ Banks pointed at the ceiling. ‘What happened?’
Gary shrugged. ‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘I told you he was sick.’
‘How did he die, Gary?’
‘He had cancer.’
‘How long has he been dead?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Why didn’t you call a doctor?’
‘No point, was there?’
‘When did you last look in on him, take him some food?’
Gary sucked on his cigarette and looked away into the cold hearth, littered with butts and empty beer cans. Sweat formed on his pale brow.
‘When did you last go up and see him, Gary?’ Banks asked again.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yesterday? The day before?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m no expert, Gary, but I’d say you haven’t been up there for at least three days, have you?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘He was sick, getting worse.’
