Why not just accept Gristhorpe’s theory that Clegg had arranged for Rothwell to be killed, and that they hadn’t a hope in hell of finding either Clegg or the killers? And what could they do to Martin Churchill, if indeed he was behind it all? Banks didn’t like the feeling of impotence this case was beginning to engender.
On the walk back to his hotel, Banks picked up a half-bottle of Bell ’s. It would be cheaper than using the minibar in his room. As he threaded his way among the office workers leaving the British Telecom Building for their bus-stops on Wellington Street, Banks wished he could just go home and forget about the whole Clegg-Rothwell-Calvert mess.
After leaving Blackstone at the car park, he had phoned Pamela Jeffreys at home, half-hoping she might be free for a drink that evening, but he had only got her answering machine. She was probably playing with the orchestra or something. He had left a message anyway, telling her which hotel he was staying at, and now he was feeling guilty. He remembered Blackstone’s warning about hotels.
On the surface, he wanted to apologize for their misunderstanding yesterday, but if truth be told, he had let himself get a bit too carried away with his fantasies. Would he do anything if he had the chance? If she agreed to come back to his hotel room for a nightcap, would he try to seduce her? Would he make love to her if she were willing? He didn’t know.
He remembered his attraction to Jenny Fuller, a professor of psychology who occasionally helped with cases, and wondered what his life would be like now if he had given in to his desires then. Would he have told Sandra? Would they still be together? Would he and Jenny still be friends? No answer came.
Rather glumly, he recalled the bit at the beginning of the Trollope biography he was reading, where Trollope considers the dreary sermons persuading people to turn their backs on worldly pleasure in the hope of heaven to come and asks, if such is really the case, then “Why are women so lovely?” That set him thinking again about Pamela’s shapely, golden body, her bright personality and her passion for music. Well, at least he had a curry with Ken Blackstone to look forward to, and time for a shower and a rest before that. He thought he might even check out the hotel’s Health and Leisure Club, maybe have a swim, take a sauna or a whirlpool.
There were no messages. Banks went straight up to his room, took off his shoes and flopped on the bed. He phoned Sandra, who wasn’t in, then called the Eastvale station again and spoke to Susan Gay. Nothing new, except that she sounded depressed.
After a brisk shower, much better than the tepid dribble at home, he poured himself a small Scotch and put the television on while he dried off and dressed. He caught the end of the international news and heard that the St. Corona riots had been put down swiftly and brutally by Martin Churchill’s forces. And Burgess wanted to give the man a retirement villa in Cornwall?
After that, he was only half paying attention to the local news, but at one point, he saw a house he recognized and heard the reporter say, “… when she failed to report for rehearsals today. Police are still at the scene and so far have refused to comment…”
It was Pamela Jeffreys’s house, and outside it stood two patrol cars and an ambulance. Stunned, Banks sat on the side of the bed and tossed back his Scotch, then he got his jacket out of the cupboard and left the room so fast he forgot to turn off the television.
Chapter 10
1
It was hard to imagine that anything terrible could happen on such a fine spring evening, but the activity around the little terrace house in Armley indicated that evil made no allowances for the weather.
Three police cars were parked at angles in front of the house. Beyond the line of white tape, reporters badgered the PCs on guard duty, one of whom jotted down Banks’s name and rank before he let him through. Neighbors stood on their doorsteps or by privet hedges and gazed in silence, arms folded, faces grim, and the people working their allotments stopped to watch the spectacle. A small crowd also stood gawping from the steps of the Sikh Temple down the street.
Banks stood on the threshold of the living room. Whatever had happened here, it had been extremely violent: the glass coffee table had been smashed in two; the three-piece suite had been slashed and the stuffing ripped out; books lay torn all over the carpet, pages reduced to confetti; the glass front of the cocktail cabinet was shattered and the crystalware itself lay in bright shards; the music stand lay on the floor with the splintered pieces and broken bow of Pamela’s viola beside it; even the print of Ganesh over the fireplace had been taken from its frame and torn up. Worst of all though, was the broad dark stain on the cream carpet. Blood.
One of the officers cracked a racist joke about Ganesh and another laughed. The elephant god was supposed to be the god of good beginnings, Banks remembered. Upstairs someone was whistling “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago.
“Who the hell are you?”
Banks turned to face the plainclothes man coming out of the wreckage of the kitchen.
“Press?” he went on before Banks had time to answer. “You’re not allowed in. You ought to bloody well know that. Bugger off.” He grabbed Banks’s arm and steered him toward the door. “What does that fucking useless PC think he’s up to, letting you in? I’ll have his bloody balls for Christmas tree decorations.”
“Hang on.” Banks finally managed to get a word in and jerk his arm free of the man’s grasp. He showed his card. The man relaxed.
“Oh. Sorry, sir,” he said. “Detective Sergeant Waltham. I wasn’t to know.” Then he frowned. “What’s North Yorkshire want with this one, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He was in his early thirties, perhaps a few pounds overweight, about three inches taller than Banks, with curly ginger hair. He had a prominent chin, a ruddy complexion and curious catlike green eyes. He wore a dark brown suit, white shirt and plain green tie. Behind him stood a scruffy-looking youth in a leather jacket. Probably his DC, Banks guessed.
“First things first,” said Banks. “What happened to the woman who lives here?”
“Pamela Jeffreys. Know her?”
“What happened to her? Is she still alive?”
“Oh, aye, sir. Just. Someone worked her over a treat. Broken ribs, broken nose, broken fingers. Multiple lacerations, contusions. In fact, multiple just about everything. And it looks as if she broke her leg when she fell. She was in a coma when we found her. First officer on the scene thought she was dead.”
Banks felt a wave of fear and anger surge through his stomach, bringing the bile to his throat. “When did it happen?” he asked.
“We’re not sure, sir. There’s a clock upstairs was smashed at twenty past nine, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. A bit too Agatha Christie, if you ask me. Doc thinks last night, but we’re still interviewing the neighbors.”
“So you think she lay there for nearly twenty-four hours?”
“Could be, sir. The doctor said she’d have bled to death if she hadn’t been a good clotter.”
Banks swallowed. “Raped?”
Waltham shook his head. “Doc says no signs of sexual assault. When we found her she was fully clothed, no signs of interference. Some consolation, eh?”
“Who found her?”
“One of her musician friends got worried when she didn’t show up for rehearsals this morning. Some sort of string quartet or something. Apparently she’d been a bit upset lately. He said she was usually reliable and had never missed a day before. He phoned the house several times during the day and only got her answering machine. After work he drove by and knocked. Still no answer. Then he had a butcher’s through the window. After that, he phoned the local police. He’s in the clear.”