“Tania Hutchison? The singer they brought in after Merchant died and Vic Greaves drifted off?”

“Yes. Beautiful girl. Absolutely stunning.”

Banks remembered lusting after Tania Hutchison when he’d watched her on The Old Grey Whistle Test in the early seventies. Every young male did. “I seem to remember reading that she lives in Oxfordshire, or somewhere like that,” Banks said.

“Yes, the proverbial country manor. Well, she can afford it.”

“You actually met her? I thought she came on the scene much later, after all that mess with Merchant and Greaves?”

“Sort of. See, she was the manager’s girlfriend at the time. Chris Adams. She was with him when we went to investigate Robin Merchant’s drowning. They were in bed together at the time. I interviewed her the next morning. She wasn’t looking her best, of course, a bit the worse for wear, but she still put the rest to shame.”

“So Tania and Chris Adams provided one another with alibis?”

“Yes.”

“And you had no reason to disbelieve them?”

“Like I said before, I had no real reason to disbelieve any of them.”

“How long had she known Adams and the group?”

“I can’t say for certain, but she’d been around for a while before Merchant died,” Enderby said. “I know she was at the Brimleigh Festival with Linda Lofthouse. They were friends. I reckon that was where Adams met her. She and Linda lived in London. Notting Hill. Practically flatmates. And they played and sang together in local clubs. Folk sort of stuff.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “I’ll have to have a look into this Linda Lofthouse business.”

“Well, it was a murder, but there’s no mystery about it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Banks. “And there’s still the little matter of who killed Nick Barber, and why.”

Sunday, 21st September, 1969

Chadwick could tell right from the start that McGarrity was not like the others, who had been quickly bound over to appear before the magistrate first thing Monday morning and released on police bail. No, McGarrity was another kettle of fish entirely.

For a start, like Rick Hayes, he was older than the rest. Probably in his early to mid-thirties, Chadwick estimated. He also had the unmistakable shiftiness of a habitual criminal and a pallor that, experience had taught Chadwick, came only from spending time in prison. There was something sly about him behind the smirk, and a deadness in his eyes that gave off danger signals. Just the kind of nutter who likely killed Linda Lofthouse, Chadwick reckoned. Now all he needed was a confession, and evidence.

They were sitting in a stark, windowless room redolent of other men’s sweat and fear, the ceiling filmed brownish-yellow from years of cigarette smoke. On the scarred wooden desk between them sat a battered and smudged green tin ashtray bearing the Tetley’s name and logo. DC Bradley sat in a corner to the left of, and behind, McGarrity, taking notes. Chadwick intended to conduct this preliminary interview himself, but if he met stubborn opposition, he would bring in someone else later to help him chip away at the suspect’s resistance. It had worked before and it would work again, he was certain, even with as slippery-looking a customer as McGarrity.

“Name?” he asked finally.

“Patrick McGarrity.”

“Date of birth?”

“The sixth of January, 1936. I’m Capricorn.”

“Good for you. Ever been in prison, Patrick?”

McGarrity just stared at him.

“Not to worry,” said Chadwick. “We’ll find out one way or another. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Because you bastards smashed the door down in the middle of the night and brought me here?”

“Good guess. I suppose you know we found drugs in the house?”

McGarrity shrugged. “Nothing to do with me.”

“As a matter of fact,” Chadwick went on, “they do have something to do with you. My officers found a significant amount of cannabis resin in the same room where they found you asleep. Over two ounces, in fact. Easily enough to sustain a dealing charge.”

“That wasn’t mine. It wasn’t even my room. I was just crashing there for the night.”

“What’s your address?”

“I’m a free spirit. I go where I choose.”

“No fixed abode, then. Place of employment?”

McGarrity emitted a harsh laugh.

“Unemployed. Do you claim benefits?”

Silence.

“I’ll take it that you do, then. Otherwise there might be charges under the vagrancy act.”

McGarrity leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. His clothes looked old and worn, like a tramp’s, Chadwick noticed, not like the bright peacock fashions the others favored. And everything he wore was black, or close to it. “Look,” he said, “why don’t you just cut the crap and get it over with? If you’re going to charge me and put me in a cell, do it.”

“All in good time, Patrick. All in good time. Back to the cannabis. Where did it come from?”

“Ask your pig friends. They must have planted it.”

“Nobody planted anything. Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. Tell me about this afternoon.”

“What about it?”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t remember. Not much. Read a book. Went for a walk.”

“Do you remember receiving a visitor?”

“Can’t say as I do.”

“A young woman.”

“No.”

Chadwick’s muscles were aching from keeping the rage inside. He felt like flinging himself across the table and strangling McGarrity with his bare hands. “A woman you terrorized and assaulted?”

“I didn’t do any such thing.”

“You deny the young woman was in the house?”

“I don’t remember seeing anyone.”

Chadwick stood up so quickly he knocked over his chair. “I’ve had enough of this, Constable,” he said to Bradley. “Take him down and lock him up.” He glared at McGarrity for a second before he left and said, “We’ll talk again, and the next time it won’t be so polite.” Outside in the corridor, he leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths. His heart was beating like a steam piston inside his chest, and he could feel his skin burning. Slowly, as he mopped his brow, the rage subsided. He straightened his tie and jacket and walked back to his office.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Detective Sergeant Kevin Templeton relished his latest assignment, and even more he relished the fact that Winsome was to accompany him as an observer. Even though he had got nowhere with Winsome, not for lack of trying, he still found her incredibly attractive, and the sight of her thighs under the taut material of her pinstripe trousers still brought him out in a sweat. He’d always thought of himself as a breast man, but Winsome had soon put the lie to that. He tried not to make his glances obvious as she drove out of town and on to the main Lyndgarth Road. The farmhouse was at the end of a long muddy track, and no matter how close to the door they parked, there was no way of avoiding getting their shoes muddy.

“Christ, it bloody stinks here, dunnit?” Templeton moaned.

“It’s a farmyard,” said Winsome.

“Yeah, I know that. Look, let me do the questioning, right? And you keep a close eye on the father, okay?” Templeton hopped on one leg by the doorway, trying to wipe some of the mud off his best pair of Converse trainers.

“There’s a shoe scraper,” said Winsome.

“What?”

She pointed. “That thing there with the raised metal edge, by the door. It’s for scraping the mud off the undersides of your shoes.”

“Well, you live and learn,” said Templeton, making a try at the shoe scraper. “Whatever will they think of next?”

“They thought of it a long time ago,” said Winsome.

“I know that. I was being sarcastic.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nearby, a dog was growling and barking fit to kill, but luckily it was chained up to a post.