“And McGarrity didn’t deny killing her?”

“That’s right. I was there when DI Chadwick presented him with the evidence and he just had this strange smile on his face, and he said, ‘It looks like you’ve got me, then.’”

“Those were his exact words. ‘It looks like you’ve got me, then’?”

Bradley frowned with annoyance. “It was over thirty years ago. I can’t promise those were the exact words, but it was something like that. You’ll find it in the files and the court transcripts. But he was sneering at us, being sarcastic.”

“I’ll be looking at the transcripts later,” said Banks. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with the investigation into Robin Merchant’s death?”

“Who?”

“He was another member of the Mad Hatters. He drowned about nine months after the Linda Lofthouse murder.”

Bradley shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

“Mr. Enderby was able to tell me a bit about it. He was one of the investigating officers. I was just wondering. I understand DI Chadwick had a daughter?”

“Yes. I only ever saw her the once. Pretty young thing. Yvonne, I think she was called.”

“Wasn’t there some trouble with her?”

“DI Chadwick didn’t confide in me about his family life.”

Banks felt a faint warning signal. Bradley’s answer had come just a split second too soon and sounded a little too pat to be quite believable. The clipped tones also told Banks that he perhaps wasn’t being entirely truthful. But why would he lie about Chadwick’s daughter? To protect Chadwick’s family and reputation, most likely. So if Enderby was right and this Yvonne had been in trouble, or was trouble, it might be worth finding out exactly what kind of trouble he was talking about. “Do you know where Yvonne Chadwick is now?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not. Grown up and married, I should imagine.”

“What about DI Chadwick?”

“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for years, not since the trial. I should imagine he’s dead by now. I mean, he was in his late forties back then and he wasn’t in the best of health. The trial took its toll. But I transferred to Suffolk in 1971, and I lost touch. No doubt records will be able to tell you. More coffee?”

“Thanks.” Banks held his mug out and gazed at the spines of the books. Nice hobby, he thought, collecting first editions. Maybe he’d look into it. Graham Greene, perhaps, or Georges Simenon. There were plenty of those to spend a lifetime or more collecting. “So even after confessing, McGarrity pleaded not guilty?”

“Yes. It was a foolish move. He wanted to conduct his own defense, too, but the judge wasn’t having any of it. As it was, he kept getting up in court and interrupting, causing a fuss, making accusations that he’d been framed. I mean, the nerve of him, after he’d as good as admitted it. Things didn’t go well for him at all. We got the similar fact evidence about the previous stabbing in. The bailiffs had to remove him from the court at least twice.”

“He said he’d been framed?”

“Well, they all do, don’t they?”

“Was he more specific about it?”

“No. Couldn’t be really, could he, seeing as it was all a pack of lies? Besides, he was gibbering. There’s no doubt about it, Patrick McGarrity was guilty as sin.”

“Perhaps I should have a chat with him.”

“That would be rather difficult,” said Bradley. “He’s dead. He was stabbed in jail back in 1974. Something to do with drugs.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Is it just me, or do I sense a bit of an atmosphere around here?” Banks asked Annie in the corridor on Thursday morning.

“Atmosphere would be an understatement,” said Annie. Her head still hurt, despite the paracetamol she had taken before leaving Winsome’s flat that morning. Luckily, she always carried a change of clothes in the boot of her car. Not because she was promiscuous or anything, but because once years ago, a mere DC, when she had done a similar thing, got drunk and stayed with a friend after a breakup with a boyfriend, someone in the station had noticed and she had been the butt of unfunny sexist jokes for days. And after that, her DS had come on to her in the lift after work one day.

“You look like shit,” said Banks.

“Thank you.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Annie looked up and down the corridor to make sure no one was lurking. Great, she thought, she was getting paranoid in her own station now. “Think we can sneak over the road to the Golden Grill without setting too many tongues wagging?”

“Of course,” said Banks. He looked as if he was wondering what the hell she was talking about.

The day was overcast and chilly, and most of the people window-shopping on Market Street wore sweaters under their Windcheaters or anoraks. They passed a couple of serious ramblers, kitted out in all the new fancy gear, each carrying the two long pointed sticks, like ski poles. Well, Annie supposed, they might be of some use climbing up Fremlington Edge, but they weren’t a lot of use on the cobbled streets of Eastvale.

Their regular waitress greeted them and soon they were sitting over hot coffee and toasted tea cakes, looking through the misted window at the streams of people outside. Annie felt a sudden rush of nausea when she took her first sip of black coffee, but it soon waned. It was always there, though, a low-level sensation, in the background.

Annie and Winsome had certainly made a night of it, shared more confidences than Annie could ever have imagined. It made her realize when she thought about it in the cold hangover dawn, that she didn’t really have any friends, anyone to talk to like that, be silly with, do girly things with. She had always thought it was a function of her job, but perhaps it was a function of her personality. Banks was the same, but at least he had his kids. She had her father, Ray, down in St. Ives, of course, but they only saw one another rarely, and it wasn’t the same; for all his eccentricities and willingness to act as a friend and confidant, he was still her father.

“So what were you up to last night that’s left you looking like death warmed up? Feeling like it, too, by the looks of you.”

Annie pulled a face. “You know how I love it when you compliment me.”

Banks touched her hand, a shadow of concern passing over his face. “Seriously.”

“If you must know, I got pissed with Winsome.”

“You did what?”

“I told you.”

“But Winsome? I didn’t think she even drank.”

“Me, neither. But it’s official now. She can drink me under the table.”

“That’s no mean feat.”

“My point exactly.”

“How was it?”

“Well, a bit awkward at first, with the rank thing, but you know I’ve never held that in very great esteem.”

“I know. You respect the person, not the rank.”

“Exactly. Anyway, by the end of the evening we’d got beyond that, and we had quite a giggle. It was ‘Annie’ and ‘Winsome’ – she hates Winnie. She’s got a wicked sense of humor when she lets her hair down, does Winsome.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Mind your own business. It was girl talk.”

“Men, then.”

“Such an ego. What makes you think we’d waste a perfectly good bottle of Marks and Spencer’s plonk talking about you lot?”

“That puts me in my place. How was it when you met up at work this morning? A bit embarrassing?”

“Well, it’ll be ‘Winsome’ and ‘Guv’ in the workplace, but we had a bit of a giggle over it all.”

“So what started it?”

Annie felt another wave of nausea. She let it go, the way she did thoughts in meditation, and it seemed to work, at least for the moment. “DS Templeton,” she said finally.

“Kev Templeton? Was this about the promotion? Because-”

“No, it wasn’t about the promotion. And keep your voice down. Of course Winsome’s pissed off about that. Who wouldn’t be? We know she was the right person for the job, but we also know the right person doesn’t always get the job, even if she is a black female. I know you white males always like to complain when a job goes elsewhere for what you see as political reasons, but it’s not always the case, you know.”