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“Can we prove it?”
“I don’t know. He’s tired of it all, but he wouldn’t admit to anything. He’s not stupid. You should have seen him down there, crying like a baby, cradling Greaves’s head in his lap, even though he must have been in considerable pain himself.”
“What’s the extent of his injuries?”
“Dislocated shoulder, couple of broken ribs, cuts and bruises, according to the paramedics.”
“And Greaves?”
“Landed badly. Broke his neck. Died instantly.”
A
“Maybe,” said Banks. “God knows he was a tortured soul.”
“What now?”
“We try to get as much evidence as we can on Adams. He’s not getting away with this. Not if I can help it. We’ll go over the forensics, check and re-check witness statements, interview the entire village again, probe his alibi, the lot. There has to be something there to link him to Barber’s murder. Not Merchant’s. That’s too long ago, and there’s no way we’ll get him for that now.”
“Stefan says he’s got some prints and hair from the living room that don’t match anyone else’s so far.”
Banks looked at her, a hint of a smile on his face. “Then I’d say we’ve got him, wouldn’t you? An amateur like Adams would never be able to clean up completely after himself. Besides, when the fact that Greaves is dead sinks in, I think we’ve also got a better chance of appealing to his conscience. He’s got no one to protect anymore.”
“What about the Mad Hatters? The past? The reputation? Aren’t they supposed to be doing some reunion tour?”
“There’s every chance none of it will get out, anyway. Cardiff. Brighton. Plymouth. Why should it if Adams pleads guilty? Those cases are long over, and the killer died more than thirty-five years ago. Maybe the local forces can put a tick in a box and claim another success in their statistics of crimes solved, but that’ll be about as far as it goes.”
“Until another Nick Barber comes along.”
“Perhaps,” said Banks. “But that’s none of our business.”
“Winsome talked to people in Plymouth and Cardiff who were able to dig up the old files,” A
“And?”
“In the file, it said that each girl had a flower painted on her cheek. A cornflower.”
Banks nodded. “Merchant’s signature. Just like Linda Lofthouse.”
“They didn’t release that to the general public.”
“Fu
“Cold?” A
“Getting there.”
“By the way,” she said, “I just saw Kev Templeton come storming out of Superintendent Gervaise’s office with a face like a slapped arse.”
Banks smiled. “So there is some justice in the world.” He glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. “I’m starving,” he said, “and I could do with a stiff drink. How about it?”
“Sure you’re up to it?”
Banks gave her an unreadable glance, his features cast into planes of light and shadow by the bright arc lights, his eyes a piercing blue. “Let’s go,” he said, turning away. “I’ve finished here.”
Monday, 29th September, 1969
The deserted stretch of canal ran by a scrapyard where the pattering rain echoed on the piles of rusty old metal. Stanley Chadwick walked along the towpath with his raincoat collar turned up. He knew that what he was about to do was wrong, that it went against everything he believed in, but he felt that it was the only way. He couldn’t just leave things to chance because, in his experience, chance had no history of supporting the right side without a little help. And he was right; of that he was certain. Proving it was another matter.
Yvo
The figure approached from under the Kirkstall Viaduct, as arranged. Jack Skelgate was a small-time fence who rather resembled a ferret, and he had been useful to Chadwick as an informer on many occasions. Chadwick had chosen Skelgate because he had so much on him he could send him away for the next ten years, and if there was one thing that terrified Skelgate more than anything else, it was the idea of prison. Which, Chadwick had often thought, ought to have made him consider another, more honest, occupation, but some people just don’t manage to make the co
“Miserable bloody day, i
“There was a burglary in Cross Gates the other night,” Chadwick said. “Someone drove off with fifty canteens of cutlery. Nice ones. Silver. I wonder if any of them happened to find their way into your hands?”
“Silver cutlery, you say? Can’t say as I’ve seen any of that in quite a while.”
“But you’d let me know if you did?”
“Of course I would, Mr. Chadwick.”
“We think the Newton gang might be behind it, and you know how interested I am in putting them away.”
Skelgate cringed at the words, even though they referred to someone else. “The Newtons, you say. Nasty lot, them.”
“They may be pla
“I’ll keep my ears open, Mr. Chadwick, that I will.” Skelgate looked around with his ferrety eyes. Paranoia was another trait of his; he always thought someone was watching or listening in. “Is that all, Mr. Chadwick? Can I go now? Only, I don’t want us to be seen together. Those Newtons are a violent bunch. Think nothing of putting a man in hospital for a month, they wouldn’t.”
“Just keep your eyes and ears open.” Chadwick paused, tensing as he realized he was reaching the point of no return. For weeks he had been moving among people who despised everything he valued, and somewhere in the midst of it all, he had become unglued. He knew this, and he also knew there was no going back. All he wanted was for Yvo
He felt a sudden heaviness in his chest. Not a sharp pain or anything, just a heaviness, the way he always thought the sort of heartbreak that torch singers describe would feel. He had felt it just once before, when he ran out of the landing craft on the morning of the sixth of June, 1944, but that day he had soon forgotten it in the noise and smoke, in dodging the mortar and machine-gun fire. “There is one more thing I’d like you to do for me,” he said.