Peter Robinson - Piece Of My Heart

“It might be some kind of code, but without a key it could be very difficult to crack.”

“I don’t think we have any keys,” said Banks.

“Well, sir…”

“Look, just keep trying, will you? If I come up with anything that I think might help you I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

“Okay, sir.”

“Thanks, Gavin.”

As Banks put down the phone, Annie came in to tell him that after fairly exhaustive inquiries made by the Metropolitan Police, there was no evidence to suggest that Nick Barber had been involved with the cocaine business.

“That’s interesting,” said Banks, “seeing as it was Chris Adams who suggested we look there.”

“A bit of nifty misdirection?”

“Looks like it to me. I want another word with Adams anyway. Maybe I can intimidate him with the old wasting-police-time routine.”

“Maybe,” said Annie.

“Any news on Kelly Soames?”

“She was discharged from hospital this morning. She’s staying with an aunt here in Eastvale for the time being.”

“Calvin Soames can’t just walk away, Annie, no matter how contrite he is. You know that.”

“I know,” said Annie. “You don’t think I want him to get off scot-free, do you? But it’s Kelly I’m concerned about at the moment.”

“Kelly’s young. She’ll get over it. I doubt that any magistrate or jury is going to put Calvin away, should he even see the inside of a courtroom.”

“He’ll plead guilty. He wants to be punished.”

“I’ll bet you Kelly won’t go into the witness box, and we won’t have much of a case without her testimony.”

“What’s that?” Annie pointed at the list on Banks’s desk. He realized that she hadn’t been with him when he’d found it, and he hadn’t looked at it since he gave the copy to Rickerd. “Some figures Nick Barber had scribbled in the back of his book.”

Annie peered at it. “Of course. The Kelly Soames business put it right out of my mind, but I was meaning to ask you about that. Barry Gilchrist in the computer shop mentioned that he saw Nick Barber writing in the back of a book while he was on the Web. I wonder what it is.”

“Does it mean anything to you?” Banks asked.

“No.” Annie laughed. “But it does remind me of something.”

“Oh? What?”

“Never mind.”

“Seriously. It could be important.”

“Just something I used to do when I was younger, that’s all.”

Banks could hardly keep the exasperation out of his voice. “What?”

Annie gave him a look. He could see that she was blushing. “You know,” she said. “Ring dates?”

“What dates?”

“For crying out loud.” Annie glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. She still sounded as if she were shouting at him. “Are you thick or something?”

“I’m trying not to be, but you’ve lost me.”

“My period, idiot. I used to ring the day of the month my period was due. It’s something a lot of girls do. I know this isn’t exactly the same, not the same time between them, for a start, but it’s the same idea.”

“Well, pardon me, but not being a girl and not having periods-”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Maybe it’s family birthdays or lottery numbers or whatever, but it amounts to the same thing. I’ve told you what you want to know. It reminds me of when I used to ring dates on the calendar to mark the start of my period. Okay?”

Banks held his hands up. “Okay?” he said. “I surrender.”

Annie snorted, turned away abruptly and left the room. Still feeling the disturbed air buffeting in her wake, Banks sat and gazed at the numbers.

6, 8, 9, 21, 22, 25

1, 2, 3, 16, 17, 18, 22, 23

10, , 13

8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 15, 16, 17, 19, 22, 23, 25, 26, 30

17, 18,

2, 5, 6, 7, 8, 11, 13, 14, 16, 18, , 21, 22, 23

Six rows. Many numbers duplicated, and no list going beyond 30. A calendar of some kind, then? Ringed dates? But why were they ringed and, perhaps even more to the point, which months, which year did they refer to? And why were some days missing? It should be possible to find out, Banks thought, perhaps with the help of a computer, then he realized that each group was not even necessarily from the same month, or the same year. They could be strings of days taken over a period of, say, thirty years. His spirits fell, and he cursed Nick Barber under his breath for not being more clear with his notes, realizing that this might be the clue he was looking for, perhaps the only one Nick had left, and he felt about as far from understanding it now as he ever had.

Annie had got over her irritation with Banks by mid-afternoon, when he came poking his head around the squad room door to tell her that Ken Blackstone had discovered the whereabouts of Yvonne Chadwick, DI Stanley Chadwick’s daughter, and would she like to accompany him to the interview? She didn’t need asking twice. Bugger Superintendent Gervaise, she thought, grabbing her jacket and briefcase. She noticed Kev Templeton give her an evil eye as she left the room. Maybe he was already getting the cold shoulder from Madame Gervaise, now that what had happened to Kelly Soames had made the local news.

Banks was quiet as Annie drove the unmarked car she had signed out of the police garage. She kept snatching sideways glances at him and realized he was thinking. Well, that was a good sign. She drove on. “I checked the Mad Hatters web site, by the way,” she said.

“And?”

“Definite possibilities for the numbers in the back of the book. There are links to other fan sites with tour dates and all sorts of esoteric information. I’ll need a lot more time to follow up on it all.”

“Maybe when we get back.”

“Sounds good.”

Yvonne Chadwick, or Reeves, as she was now called, lived on the outskirts of Durham, which wasn’t too far up the A1 from Eastvale. The road was busy with lorries, as usual, and on a couple of occasions the inevitable roadworks canceled out a lane or two and slowed traffic to a crawl. Annie glimpsed Durham Castle high on its hill and followed the directions Banks had written down for her.

The house was a semi with a bay window in a pleasant, leafy neighborhood where you wouldn’t be afraid to let your children play in the street. Yvonne Reeves turned out to be a rather plump, nervous woman of about fifty, who favored a gray peasant skirt and a shapeless maroon jumper. If she dressed up a bit, Annie thought, she would be much more attractive. She wore her long graying hair tied back in a ponytail. The interior of the house was clean and tidy. Bookcases lined the walls, mostly philosophy and law, with a sprinkling of literature. The living room was a little cramped, but comfortable once they had wedged themselves into the leather armchairs. There wasn’t much natural light, and the room smelled of dark chocolate and old books.

“This is all very intriguing,” said Yvonne. Her voice still bore the traces of her Yorkshire roots, though many of the rough edges had been flattened over the years. “But I’ve no idea at all why you think I might be able to help you. What’s it all about?”

“Have you heard about the death of a music journalist called Nick Barber?” Banks asked.

“I think I saw something in the paper,” Yvonne said. “Wasn’t he murdered somewhere in Yorkshire?”

“Near Lyndgarth,” said Banks.

“I still don’t understand.”

“Nick Barber was working on a story about a group called the Mad Hatters. Do you remember them?”