Peter Robinson: Piece Of My Heart

“Jesus Christ,” said Banks. “Linda Lofthouse.”

“There’s more,” said Annie, nodding to Winsome, who slipped out another sheet.

“Monday, twentieth April, 1970. The Brighton amp; Hove Gazette, the day after the Mad Hatters played at the Dome there. Not very well, apparently. The reviewer mentioned that Greaves in particular seemed barely conscious, and at one point Reg Cooper had to go over to him and direct his fingers to the right keys for the chords. But there’s a piece about a young girl called Anita Higgins found dead on a stretch of beach not far from the West Pier.”

“Stabbed?” said Banks.

“Yes, sir. This time from the front.”

“And I suppose the same thing happened at the third circled gig?”

“ Western Evening Herald, Wednesday, twentieth May, 1970, a review of the Mad Hatters gig and an item about Elizabeth Tregowan, aged seventeen, found dead in Hoe Park, Plymouth. This one was strangled.”

“So if it was the same person,” said Banks, “he was getting bolder, more daring, more personal. The first two he didn’t even want to see him, the third he stabbed from the front and the last he strangled. Is that all?”

“Yes, sir,” said Winsome. “There may be more, but these are the only three Nick Barber got around to uncovering. It must have been enough for him.”

“It’s enough for anyone,” said Banks. “If you count Linda Lofthouse at Brimleigh, that’s four girls been murdered within close proximity to a Mad Hatters gig. Were any of them at the concerts? Had they any connection with the group?”

“We don’t know yet,” Annie said. “Winsome thought it best to bring you up-to-date as soon as possible on this, and we’ve still got a lot of legwork to do. We need follow-up stories, if any are available, and we need to get on to the local forces, see what they’ve got in their archives. You know we never give everything out to the newspapers.”

“There’s one more thing,” Winsome said. “It might be of interest, I don’t know, but the Mad Hatters were on tour in France most of August 1969.”

“So?” said Banks.

“The flick-knife,” said Winsome. “They’re illegal here, but you can get them easily enough in France. And I don’t think they had metal detectors all over the place back then.”

“Right,” said Banks. “Excellent work. So where does this lead us? Before he left for Yorkshire, Nick Barber found out about a trail of bodies after Mad Hatters gigs in the late sixties and early seventies, starting with that of his birth mother. Clearly the local forces at the time had no communication about these killings, which isn’t surprising. Even as late as the eighties lack of inter-force communications botched the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. Stanley Chadwick thought he’d got his man, for good reason, so he had no further interest in the case. He also had problems of his own to deal with. Yvonne. Besides, one of the victims was strangled, not stabbed. Different MO. Even if Chadwick had come across the story, which is unlikely, it wouldn’t have meant anything to him. And who’d be looking at the Mad Hatters as a common denominator?”

“Clearly Nick Barber was,” said Annie. “Before his second interview with Vic Greaves, on the day of his murder, Friday, he went to Eastvale Computes in the morning to verify his dates, and he made a note of what he found – what he already knew – in the back of a book he was carrying. We already know from the landlord of the Cross Keys that Barber was in the habit of carrying a book with him when he went for a drink or a meal.”

“Lucky for us he was so thorough,” said Banks, “seeing as all his other research material was stolen.”

“So you think Vic Greaves is the killer?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know. When you put it like that, it does sound a bit absurd, doesn’t it?”

“Well, somebody killed those girls,” Annie argued. “And Vic Greaves was definitely around for each one.”

“Why did he stop?” Banks asked.

“We don’t know that he did,” Annie answered. “Though I’d guess he just became too disorganized to function. Obviously Chris Adams’s been shielding him, protecting him.”

“You think Adams knows the truth?”

“Probably,” Annie said.

“Why would he shield Greaves?”

“They’re old friends. Isn’t that what you said Tania Hutchison told you? They grew up together.”

“What about Robin Merchant?”

“He might have found out.”

“So you think Greaves killed him, too?”

“It wouldn’t have been difficult. Just a little nudge.”

“Trouble is,” said Banks, “we’re not likely to get much sense out of Greaves.”

“At least we can try.”

“Yes.” Banks stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Great work, Winsome. Carry on with the follow-up. Get all you can from the locals.”

“Where are you going?”

“I think I know where Vic Greaves is,” said Banks. “I’m going to have a word with him.”

“Don’t you think you should take backup, sir?” said Winsome. “I mean, if he really is the one, he could be dangerous if you corner him.”

“No,” said Banks, remembering that Annie had given him the same warning. “That’s one thing that’ll likely lose him to us for good. He can’t handle social interaction, and he’s especially afraid of strangers. I can only imagine how he’ll react if a few carloads of coppers turn up. At least he’s seen me before. I don’t think I’ve got anything to fear from him.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Annie.

So did Banks as he started the Porsche and negotiated his way out of East-vale toward Lyndgarth. He recalled the fear he had felt searching Greaves’s cottage and it made his mouth dry. People as disturbed as Vic Greaves could sometimes summon up amazing, almost superhuman, strength. At least Banks had told Annie and Winsome where he was going before he set off and asked them to give him a twenty-minute start before they sent in a patrol car as backup. He couldn’t be certain that Greaves was where he thought he was, he realized as he crossed the bridge over the Swain and headed for Lyndgarth, but he had a damned good idea.

The estate agent had told him that someone had been seen in the vicinity of Swainsview Lodge, and Greaves had turned uncommunicative at the mention of the place. It must have had very strong associations for him from a particular period of his life, and it would be natural enough for him to gravitate there in times of stress or confusion. Or so Banks hoped as he parked on the bleak daleside and the wind whipped at his face when he opened the car door.

The door through which he had previously entered was securely locked, and Banks was certain nobody could get in that way. An unpaved lane ran down the hill by the side of the lodge to the riverside hamlet of Brayke, and at the top of the lane was a side entrance leading to two large garages, both also locked. A fairly high drystone wall ran down the hill parallel to the lane, but it would be easy enough for anyone to climb, Banks thought, especially in one section which had lost a few stones. You might not be able to get into the house without breaking a window, he realized, but anyone could gain access to the grounds.

Banks’s first clue was a bicycle partially hidden in the ditch and covered with a blue plastic sheet held down by two stones, flapping in the wind. Clearly Greaves couldn’t get himself and his bicycle over the wall, too.

Convinced that he was right now, Banks hopped the wall and found himself in the garden beyond the swimming pool, where the vast neglected lawn started its long slope down to the river. He moved up to the edge of the pool, the familiar dark cracked stone covered with moss and lichens, and the pool itself choked with weeds, littered with broken glass and empty Carlsberg tins.