Peter Robinson - Wednesday's Child

“Was there any falling out over the loot?” Banks asked.

“No,” said Richmond. “Not as far as we could tell. Everyone seemed happy with his share. Poole took the television and stereo as part of his cut. Johnson got a thousand in cash. Fairley’s got no idea why Johnson was killed, though he said he wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Chivers had done him. Chivers scared him, seemed the type who’d do it for fun.”

“And he’s seen or heard nothing of him since?”

“No, sir. And doesn’t want to.”

“What about Gemma?” Banks asked. “Does Fairley know anything about what happened to her?”

“Just confirms what Poole told us, that’s all,” said Richmond. “After we spotted the whitewash in the cellar, we had the team do a thorough search last night, but they’ve turned up nothing to indicate Gemma was there.”

“Right,” said Gristhorpe, standing up and looking at his watch. “I’ve told you what Alan thinks about Chivers being in the area, and I agree with him. What I propose is that we start trying to flush him out. Phil, I’d like you to muster as many men as you can and start knocking on doors, asking questions. Somebody must have seen the bastard. The station and the bus station are obvious places to start. He left his car in Weymouth and unless he stole one, the odds are that he took some other form of transport. The lads down there are doing their bit, too. We’re co-ordinating with a DI Loder. I’ll get in touch with the media and we’ll see if we can’t get something on the local news tonight. I want it all in the open. If he is here, I want him to know we’re closing in on him. I want him to panic and make a run for it.

“Susan, get in touch with as many of those concerned citizens who helped in the search for Gemma and get them to ask around. Tell them to make sure they don’t take any risks, though. This one’s dangerous. You know the kind of thing to ask about. Smoke from a cottage that’s supposed to be empty, odd noises, suspicious strangers, that kind of thing. Especially anyone who insists on paying cash in large amounts. We’d better put a watch on Fairley’s shop, Brenda Scupham’s place and the holiday cottage, too, just in case. And we’ll ask around the pubs. He’s not the type to lie low. He’ll be wanting to see the effect he’s having. And remember, he may have altered his appearance a bit. He’s done it before, so don’t rely on hair colour. The one thing he can’t change is that bloody smile. All right?”

Everyone nodded and dispersed. Banks returned to his office and looked out on the church-goers pouring into the market square: women in powder blue suits holding onto their broad brimmed hats in the wind, clutching handbags; husbands in dark suits at their sides, collars too tight, shifting from foot to foot as their wives chatted, thinking maybe now they’d done their duty they’d be able to sneak off to the Queen’s Arms or the Crooked Billet for a quick one before dinner; restless children dreaming of an afternoon at Kinley Pond catching frogs, or climbing trees to collect birds’ eggs in Brinely Woods — either that or sniffing glue under the railway bridge and planning a bit of recreational B and E. And somewhere, in the midst of all that quotidian human activity and aspiration, was Jeremy Chivers.

Banks didn’t notice Susan in his doorway until she cleared her throat. He turned.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, “it slipped my mind at the meeting, but you had a call from Piet Kuypers, Amsterdam police. Said to call him back, you’d know what it was about.”

“Did he leave a message?”

“No. Just said he had a few interesting speculations for you.” Susan handed him a piece of paper. “The top’s his work number,” she said, pointing, “and that one’s home.”

“Thank you.” Banks took the paper and sat down. In the excitement of the chase for Chivers, he realized, he had quite forgotten asking Piet to check up on Adam Harkness. He hadn’t liked the man much, but as soon as it became clear that Chivers had more than likely killed Carl Johnson, there had seemed no real reason to consider Harkness any longer.

Puzzled, he dialled Piet’s home number. A child’s voice answered. Banks couldn’t speak Dutch, and the little girl didn’t seem to understand English. The phone banged down on a hard surface and a moment later a man’s voice came over the line, again in Dutch.

“Piet? It’s me. Alan Banks in Eastvale?”

“Ah, Alan,” said Piet. “That was my daughter, Eva. She only began to learn her English this year.” He laughed. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Piet. Hope I didn’t disturb your lunch but I’ve been out of town and I got a message to call you.”

“Yes. You have a moment?”

“Yes, of course.”

Banks heard the receiver placed, more gently this time, on the hard surface, and he put his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette while he waited for Piet to come back. He realized he had been talking too loudly, as one does on the telephone to foreigners, and reminded himself that Piet’s English was almost as good as his own.

“Sorry about that,” said Piet. “Yes, I did a little snooping, as you call it, about that man Harkness.” His voice bore only traces of a Dutch accent.

“Anything interesting?”

“Interesting, yes, I think so. But nothing but rumours, you understand. Hearsay. I found his wife. She has since remarried, and she didn’t want to talk about her relationship with Harkness, but she hinted that part of the reason they separated was that he had what she called filthy habits.”

“Filthy habits?”

“Yes. Like what, I thought? What do you English regard as a filthy habit? Picking his nose in bed? But I couldn’t get her to say any more. She is very religious. She had a strict Dutch Protestant upbringing in a small town in Friesland. I’m sorry, Alan, but I couldn’t force her to talk if she did not want to.”

Banks sighed. “No, of course not. What happened next?”

“I talked to some of my colleagues on drugs and vice, but they don’t know him. Mostly they’re new. You don’t last that long working on drugs and vice, and Harkness has been gone, how long did you say, two years?”

“Something like that,” said Banks.

“So I had an idea,” Piet went on. “I went to see Wim Kaspar. Now Wim is a strange man. Nobody really knows how far it all went, but he was, how do you English say, made to leave work early?”

“Fired?”

“No. I know that word. Not exactly fired.”

“Made redundant?”

Piet laughed. “Yes, that’s it. Such an odd phrase. Well, there was something of a cloud over Wim, you see. Nobody could prove anything, but it was suspected he took bribes and that he was involved with the drugs and girls in the Red Light district. But Wim worked many years in the Red Light district, ever since patrolman, and he knows more than anybody else what goes on there. And I don’t care what people say — maybe it is true — but he is a good man in many ways. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Banks, remembering now that Piet was a nice bloke but took ages getting to the bloody point.

“Wim heard and saw many things that went no further. It’s give and take in that world. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Especially if what they say about him is true. So I talked to him and he remembers something. Now you must understand, Alan, that there is no proof of this. It’s just rumours. And Wim will never repeat officially what he told me.”

“Tell me, Piet.”

“According to Wim’s contacts, your Mr Harkness visited the Red Light district on several occasions.”

“Piet, who doesn’t visit the Red Light district? It’s one of your main tourist attractions.”