Peter Robinson - Many Rivers to Cross

‘Of course not,’ Chris said.

‘No harm in asking,’ said Banks. ‘Anyway, we’ve come up with a lot of interesting new trace evidence from the park, so we’ll know the truth soon enough.’

‘Evidence of what?’ Chris asked.

‘I’m afraid I can’t say at the moment. Just that it puts a whole new complexion on things, and it may well send the investigation spinning off in a whole different direction.’

‘Well, that’s great,’ said Chris, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. He was twitchy now, eager to leave his chair. ‘I’ve got an exam tomorrow morning. I’d better... you know...’

‘Right. Sorry to have kept you,’ said Banks.

Chris got up and walked towards the kitchen door. ‘Good luck,’ Banks called after him.

Chris half-turned. ‘What with?’

‘The exam.’

‘Oh, yeah. Right. Thanks.’ And he hurried inside.

‘Seems a bit on edge,’ Banks said. ‘A bit twitchy.’

Myers scowled. ‘Hardly bloody surprising, is it, the way you treated him just now. As if he doesn’t have enough on his plate already with these exams to worry about. You’re jeopardising the boy’s future with these wild accusations. Do you realise that, Superintendent? In fact, I’m going to—’

‘I suppose it prepares them for later life,’ said Banks.

‘What?’

‘Exams. The stress.’

Myers seemed confused. ‘Is there... I mean, I’ve had enough of this. I need to go and see if Chris needs anything. If you...’

Banks glanced at Annie, and they both stood up. ‘No, that’s fine, Mr Myers. We’re finished for the moment. We know where to find you if we need to talk to you or Chris again. It’s a great little spot you’ve got here. Easy to settle in for the afternoon, I should imagine.’

‘If you’re finished, then.’

‘Right. We’re off. Don’t get up. You stay here. We’ll see ourselves out.’

‘Believe me, it’s no trouble,’ said Myers.

Chris Myers was nowhere in sight. His father stuck with Banks and Annie all the way to the front door and seemed to close it behind them with a great deal of relief.

The following morning, Banks left Annie to dig up as much background as she could on the Elmet Hill Neighbourhood Watch and its members and took Gerry with him to St Botolph’s. While it seemed unlikely that a member of a Neighbourhood Watch group would murder an interloper, it wasn’t entirely impossible, Banks thought; especially if tensions were running high in the area, as they perhaps were after the burglaries and the sexual assault on Lisa Bartlett. Any members of the Watch Annie discovered to have criminal records would certainly be brought in for questioning.

Banks took the road north-west out of Eastvale, skirting the top of Elmet Hill, and turned off at the second exit of the big roundabout at the edge of town, which led deeper into the dale, to Lyndgarth and beyond. It was a B-road, which meant the surface wasn’t always smooth, and in places it was so narrow that there was a need for passing places. Luckily, they encountered little traffic coming from the other direction. Trees lined the road in a variety of gnarly shapes and sizes. As he drove, Banks played a selection of Vivaldi arias sung by Cecilia Bartoli, and Gerry seemed happy to sit back in silence and enjoy the music flowing over her.

Banks had been asked so many times why he didn’t have lower ranking members of his team drive him around, and he always answered that he preferred to drive himself. It was partly a control issue — he didn’t fully trust anyone else — and partly because the Porsche inherited from his brother had come to fit him like an old glove, despite the various insurance forms and waivers he had to sign before being allowed to use his own car at work rather than some wreck from the police garage. This way, if he got involved in a police chase and smashed it up, the county wouldn’t be liable.

Several miles beyond Lyndgarth they crested a rise and came out from the obscuring shade of roadside trees to see St Botolph’s spread out in a natural trough of land like some fairy-tale castle held in the palm of a giant’s hand. The school was a rambling Victorian construction, though on a relatively small scale, built in 1866 of local limestone, complete with turrets and gables. The grounds were extensive, scattered with numerous buildings, both original and more modern additions, including dormitories, stables, storage areas and a chapel with lancet stained-glass windows. There were also the inevitable green swathes of playing fields with rugby posts, and smaller pitches, clearly intended for cricket, along with tennis courts. All in all, it was quite a sight, and Banks stopped in a lay-by for a few moments to let Gerry take it all in.

‘Not seen it before?’ he asked.

‘No, guv. It’s like something out of Brideshead Revisited . You know, on the TV, when Charles Ryder first sees Brideshead.’

‘I didn’t know you were a fan.’

‘I’m working my way through great box sets. It was on the list.’

‘That was filmed at Castle Howard, you know.’

‘I know. I’ve always wanted to visit, but it’s prohibitively expensive.’

‘Well, St Botolph’s isn’t quite as magnificent, but it’s free. Unless you want to be a pupil there, of course.’

‘No, thanks. I’ve had my fill of posh schools.’

‘Of course. I remember. Merchant Taylors’, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you still a lowly DC.’

Gerry laughed. ‘That’s all right, guv. I’ve still got my sights on the chief constable’s job.’

Banks gave a mock shudder. ‘I couldn’t imagine anything worse.’ He drove out of the lay-by and wound his way down the road to the school, surrounded by open fields and moorland on both sides, all under a great blue dome of sky scattered with fluffy white clouds. As they floated over, the clouds cast shadows, which seemed to chase one another across the landscape.

Banks parked outside the main building. ‘The head said he’d meet us in his office,’ he said. ‘It’s on the second floor.’

It was exam time, so there weren’t the usual number of pupils dashing about the high-ceilinged corridors, or up and down the broad marble staircase. One or two young boys paused to stare at them and whisper as they passed. Probably, Banks thought, having highly erotic thoughts about Gerry, with her coltish figure and flowing red hair. Their footsteps echoed as they walked up to the second floor, where they found someone who looked like a teacher to direct them to the head’s office. Once there, they knocked and entered a reception area where a young woman with a stuffy formal manner asked them to be seated and wait, that Mr Bowen would be with them soon.

It didn’t take long before they were summoned to go in. Though it had happened before in the course of his investigations, Banks had never been quite able to separate these official visits to the headmaster’s office from those he had been required to make as a pupil at his local grammar school, after passing the 13+ examination and finding himself transferred from the secondary modern and all his friends. He still felt that same sense of trepidation, the quickening heartbeat, even an anticipatory tingling around the buttocks at the thought of the caning to come. Of course, schools didn’t do such barbaric things any more, but the memory remained — the music teacher with his slipper called ‘Johan Sebastian’; the divinity teacher who always said, ‘This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you’ before every thrashing; the art teacher who took a run like a fast bowler before letting rip. Bastards all. And no doubt dead bastards by now.

But Roger Bowen was hardly so frightening. He was young, for a start, and quite handsome, with a fine head of thick brown hair and not a trace of grey. Banks put him in his late thirties at most. He also had an affable manner and a sporty air about him — more cricketer, perhaps, than rugby player — and a strong handshake, neither too firm nor too limp and clammy. He wore a white shirt and what looked like an old school tie, but there were no gowns or mortarboards in sight. The mullioned sash window was open several inches, letting in a light breeze, a whiff of scented spring air, the thwack of leather on willow and the shouts from those pupils lucky enough to be practising out in the nets instead of writing A-levels. Bowen bade them sit and sent for tea, then leaned back in his chair with his hands linked behind his head.