“That must be the other side of what I saw,” said Banks. “Does it help?”
“It might do. Apparently there are people who have a fetish about shaved vaginas. It’s something to go on, anyway.”
Banks sighed. “Or maybe our killer’s just got a warped sense of humor. We can check with the PNC, anyway, see if there’s been any similar incidents. What about the weapon?”
“Twelve-gauge, double-barrel. Judging by the amount of shot we’ve collected, the bastard who did it must have used both of them.”
“Anything from the house?”
“No prints, if that’s what you mean. They wore gloves. And there was nothing special about the rope they used to tie up the wife and daughter, either. By the way, remember one of the chairs was wet, the one overturned by the table?”
“Yes.”
“It was urine. The poor lass must have been so scared she pissed herself.”
Banks swallowed. That was Alison’s chair. She was the one who had eventually made her way to the sewing basket and toppled her chair. “Any footprints?” he asked.
“We’re still working on it, but don’t hold your breath. The ground had pretty much dried out after last week’s rain.”
“Okay, Vic, thanks for calling. Keep at it and keep me informed, okay?”
“Will do.”
After he had hung up, Banks lit another cigarette and walked over to the window again. Most of the tourists were getting in their cars, removing the crook-locks and driving home. The cobbles, cross and church front looked slate gray in the dull afternoon light. At the far side of the square, the El Toro coffee bar and Joplin ’s newsagent’s seemed to be doing good business.
Banks thought of Alison, who had shown so much courage in telling them about what had happened at Arkbeck Farm. Someone had scared her so much she had sat in her own urine, probably for hours. The idea of her indignity and humiliation made him angry. He vowed he would find whoever was responsible for doing that to her and make damn sure they suffered.
3
The Queen’s Arms was always busy at six o’clock on a Friday, and it was only through good luck and quick reflexes that Banks and Susan Gay managed to grab a copper-topped table by the window when a party of cashiers from the NatWest Bank gathered their things and left.
As happened so often in the Dales, the weather had changed dramatically over a very short period. A light breeze had sprung up and blown away the clouds. Now, the early evening sunlight glowed through the red and amber panes and shot bright rays through the clear ones, lighting on a foaming glass of ale and highlighting the smoke swirling in the air.
The sunlight and smoke reminded Banks of the effect the projection camera created at the cinema when smoking was allowed there. As kids, he and his friends used to put their money together for a packet of five Woodbines, then go to the morning matinee at the Palace: a Three Stooges short, a Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon serial, and a black-and-white western, maybe a Hopalong Cassidy. Slumped down in their seats, they would smoke “wild woodies” until they felt sick. He smiled at the memory and reached for a Silk Cut.
Conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed all around them, and the general mood was ebullient. After all, it was the weekend. For most people in the pub, there would be no work until Monday morning. They could go off shopping to York or Leeds, wallpaper the bedroom, visit Aunt Maisie in Skipton, or just lounge around and watch football or racing on telly. It was Cup Final day tomorrow, Banks remembered. Fat chance he’d get of watching it.
The best he could hope was that he would get home before too late tonight and spend some time with Sandra. It was the ideal opportunity for a bit of bridge-building. Tracy was away in France on a school exchange, and Brian was at Portsmouth Polytechnic, so they had the house to themselves for once. He would be too late for a shared dinner, but maybe a nice bottle of claret, a few Chopin “Nocturnes,” candlelight… then, who knew what might follow?
It was a nice fantasy. But right now he was waiting for Gristhorpe and Richmond, here to combine the pleasure of a pint and a steak-and-kidney pud with the business of swopping notes and fishing for leads at an informal meeting.
Once in a while, through the laughter and the arguments, Banks heard the Rothwell case mentioned. “Did you hear about that terrible murder up near Relton…?” “Hear about that bloke got shot out in the dale? I heard they blew his head right off his shoulders… ” By now, of course, everyone had had a chance to read the Yorkshire Evening Post, and people were only too willing to embroider on the scant details the newspaper gave. Rumor and fantasy were rife. What Gristhorpe hadn’t told the media so far was that Rothwell had been executed “gangland” style, and that the weapon used was a shotgun.
The best the press could manage so far was “LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MURDERED… Not more than a mile above the peaceful Swainsdale village of Fortford, a mild-mannered accountant was shot to death in his own garage in the early hours of this morning…” There followed an appeal for information about “two men in black” and a photograph of Keith Rothwell, looking exactly like a mild-mannered accountant, with his thinning fair hair combed back, showing the slight widow’s peak, his high forehead, slightly prissy lips and the wire-rimmed glasses. The glasses, Banks knew, had been found shattered to pieces along with the other wreckage of Rothwell’s skull.
Banks waved to Gristhorpe and Richmond, who nudged their way through the crowd to join them at the table. While he was on his feet, Richmond went to get a round of drinks and put in the food orders.
“At least we don’t have to worry about civilians overhearing classified information,” Gristhorpe said as he sat down and scraped his stool forward along the worn stone flagging. “I can hardly even hear myself think.”
When Richmond got back with the tray of drinks, Gristhorpe said, “Right, Phil, tell us what you found.”
They huddled close around the table. Richmond took a sip of his St. Clements. “There are several items that have been either encrypted or assigned passwords,” he said. “Some are complete directories, and one’s just a document file in a directory. He’s called it ‘LETTER.’”
“Can you get access?” Gristhorpe asked.
“Not easily, no, sir. Not unless you type the password at the prompt. Believe me, I’ve tried every trick and all I’ve got for my pains is gibberish.”
“All right.” Gristhorpe coughed and waved away Banks’s smoke with an exaggerated gesture. “Let’s assume he had some special reason for keeping these items secret. That means we’re definitely interested. You said you couldn’t gain access easily, but is there a way?”