“Get young Farnley on the job, then,” Banks said. PC Farnley hadn’t offended anyone or cocked up a case, but he lacked imagination and had a general reputation around the station as a crashing golf bore.
Clearly relieved, Richmond and Susan wandered off toward the Scene-of-Crime team, who had just pulled into the farmyard in a large van. As they piled out in their white boiler suits, they looked like a team of government scientists sent to examine the alien landing-spot. Pretty soon, Banks thought, if they weren’t all careful, there would be a giant spider or a huge gooey blob rolling around the Yorkshire Dales gobbling up everyone in sight.
The night was cool and still, the air moist, tinged with a hint of manure. Banks still felt half-asleep, despite the shock of what he had seen in the garage. Maybe he was dreaming. No. He thought of Sandra, warm at home in bed, and sighed.
Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe’s arrival at about three-thirty brought him out of his reverie. Gristhorpe limped over from his car. He wore an old donkey-jacket over his shirt, and he clearly hadn’t bothered to shave or comb his unruly thatch of gray hair.
“Bloody hell, Alan,” he said by way of greeting, “tha looks like Columbo.”
There’s the pot calling the kettle black, Banks thought. Still, the super was right. He had thrown on an old raincoat over his shirt and trousers because he knew the night would be chilly.
After Banks had explained what he had found out so far, Gristhorpe took a quick look in the barn, questioned PC Carstairs, the first officer at the scene, then rejoined Banks, his usually ruddy, pock-marked face a little paler. “Let’s go in the house, shall we, Alan?” he said. “I hear PC Weaver’s brewing up. He should be able to give us some background.”
They walked across the dirt yard. Above them, the stars shone cold and bright like chips of ice on black velvet.
The farmhouse was cozy and warm inside, a welcome change from the cool night and the gruesome scene in the barn. It had been renovated according to the yuppie idea of the real rustic look, with exposed beams and rough stone walls in an open, split-level living room, all earthy browns and greens. The remains of a log fire glowed in the stone hearth, and beside it stood a pair of antique andirons and a matching rack holding poker and tongs.
In front of the fire, Banks noticed two hard-backed chairs facing one another. One of them had fallen over, or had been pushed on its side. Beside both of them lay coils of rope. One of the chair seats looked wet.
Banks and Gristhorpe walked through into the ultramodern kitchen, which looked like something from a color supplement, where PC Weaver was pouring boiling water into a large red teapot.
“Nearly ready, sir,” he said, when he saw the CID officers. “I’ll just let it mash a couple of minutes.”
The kitchen walls were done in bright red and white patterned tiles, and every available inch of space had been used to wedge fitted microwave, oven, fridge, dishwasher, cupboards and the like. It also boasted a central island unit, complete with tall pine stools. Banks and Gristhorpe sat down.
“How’s his wife?” Gristhorpe asked.
“There’s a wife and daughter here, sir,” said Weaver. “The doctor’s seen them. They’re both unharmed, but they’re suffering from shock. Hardly surprising when you consider they found the body. They’re upstairs with WPC Smithies. Apparently there’s also a son rambling around America somewhere.”
“Who was this Rothwell bloke?” Banks asked. “He must have had a bob or two. Anything missing?”
“We don’t know yet, sir,” Weaver said. He looked around the bright kitchen. “But I see what you mean. He was some sort of financial whiz-kid, I think. These newfangled kitchens don’t come cheap, I can tell you. The wife’s got in the habit of leaving the Mail on Sunday supplement open at some design or another. Her way of dropping hints, like, and about as subtle as a blow on the head with a hammer. The price of them makes me cringe. I tell her the one we’ve got is perfectly all right, but she-”
As he talked, Weaver began to pour the tea into the row of cups and mugs he had arranged. But after filling the second one, he stopped and stared at the door. Banks and Gristhorpe followed his gaze and saw a young girl standing there, her slight figure framed in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes and stretched.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you the detectives? I’d like to talk to you. My name’s Alison Rothwell and someone just killed my father.”
2
She was about fifteen, Banks guessed, but she made no attempt to make herself look older, as many teenagers do. She wore a baggy, gray sweatshirt advertising an American football team, and a blue tracksuit bottom with a white stripe down each side. Apart from the bruiselike pouches under her light blue eyes, her complexion was pale. Her mousy blonde hair was parted in the center and hung in uncombed strands over her shoulders. Her mouth, with its pale, thin lips, was too small for her oval face.
“Can I have some tea, please?” she asked. Banks noticed she had a slight lisp.
PC Weaver looked for direction. “Go ahead, lad,” Gristhorpe told him. “Give the lass some tea.” Then he turned to Alison Rothwell. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be upstairs with your mum, love?”
Alison shook her head. “Mum’ll be all right. She’s asleep and there’s a policewoman sitting by her. I can’t sleep. It keeps going round in my mind, what happened. I want to tell you about it now. Can I?”
“Of course.” Gristhorpe asked PC Weaver to stay and take notes. He introduced Banks and himself, then pulled out a stool for her. Alison gave them a sad, shy smile and sat down, holding the mug of tea to her chest with both hands as if she needed its heat. Gristhorpe indicated subtly that Banks should do the questioning.
“Are you sure you feel up to this?” Banks asked her first.
Alison nodded. “I think so.”
“Would you like to tell us what happened, then?”
Alison took a deep breath. Her eyes focused on something Banks couldn’t see.
“It was just after dark,” she began. “About ten o’clock, quarter past or thereabouts. I was reading. I thought I heard a sound out in the yard.”
“What kind of sound?” Banks asked.
“I… I don’t know. Just as if someone was out there. A thud, like someone bumping into something or something falling on the ground.”
“Carry on.”
Alison hugged her cup even closer. “At first I didn’t pay it any mind. I carried on reading, then I heard another sound, a sort of scraping, maybe ten minutes later.”
“Then what did you do?” Banks asked.