“No.” Blackstone pointed to the rubble. “As you can see, it’s just an old schoolyard with weeds growing through the tarmac. The school was knocked down months ago.”
Banks looked around. To the southwest he could see the large dome of the Town Hall and the built-up city center; to the west stood the high white obelisk of the university’s Brotherton Library, and the rest of the horizon seemed circled with blocks of flats and crooked terraces of back-to-backs poking through the surrounding rubble like charred vertebrae. “I could use a break on this, Ken,” Banks said.
“Aye. We’ll give it our best. Hey up, the lads have come to pick up the car.”
Banks watched the police tow-team tie a line to the Escort. “I’d better be off,” he said. “You’ll let me know?”
“Just a minute,” said Blackstone. “What are your plans?”
“I’m checking into the Holiday Inn. For tonight, at least. There’s a couple of people I want to talk to again in connection with Clegg and Rothwell – Clegg’s secretary and his ex-wife, for a start. I’d like to get a clearer idea of their relationship now we’ve got a bit more to go on.”
“Holiday Inn? Well, la-di-dah. Isn’t that a bit posh for a humble copper?”
Banks laughed. “I could do with a bit of luxury. Maybe they’ll give me the sack when they see my expenses. These days we can’t even afford to do half the forensic tests we need.”
“Tell me about it. Anyway, if you’re going to be sticking around, I’d appreciate it if we could have a chat. There seems to be a lot going on here I don’t know about.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know about, too.”
“Still… I’d appreciate it if you would fill me in.”
“No problem.”
Blackstone hesitated and shifted from foot to foot. “Look,” he said, “I’d like to invite you over for a bit of home-cooking but Connie left a couple of months ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Banks. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, it happens, right? Comes with the territory. Still taking care of that lovely wife of yours?”
“You wouldn’t think so by the amount of time we’ve spent together lately.”
“I know what you mean. That was one of the problems. She said we were living such separate lives we might as well make it official. Anyway, I’m not much of a cook myself. Besides, Connie got the house and I’m in a rather small bachelor flat for the moment. But there’s a decent Indian restaurant on Eastgate, near the station, if you fancy it? It’s called the Shabab. About half past six, seven o’clock? We might have something on Hamilton and the car by then, too.”
“All right,” said Banks. “You’re on. Make it seven o’clock.”
“And, Alan,” said Blackstone as Banks walked away, “you watch yourself. Hotels give married men strange ideas sometimes. I suppose it’s the anonymity and the distance from home, if you know what I mean. Anyway, there’s some seem to act as if the normal vows of marriage don’t apply in hotels.”
Banks knew what Blackstone meant, and he felt guilty as an image of Pamela Jeffreys flashed unbidden through his mind.
2
Susan Gay heard Sergeant Hatchley burp before she had even opened the office door after more fruitless interviews with Rothwell’s legitimate clients. She felt apprehension churn in her stomach like a badly digested meal. She could not work with Hatchley; she just couldn’t.
Hatchley sat at his desk smoking. The small, stifling room stank of stale beer and pickled onions. The warped window was open about as far as it would go, but that didn’t help much. If this oppressive weather didn’t end soon, Susan felt she would scream.
And, by God, he’s repulsive, she thought. There was his sheer bulk, for a start – a rugby prop forward gone to fat. Then there was his face: brick-red complexion, white eyelashes and piggy eyes; straw hair, thinning a bit at the top; a smattering of freckles over a broad-bridged nose; fleshy lips; tobacco-stained teeth. To cap it all, he wore a shiny, wrinkled blue suit, and his red neck bulged over his tight shirt collar.
From the corner of her eye, Susan noticed the colored picture on the cork-board: long blonde hair, exposed skin. Without even stopping to think, she walked over and pulled it down so hard the drawing-pin shot right across the room.
“Oy!” said Hatchley. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
“I’m not playing at anything,” Susan said, waving the picture at him. “With all respect, sir, I don’t care if you are my senior officer, I won’t bloody well have it!”
A hint of a smile came to Hatchley’s eyes. “Calm down, lass,” he said. “You’ve got steam coming out of your ears. Maybe you’re being a bit hasty?”
“No, I’m not. It’s offensive. I don’t see why I should have to work with this kind of thing stuck to the walls. You might think it’s funny, but I don’t. Sir.”
“Susan. Look at it.”
“No. Why-”
“Susan!”
Slowly, Susan turned the picture over and looked at it. There, in all her maternal innocence, Carol Hatchley, with her long blonde hair hanging over her shoulders, held her naked, newborn baby to her breast, which was covered well beyond the point of modesty by a flesh-tone T-shirt. Susan felt herself blush. All she had seen were the woman’s face, hair, and a lot of skin color. “I… I thought… ” She could think of nothing else to say.
“I know what you thought,” said Hatchley. “You thought my daughter’s head was a tit. You could apologize.”
Susan felt such a fool she couldn’t even bring herself to do that.
“All right,” Hatchley said, putting his feet up on the desk, “then you can listen to me. Now, nobody’s ever going to convince me that looking at a nice pair of knockers is wrong. Since time immemorial, since our ancestors scratched images on cave walls, men have enjoyed looking at women’s tits. They’re beautiful things, nothing dirty or pornographic about them at all.”
“But they’re private,” Susan blurted out. “Don’t you understand? They’re a woman’s private parts. You don’t see pictures of men’s privates all over the place, do you? You wouldn’t like people staring at yours, would you?”
“Susan, love, if I thought it would make you happy I’d drop my trousers right now. But that’s not the point. What I’m saying is it’s my opinion that there’s nowt wrong in admiring a nice pair of bristols. A lot of people agree with me, too. But you don’t like it.” He held up his large hand. “All right, now I might not be the most sensitive bloke in Christendom, and I certainly reserve my right to disagree with you, but I’m not that much of a monster that I’d use my rank to expose you to something you feel offends you day in, day out, however wrongheaded I think you are. I respect your opinion. I don’t agree with you, and I never will, but I respect it. I can live without.