“You look a bit under the weather, Inspector,” said Grace. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine,” said Annie. “Touch of flu, maybe.”
“Ah, I see. What is it I can help you with?”
Annie explained a little about the body in the wheelchair, and Grace’s expression became more serious as she spoke. “In the end,” Annie said, “this place seemed a natural one to start asking questions. Any idea who it might be?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Grace. “But if you don’t mind staying here a moment, I might be able to find out for you.”
“Thank you.”
Annie topped up her water. Through the large window, she could see Grace go back to the reception desk and talk to Fiona, who seemed flustered. Eventually, Fiona picked up a large ledger from her desk and handed it to Grace, who looked at the open page and returned to the conference room carrying the book.
“This should help,” she said, placing it on the table. “It’s a log of all patient comings and goings. Anyone who leaves the building with a friend or relative has to be signed out.”
“And is anyone?” asked Annie.
“Only one. Usually we have far more out on a Sunday morning, but today the weather has been so unsettled, hail one minute, sleet and gale-force wind the next, that most visitors either didn’t stay out long or decided simply to stay in with their loved ones. We’ve organized a special Mother’s Day lunch, and most people will be staying indoors for that.”
“And the one who’s signed out?”
Grace slid the book around so Annie could read the single entry: “KAREN DREW, taken out at 9:30 A.M.” No return time filled in. And next to her name was an unintelligible signature, the first part of which might just, at a stretch of the imagination, have been Mary.
“Are you sure she’s not back?” Annie asked.
“I don’t know. Mistakes do happen. I’ll have to have someone check her room to make certain.”
“Would you do that, please?”
“Just a moment. I’ll get Fiona to page Mel, her carer. You’ll want to talk to her, anyway, I presume?”
“Yes, please,” said Annie, reaching for the water jug again as Grace went back to see Fiona.
When Banks arrived at the Queen’s Arms for a working lunch, Detective Sergeant Hatchley and the new probationary DC Doug Wilson were already there and had been lucky to snag a dimpled copper-topped table by the window looking out on the church and market cross. The pub was crowded already, and people were crossing the market square carrying bouquets of flowers or potted plants. It reminded Banks that he still had to phone his mother.
The detectives were still on duty, at the very beginning of a serious inquiry, so, under Detective Superintendent Gervaise’s new totalitarian regime, alcohol was strictly out of the question. Food, though, was another matter entirely. Even a working copper has to eat. Sipping a Diet Coke when Banks arrived, Hatchley ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding all round, and they settled down to business.
Hatchley was starting to appear old, Banks thought, though he was only in his forties. The cares of fatherhood had drawn lines around his eyes and bags under them. Lack of exercise had put on pounds that sagged around the waist of his suit trousers. Even his thatch of strawlike hair was getting thin on top, not helped at all by a very precarious comb-over. Still, Hatchley was never a man who had taken great pride in his appearance, though perhaps the saddest thing about him now was that he would hardly scare even the most mouselike of villains. But he remained a stubborn and dogged copper, albeit slow on the uptake, and Banks valued his presence on the team, when they could steal him away from his teetering piles of paperwork in CID. DC Wilson was fresh from detective training school and looked as if he’d be happier out playing football with his mates.
Hayley Daniels, it seemed, had been around. A number of landlords and bar staff recognized her from the picture Winsome had got from Donna McCarthy, though nobody admitted actually to knowing her. She had been part of a large mixed group of Saturday-night regulars, mostly students from the college. At some times there were eight or nine of them, at others five or six. Hayley had been drinking Bacardi Breezes, and toward the end of the evening at least one landlord had refused to serve her. Nobody remembered seeing her enter the Maze.
“The barmaid from the Duck and Drake recognized her,” DC Wilson said. “In fact, she’s a student at the college herself, working part-time, like a lot of them, and she said she’s seen Hayley around on campus. Doesn’t know her especially well, though.”
“Anything else?” Banks asked.
“She was able to give me a couple of names of people who were with Hayley on Saturday night. She thought there were about eight, maybe nine of them, in all, when she saw them. They met up at the Duck and Drake around seven o’clock, had a couple of drinks and moved on. They weren’t particularly boisterous then, but it was early on.”
“Did you ask if she noticed anyone paying them much attention?”
“I did. She said it was pretty quiet around then, but there was one bloke by himself in a corner giving the girls the eye. In all fairness, the barmaid said she didn’t blame him, given how little they were wearing.”
“Name?”
“Didn’t know,” said DC Wilson. “Said he was vaguely familiar, thought she’d seen him before but couldn’t think where. Thought he might be one of the local shopkeepers having a quiet drink after work. Anyway, I gave her my mobile number in case she remembered.”
“That’s good work, Doug,” said Banks. The pub was filling up and getting noisy around them. It was hardly a day for tourists, but a coach had pulled up in the market square nevertheless, and they all came dashing toward the Queen’s Arms, plastic macs over their heads, mostly aging mothers led by their sons and daughters.
“So DC Wilson found one place they had drinks at, and I found three,” Hatchley said. “Did we miss anywhere, lad?” Hatchley glanced at Wilson, who didn’t need telling twice. He shot up from his seat and hurried to the bar ahead of the tourists.
“He’ll be all right,” said Hatchley, winking at Banks.
“Find out anything else about Hayley?” Banks asked.
“Well,” said Hatchley, “she had quite a mouth on her, according to Jack Bagley at the Trumpeters, especially when he refused to serve her. Wouldn’t believe the stream of foul language that came out of such a pretty young thing, Jack wouldn’t, and there’s not much he hasn’t heard.”
“It’s the drink,” said Banks. “Lord knows, I don’t mind a drop or two myself, but some kids don’t know when to stop these days.”
“It’s not just these days,” said Hatchley, scratching the side of his nose. “I could tell you a rugby club tale or two that would curl your toes. And what’s binge drinking, anyway, when you get right down to it? Five or more drinks in a row, three or more times a month. That’s how the so-called experts define it. But you tell me which one of us has never done that. Still, you’re right. Drinking’s quite the social-order problem these days, and Eastvale’s up there with the worst, for a town its size. And it was Saint Paddy’s Day yesterday, too. You know the Irish. Couple of drinks, a punch-up, a few songs and another drink.”
“Come on, Jim,” said Banks. “I promised Superintendent Gervaise you weren’t going to offend anyone.”
Hatchley looked hurt. “Me? Offend?”
DC Wilson rejoined them looking pleased with himself. “Seems they were here later on in the evening,” he said.
“And Cyril served them?”
“Cyril wasn’t here last night. The young lad at the far end was, though. He said they were quiet enough by then. Maybe a bit the worse for wear, but nobody was acting so drunk he thought he ought to refuse to serve them. They had a drink each, just the one, and left in orderly fashion half an hour or so before closing time.”