There might be a simple explanation, of course. Whoever it was may have been more afraid of her than she was of him: a mischievous kid, perhaps. Given everything else they had discovered since Adam Kelly found the Hobb’s End skeleton, however, Annie felt inclined to be more suspicious.
The answer still eluded her. There was nothing left at the site; the SOCOs had been over it thoroughly. Perhaps someone might think there was something there, though. Even so, how could anything buried there incriminate anyone living now? From what Annie had seen briefly of the figure last night, whoever it was hadn’t been old enough to have murdered Gloria Shackleton over fifty years ago. People in their seventies or eighties don’t usually move that fast.
So it remained a mystery. She wanted to talk to Banks about it, but he’d been off behaving like a silly kid getting pissed with his mates and telling tales about her sexual appetite and his ability to satisfy it. She hoped he had a hangover the size of China.
Debussy’s chamber music for harp and wind instruments got Banks back to Gratly safe and sane via the slow back roads. He thought of stopping in at Harkside on his way to see how Annie was doing, but decided against it. He didn’t want her to see him until he had at least managed a change of clothes. The ones he was wearing still stank of smoke and stale beer.
His head ached, despite the Paracetamol he had downed at Ken’s flat that morning, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. When he had awoken and looked around Ken’s living room, he had groaned at the detritus of a wild and foolish night: an empty bottle of Glenmorangie on the coffee table, alongside an empty bottle of claret and an overflowing ashtray. He didn’t think the whiskey bottle had been full when they got into it, but even a fifteen-year-old would have had more sense than to mix beer, wine and whiskey that way.
Still, he had enjoyed what he remembered of their rambling talk about women, marriage, divorce, sex and loneliness. And there was wonderful music. Ken was an aficionado of female jazz singers – a vinyl-freak, too – and the LP sleeves scattered over the floor attested to this: Ella Fitzgerald, June Christy, Dinah Washington, Helen Forrest, Anita O’Day, Keely Smith, Peggy Lee.
The last thing Banks remembered was drifting off to late-period Billie Holiday singing “Ill Wind,” her smoked-honey voice beautifully mingling with Ben Webster’s tenor sax. Then came oblivion.
He groaned and rubbed his stubbly face. All the hangover clichés ran through his mind, one after another: You’re getting too old for this sort of thing; Time you grew up; and I’ll never touch another drop as long as I live. It was a familiar litany of guilt and self-disgust. Last night would have to remain a one-off, a brief lapse, a necessary sacrifice to friendship.
As Banks emptied his pockets before dropping his jeans in the laundry basket – noticing how full it was getting – he found a slip of paper. On it was the name “Maria” followed by a Leeds telephone number.
He racked his brains but he couldn’t remember which one of the two girls they’d talked to in the Adelphi was Maria. Was it the petite blonde or the slender redhead with the freckles and the wide gap between her front teeth? He thought the blonde had been more interested in Ken, and he vaguely remembered them talking about the Pre-Raphaelites. If Maria was the redhead, she had a sort of Pre-Raphaelite look about her. Maybe that was how the subject had come up. No good. He couldn’t remember. It had been that kind of night. He screwed up the slip of paper, aimed it at the waste-bin, then stopped, straightened it out and put it in the top drawer of his bedside table. You never know.
After a shave, a shower and a change of clothes, Banks drove to Eastvale and arrived at his office just after ten o’clock. He hardly had time to turn on his computer when his door opened and in strode Chief Constable Jeremiah “Jimmy” Riddle himself, making one of his rare forays to Eastvale. Banks muttered a silent curse. Just what he needed, in his fragile state.
Banks looked up. “Sir?”
“Banks, you look bloody awful,” said Riddle. “What have you been doing, man? Drinking yourself silly?”
“Touch of flu, sir.”
“Flu, my arse. Anyway, that’s your problem, you want to go on poisoning your liver.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“It’s that skeleton case I gave you. Been all over the news lately. Attracting a lot of publicity. I hope you’re on top of things?”
“Definitely, sir.”
“Good. I want you to bring me up-to-date. I’ve got to go to London today to tape an interview for ‘Panorama.’ They’re putting together a special segment on the investigation of old cases, how DNA makes a difference, that sort of thing.” He brushed some imaginary fluff from the front of his uniform and glanced at his watch. “I need an angle. And you’d better make it quick. My train leaves in an hour and a half.”
Well, be thankful for small mercies, Banks told himself. “Where do you want me to begin, sir?” he asked.
“At the bloody beginning, man; where do you think?”
Banks told him what he and Annie had discovered so far from the SOCOs, from talking to Elizabeth Goodall and Alice Poole and from the visit to Leeds. When he had finished, Riddle ran his hand over his shiny bald scalp and said, “It’s not much to go on, is it? Memory of a couple of old biddies?”
“We’re not likely to get much better,” said Banks. “Not at this point. Too much time’s gone by. I suppose you could make a point about how unreliable people’s memories become over the years.”
Riddle nodded and made a note.
“Anyway, there’s a lot we’re still waiting on. We’ve got a report on Dr. Williams’s physical examination of the bones, but we’re still waiting the results of further tests both from him and our forensic odontologist. These things take time.”
“And cost money. It’d better be worth it, Banks. Don’t think I’m not keeping my eye on the bottom line on this one.”
“We also found a button, possibly military, close to the body. She may have been holding it when she was killed. There’s still a lot we don’t know yet.”
Riddle rubbed his chin. “Still,” he said, “there’s a good angle in what you’ve already told me. Nude paintings. Village scandals. Women playing around with Yanks. Yes. That’s good stuff. That’ll play. And give me a copy of the forensic anthropologist’s report to read on my way. I want to sound as if I know what I’m talking about.”
You’ve been trying to do that for years without much success, Banks wanted to say, but he held his tongue and phoned the input clerk for a photocopy. Riddle could pick it up on his way out, seeing as he was in such a hurry. “You mentioned DNA, sir,” he said. “You might mention that we think her son is still alive and it would be a great help if he could get in touch with us. That way we could verify the identity of the remains once and for all.”
Riddle stood up. “If I’ve got time, Banks. If I’ve got time.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob and half-turned. “By the way,” he said. “DS Cabbot. How’s she working out?”
She. So he did know. “Fine,” said Banks. “She’s a good detective. Wasted in a place like Harkside.”