‘Then what? Whoever this lass was, she won’t be doing much talking now.’
‘I don’t know,’ Banks admitted. ‘We try and link her to Stephen Collier.’
‘And what if we come up blank?’
Banks sighed and reached for a cigarette. He swerved quickly to avoid a Dutch juggernaut meandering into the centre lane. ‘You’re being bloody negative today, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter, did you have something planned for tonight? A date with Carol, maybe?’
‘No. Carol understands my job. And I like a nice ride out. I’m just trying to cover all the angles, that’s all. I find the whole damn thing confusing. I’m not even sure we’ve got a case. After all, Collier is dead, whether he died accidentally or killed himself.’
‘It is confusing,’ Banks agreed. ‘That’s why I don’t believe we’re at the bottom of it yet. That’s why we’re off to Oxford, to try and make it simpler.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Hatchley wound down his window a couple of inches. With the two of them smoking, the fug in the car was making his eyes water. ‘I suppose it’s full of silly-looking buggers in caps and gowns, Oxford?’
‘Maybe so,’ Banks said. ‘Never been there, myself. They say it’s a working town, though.’
‘Aye. It might have been at one time. But there’s not many left making cars these days. Some nice buildings there, though. I saw those on telly as well. Christopher Wren, Nicholas Hawksworth.’
‘Bloody hell, Jim, have you been watching BBC2 again? We’ll not have much time for sightseeing. Except for what you can take in on the job. Anyway, it’s Hawksmoor. Nicholas Hawksmoor.’
He realized with a shock that it was the first time he had called Sergeant Hatchley by his first name. It felt strange, but Hatchley said nothing.
Banks drove on in silence and concentrated on the road. It was after five o’clock and the stretches of motorway that passed close to urban areas were busy with rush-hour traffic. By the time they got to Oxford they wouldn’t have time to do much but check in at the police station, say hello to Ted Folley and maybe discuss the case over a pint — which would certainly appeal to Hatchley — before bed. Banks had booked them in at a small hotel recommended by Ted on the phone. In the morning the real work would begin.
Holding the wheel with one hand, Banks sorted through the cassettes. ‘Do you like music?’ he asked. It was odd; he knew Gristhorpe was tone-deaf — he couldn’t tell Bach from the Beatles — but he had no idea what Hatchley’s tastes ran to. Not that it would affect his choice. He knew what he wanted to hear and soon found it — the Small Faces’ greatest hits.
‘I like a good brass band,’ Hatchley mused. ‘A bit of country and western now and then.’
Banks smiled. He hated country and western and brass bands. He lit another cigarette and edged up the volume. The swirling chords of ‘All or Nothing’ filled the car as he turned off near Northampton on to the road for Oxford. The music took him right back to the summer of 1966, just before he started in the sixth form at school. Nostalgia. A sure sign he was pushing forty. He caught Hatchley looking at him as if he were mad.
There weren’t many caps and gowns in evidence on High Street in Oxford the following morning. Most of the people seemed to be ambling along in that lost but purposeful way tourists have. Banks and Hatchley were looking for somewhere to eat a quick breakfast before getting down to work at the station.
Hatchley pointed across the street. ‘There’s a McDonald’s. They do quite nice breakfasts. Maybe…’ He looked at Banks apprehensively, as if worried that the chief inspector might turn out to be a gourmet as well as a southerner and a lover of 1960s music. Despite all the times they’d enjoyed toasted teacakes and steak pies together, maybe Banks would insist on frogs’ legs with anchovy sauce for breakfast.
Banks glanced at his watch and scowled. ‘At least they’re fast. Come on then. Egg McMuffin it is.’
Astonished, Hatchley followed him through the golden arches. Most of the places Banks had eaten in on his trip to Toronto had provided quick friendly service — so much so that it had been one of the things that had impressed him — but it seemed that even McDonald’s could do nothing to alter the innate sloth and surliness of the English catering industry. The look they got from the uniformed girl behind the counter immediately communicated that they were being a bloody nuisance in placing an order, and, of course, they had to wait. Even when she slung the food at them, she didn’t say, ‘Thank you, please come again.’
Finally, they sat by the window and watched people walk in and out of W. H. Smith’s for the morning papers. Hatchley ate heartily, but Banks picked at his food, then abandoned it and settled for black coffee and a cigarette.
‘Nice bloke, that Ted Folley,’ Hatchley said with his mouth half full of sausage. ‘Not what I expected.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘Oh, some toffee-nosed git, I suppose. He’s real down-to-earth, though. Dresses like a toff, mind you. They’d have a bit of a giggle over him in the Oak.’
‘Probably in the Queen’s Arms, too,’ Banks added.
‘Aye.’
They had found time for a few drinks with Folley before returning to their hotel for a good night’s sleep, and Banks wondered whether it was Ted’s generosity that had won Hatchley over, or his store of anecdotes. Either way, the sergeant had managed to down a copious amount of local ale (which he pronounced to be of ‘passable’ quality) in a very short time.
They had stood at the bar of a noisy Broad Street pub, and Ted — a dapper man with Brylcreemed hair and a penchant for three-piece pinstripe suits and garish bow ties — had regaled them with stories of Oxford’s privileged student classes. Hatchley had been particularly amused by the description of a recent raid on an end-of-term party: ‘And there she was,’ Folley had said, ‘deb of the year with her knickers round her ankles and white powder all over her stiff upper lip.’ The sergeant had laughed so much he had got hiccups, which kept returning to haunt him for the rest of the evening.
‘Come on,’ Banks said. ‘Hurry up. It can’t be so bloody delicious you need to savour every mouthful.’
Reluctantly, Hatchley ate up his food and slurped his coffee. Ten minutes later they were in Ted Folley’s office in St Aldates.
‘I’ve got the files out already,’ Ted said. ‘If you can’t find what you’re after there, come and see me. I think you will, though. They cover all unsolved crimes, including hit-and-runs, involving women during the three-year period you mentioned.’
‘Thank God there aren’t many,’ Banks said, picking up the slim pile.
‘No,’ Folley said. ‘We’re lucky. The students keep us busy enough but we don’t get all that many mysterious deaths. They’re usually drug-related.’
‘These?’
‘Some of them. Use that office over there.’ Folley pointed across to a small glass-partitioned area. ‘Doug’s on holiday, so you won’t be disturbed.’
Most of the cases were easily dealt with. Banks or Hatchley would phone friends or parents of the deceased, whenever phone numbers appeared in the files, and simply ask if the name Stephen Collier meant anything. On the off chance, they also asked if anyone had hired a private investigator named Raymond Addison to look into the unsolved crime. In the cases where no numbers were given or where people had moved, they made notes to follow up on later. In some of those cases, the phone directory told them what they needed to know, and Ted also proved as helpful as ever.
By mid-afternoon, after a short lunch break, they had only three possibilities left. Folley was able to rule one of those out — the girl’s parents had died tragically in a plane crash less than a year after their daughter’s death — which left one each for Banks and Hatchley. They tossed for it, and Banks drew the phoneless family in Jericho, Hatchley the paraplegic father in Woodstock.