Hatchley shrugged. ‘If it was in London…’
‘Come on! Even in London you don’t pay two pounds sixty-nine just for a bloody hamburger. At least not at Wendy’s you don’t. You don’t pay eighty-five pence for a Coke, either. What does that tax work out at?’
Hatchley took out his pocket calculator and struggled with the figures. ‘Eight per cent,’ he announced finally.
‘Hmm. That’s an odd amount. You don’t pay eight per cent VAT on food in England.’
‘I suppose it’s an American company,’ Hatchley suggested, ‘if they sell hamburgers?’
‘You mean our man’s an American?’
‘Or he could have just come back from a trip there.’
‘He could have. But that’d make it a bit soon for another holiday, wouldn’t it? Unless he was a businessman. What about the labels on his clothes?’
‘Torn off,’ Hatchley said. ‘Trousers and underpants seem to be ordinary Marks and Sparks cotton and polyester. Same with the shirt. The boots were Army and Navy. They could have been bought at any of their branches.’
Banks tapped his ballpoint on the edge of the desk. ‘Why is it that somebody doesn’t want us to know who he is or where he’s from?’
‘Maybe because if we knew that we’d have a good idea who the killer was.’
‘So the quicker we identify the body, the better our chances. Whoever did it was obviously counting on no one finding it for months, then being unable to identify it.’ Banks sipped some lukewarm coffee and pulled a face. ‘But we’ve got a lead.’ He tapped the receipt. ‘I want to know where this Wendy’s is located. It shouldn’t take you long. There’s a store code to go on.’
‘Where do I go for that kind of information?’ Hatchley asked.
‘Bloody hell!’ Banks said. ‘You’re a detective. At least I hope you are. Start detecting. First, I’d suggest you call Wendy’s UK office. It’s going to be a couple of days before we get anything from Glendenning and Vic Manson, so let’s use every break we get. Did Richmond come up with anything from missing persons?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I suppose our corpse is still supposed to be on holiday then, if no one’s reported him missing. And if he’s not English it could be ages before he gets into the files. Check the hotels and guest houses in the area and see if any Americans have registered there lately. If they have, try and track them down.’
Dismissed, Hatchley went to find Richmond, to whom, Banks knew, he would pass on as much of the load as possible. Still, he reasoned, the sergeant’s work was solid enough once he built up a bit of momentum, and the pressure would serve as a test of Richmond’s mettle.
Since passing his computer course with flying colours, the young detective constable looked all set for promotion. That would cause problems with Hatchley though. There was no way, Banks reflected, that the sergeant could be expected to work with Richmond at equal rank. Things had been bad enough when Banks came from the Metropolitan force to fill the position Hatchley had set his own sights on. And Hatchley was destined to stay a sergeant; he didn’t have the extra edge needed to make inspector, as Richmond did.
Grateful that promotion was not his decision, Banks glanced at his watch and headed for the car. Neil Fellowes was waiting in Swainshead, and the poor sod had already had to arrange for one extra day off work.
As he drove along the dale, Banks marvelled at how familiar some of its landmarks had become: the small drumlin with its four sick elms all leaning to the right like an image in one of those Chinese watercolours that Sandra, his wife, liked so much; the quiet village of Fortford with the foundations of a Roman fort laid bare on a hillock by the green; the busy main street of Helmthorpe, Swainsdale’s largest village; and above Helmthorpe, the long limestone edge of Crow Scar gleaming in the sun.
The Kinks sang ‘Lola’, and Banks tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music as he drove. Though he swore to Sandra that he still loved opera, much to her delight he hadn’t played any lately. She had approved of his recent flirtation with the blues, and now he seemed to be going through a nostalgic phase for the music he had listened to during his last days at school and first year at London Polytechnic: that idyllic halcyon period when he hadn’t known what to do with his life and hadn’t much cared.
It was also the year he had met Sandra, and the music brought it all back: winter evenings drinking cheap wine and making love in his draughty Notting Hill bedsit listening to John Martyn or Nick Drake; summer boat trips for picnics in Greenwich Park, lying in the sun below Wren’s observatory looking down on the gleaming palace, the Thames and London spread out to the west, the Beatles, Donovan, Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones on the radio… All gone now, or almost all. He had lost interest in pop music shortly after the Beatles split up and the glitter boys took over the scene in the early 1970s, but the old songs still worked their magic on him.
He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. It felt good to be on his own in his own car again. Much as he loved the superintendent, Banks was glad that Gristhorpe had reverted to his usual role of planner and coordinator. Now he could smoke and listen to music as he drove.
More important still, he liked working alone, without the feeling that someone was always looking over his shoulder. It was easy enough to deal with Hatchley and Richmond, but with a superior heading the field investigation, it was difficult to avoid the sensation of being under constant scrutiny. That had been another reason for leaving London — too many chiefs — and for pinning his hopes on the Eastvale job after a preliminary chat with Superintendent Gristhorpe about the way he liked to run things.
Banks turned right at the Swainshead junction and parked his car in one of the spaces outside the White Rose. As he crossed the bridge, the old men stopped talking and he felt their eyes boring holes into his back as he walked down to the Greenock Guest House.
Though the door was open, he rang the bell. A young woman came rushing to answer it. She had a slender dancer’s body, but Banks also noticed an endearing awkwardness, a lack of self-consciousness about her movements that made her seem even more attractive. She stood before him drying her hands on her pinafore and blushed.
‘Sorry,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I was just doing some washing. Please come in.’
Though her accent was clearly Yorkshire, it didn’t sound like the Swainsdale variety. Banks couldn’t immediately place it.
Her eyes were brown — the kind of brown one sees in sunlight filtered through a pint of bitter, thought Banks, amused at just how much of a Yorkshireman he must have become to yoke beer and beauty so audaciously. But her hair was blonde. She wore it tied up at the back of her neck, and it fell in stray wisps around her pale throat and ears. She wore no make-up, and her light complexion was completely smooth, her lips full and strawberry red without any lipstick. Between her lower lip and the curve of her chin was a deep indentation, giving her mouth a look somewhere between a pout and an incipient smile. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think who.
Katie, as she introduced herself, led him into a hall that smelled of lemon air-freshener and furniture polish, as clean and fresh as a good guest house should be. Neil Fellowes was waiting for him in room five, she said, and disappeared, head bowed, into the back of the house, where Banks guessed the Greenocks had their own living quarters.
He walked up the thick-pile burgundy carpet, found the room and knocked.
Fellowes answered immediately, as if he had been holding the doorknob on the other side. He looked much better than the previous day. His few remaining strands of colourless hair were combed sideways across his bald head, and thick-lensed wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bump near the bridge of his nose.