Jessica’s expression had become wistful, and Banks got the impression that she wished she hadn’t lost interest in the things that bound her to her father, that she had continued to help him on the allotment and accompany him on fishing trips and bird-watching expeditions, that they hadn’t grown apart. But it happens to everyone. There was nothing he could say to her to make her feel better. It was too late now.
His own father had been a keen cyclist in his younger days, Banks remembered, and many was the day Banks had accompanied him on rides beside the Nene, or across the Cambridgeshire flatlands, when he was eleven or twelve. But like his own children, and like Jessica, the older he had got, the less interested he had become in going with his father on bicycle rides. All he wanted to do was hang around with his mates listening to the latest Beatles, Bob Dylan or Animals record. There had been no room for adults and their boring interests in his world. He was lucky his father was still alive — at least they had been able to rebuild a few bridges in the past few years — but they wouldn’t be going on any bicycle rides together again.
‘It was most likely to do with his work,’ Banks said. ‘Do you know if he received any threatening letters or phone calls recently?’
‘No. But I’ve been at university since Christmas, except I came home when Mum died, of course, and he didn’t mention anything then. He never talked about that stuff at home. His job. Well, hardly ever. Sometimes he’d tell us funny stories about things that happened at the station, but I think he liked to protect us from the bad stuff.’
Exactly as Banks had done with Brian and Tracy. ‘So you can’t think of anyone who wanted to harm him? He didn’t get any threats or anything?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Jessica cradled her mug in both hands and took a sip.
‘I did find one thing you might be able to help me with,’ Banks said, going back into the living room for the photo he had left there. He brought it through to the kitchen and turned it around on the table so that Jessica could get a good look. ‘Is this Rachel Hewitt?’
‘That’s Rachel. She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?’ Jessica bit her lower lip, the tears flowing over. ‘He could never let it go, you know. Never let her go. It’s like she was his only failure, and he had to beat himself up with it every time he got a bit down. It used to drive Mum crazy.’
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ said Banks. ‘They still haven’t found her.’
‘That’s because she’s dead,’ said Jessica. ‘She was dead right from the start. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re being terribly naive if you think saying it wasn’t his fault ever did any good. As far as he was concerned, it was his fault. He wasn’t entirely logical about it. We tried to tell him, time after time, but it didn’t work. Why couldn’t they all just believe that she was dead? Why couldn’t he just believe it? Besides, can you imagine what her life would be like if she’d been abducted by some pervert and kept in a cellar as some sort of sex slave? Or forced into prostitution?’
‘Even if he had believed that she was dead,’ said Banks, ‘it wouldn’t have stopped him from doing his job, or from blaming himself. If he was a good copper, he would still have needed to know what happened to her, and why.’
She gave Banks a sharp glance. ‘A good copper. What’s that supposed to mean? Anyway, why do you want to know about this? What does any of it have to do with Dad’s death?’
‘I’ve got no idea. Probably nothing. The photo was just sitting there in a folder full of Visa bills, with no identification or anything. The name came up before. She seemed familiar...’
‘She should be. Her face has been plastered over the papers often enough these past six years or so. Still is every now and then, when her parents step up the campaign again.’
Banks could hardly imagine how he would feel if his own daughter disappeared completely without trace in a foreign country, but he had always felt a deep sympathy for the Hewitts and their ongoing grief. They had suffered at the hands of the media, too, and were now caught up as victims in the never-ending phone-hacking scandal, which must make it hurt all over again. Banks was suspicious of ‘closure’ and all it implied, thought it was some sort of modern psycho-babble, but he knew that in their case there could be no rest, no peace, until their daughter’s body was recovered and returned home.
‘Did your father have much contact with Rachel’s family?’
‘None. Except when she first disappeared, I suppose.’
‘He didn’t stay in touch?’
‘No. Why would he?’
‘No reason. They didn’t... you know... blame him, or anything?’
‘He didn’t need them to blame him. He managed that all by himself.’
Banks realised that Jessica was probably right. The Rachel Hewitt connection was interesting, but that was all it was, just another item to drop in the bulging file, along with Harry Lake, Stephen Lambert and Warren Corrigan. Soon they would have even more material from West Yorkshire, and a whole host of other names from Quinn’s past to sift through. There was nothing more Banks could think of, so he stood up to leave. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked Jessica at the door.
‘Here. Why? It’s not a crime scene, is it?’
‘Well, it is, really... technically... the break-in... It’s obviously connected with what happened to your father. But the CSIs have already gathered all the evidence they can, and they’ll be taking the rest of his papers away. They should be finished here soon.’
‘Well...?’
‘I just thought... I mean, are you sure you want to stay here? Is there someone I can call for you? A relative? Boyfriend?’
‘Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine. Really. Robbie will be here soon. We’ll probably just get pissed.’
A very good idea, Banks thought, but he didn’t say so.
Chapter 3
Banks arrived in his office early on Friday morning after a quiet evening at home listening to Kate Royal, watching the first in the Treme series and sipping the best part of a bottle of Rioja. So much for cutting back.
He had phoned Stefan Nowak, the Crime Scene Manager, as the team was packing up at St Peter’s around sunset the previous evening. They had finished their search of the woods and lake, and had found no sign of a weapon. They had, however, found a cigarette end close to the body, some synthetic fibres, and traces of what might have been blood from a scratch on the tree trunk where they thought the killer had leaned. There was also a fresh footprint that definitely wasn’t Bill Quinn’s. Their expert said that, at first glance, it was a common sort of trainer you could buy anywhere, but they might be able to get a bit more detail from it. There was often a correlation between shoe size and height, for example, and measurements could give them at least a working estimate of how tall the person who wore them was, and how much he or she weighed. Any distinguishing marks on one or both of the soles could be as individual as a fingerprint.
DS Keith Palmer and his team had finished searching Bill Quinn’s house and allotment in Rawdon, including his garden shed. They had even dug up a good deal of the allotment, but had found nothing.
Banks linked his hands behind his neck, leaned back in his chair and listened to Ravel’s ‘Gaspard de la Nuit’ on Radio Three’s Breakfast. As he glanced around his office, he realised that he had been in the same room for over twenty years, and that it had only been redecorated once, as far as he could remember. He didn’t much care about the institutional green walls, as they were covered in framed prints and posters for concerts and exhibitions — Hockney’s Yorkshire scenes, Miles Davis at Newport, Jimi Hendrix at Winterland, a Chagall poster for the Paris Opera — but he certainly needed a newer and bigger desk, one that didn’t require a piece of wadded-up paper under one of its legs. He could do with another filing cabinet, too, he thought, as his gaze settled on the teetering pile of paper on top of the one he had already. A couple of shelves and an extra bookcase wouldn’t go amiss, either, and perhaps a chair that was kinder to his back than the antique he was sitting in now. No wonder his neck was starting to play up after long days at the office, especially with all the extra paperwork he seemed to have these days. He’d be in St Peter’s soon, himself, if he wasn’t careful. At least the heater worked, and the tatty old Venetian blinds had been replaced.