Piece of My Heart (27 page)

“I thought you were all living in America?”

“That’s just the band, most of them, anyway. I wouldn’t live there if you paid me a fortune in gold bullion. Right now, there’s plenty to do at this end, organizing the forthcoming tour. But you don’t want to know about my problems. What exactly can Vic do for you?”

Now that he was here, Banks wasn’t entirely sure. He hadn’t had time to plan an interview, hadn’t even expected to see Chris Adams this evening; he had come in response to Jean Murray’s call. Perhaps that was the best place to start.

“I’m sorry I upset Mr. Greaves earlier,” he began, “but I had a phone call a short while ago from someone in the village complaining about shouting and things breaking.”

Adams nodded. “That would have been Vic. When I got here it must have been shortly after you left. I found him rolled up in a ball on the floor counting. He does that when he feels threatened. I suppose it’s sort of like sheep turning their backs on danger and hoping it will go away.”

“I thought maybe he was on drugs or something.”

Adams shook his head. “Vic hasn’t touched drugs–at least non-prescription drugs–in over thirty years or more.”

“And the noise, the breakages?”

“I got him to sleep for a while, then, when he woke after dark, he got disoriented and frightened. He remembered your visit, and he got hysterical, had one of his tantrums and smashed a couple of plates. It happens from time to time. Nothing serious. I managed to calm him down eventually, and he’s sleeping again now. Small village. Word gets around.”

“Indeed,” said Banks. “I’ve heard stories, of course, but I had no idea he was so fragile.”

Adams rubbed at his lined forehead, as if scratching an itch. “He can function well enough on his own,” he said, “as you’ve no doubt seen. But he finds interaction difficult, especially with strangers and people he doesn’t trust. He tends to get angry, or to just shut down. It can be very distressing, not just for him, but for whoever is trying to talk to him, as you no doubt found out, too.”

“Has he been getting any professional help?”

“Doctors? Oh, yes, he’s seen many doctors over the years. None of them have been able to do much except prescribe more and more drugs, and Vic doesn’t like to take them. He says they make him feel dead inside.”

“How does he get in touch with you?”

“Pardon?”

“If he needs you or wants to see you. Has he got a phone?”

“No. Having a telephone would only upset him.” Adams shrugged. “People would find out his number. Crazy fans. That’s what I thought you were, at first. He gets enough letters as it is. Like I said, I just drop by whenever I can. And he knows he can always get in touch with me. I mean, he knows how to
use a phone, he’s not an idiot, and sometimes he’ll phone from the box by the green.”

“Can he get around?”

“He doesn’t drive, if that’s what you mean. He does have a bicycle.”

A bicycle wasn’t much good for many of these steep country roads, Banks thought, unless you were especially fit, and Greaves didn’t look that healthy. But Fordham, he reminded himself, was only about a mile away, and you didn’t need a car, or even a bicycle, to cover that sort of distance.

“Look, what’s going on?” Adams asked. “I don’t even know what you’re doing here. Why do you want to know about Vic?”

“I’m investigating a murder,” said Banks, eyes on Adams to judge his reaction. There wasn’t one, which was odd in itself. “Ever heard of a man called Nicholas Barber?”

“Nick Barber? Sure. If it’s the same man, he’s a freelance music journalist. Been writing about the Hatters on and off for the past five years or so. Nice bloke.”

“That’s the one.”

“Is he dead, then?”

“He was murdered in a cottage a little over a mile from here.”

“When was this?”

“Just last week.”

“And you think…?”

“I happen to know that Barber was working on a feature about the Mad Hatters for
Mojo
magazine. He found Greaves up here and came to talk to him, but Greaves freaked out and sent him packing. He was planning on coming back, but before he could, he was killed and all his work notes were stolen.”

“Of course he’d get nothing out of Vic. He doesn’t like
talking about the old days. They’re painful for him to remember, if indeed he
can
remember much about them.”

“Makes him angry, does it? Gives him a tantrum?”

Adams leaned forward, face thrust out aggressively. “Now, wait a minute. You surely can’t be thinking…” Then he leaned back. “You’ve got it all wrong. Vic’s a gentle soul. He’s got his problems, sure, but he wouldn’t harm a fly. He’s no more capable of–”

“Your confidence in him is admirable, but he certainly strikes me as being capable of irrational or violent behaviour.”

“But why would he hurt Nick Barber?”

“You’ve just said it yourself. He’s not good at interaction, especially with strangers or people he doesn’t trust, people he perceives as a threat. Maybe Barber was after information that was painful for Vic to remember, something he’d buried long ago.”

Adams relaxed and sat back in his chair. The vinyl squeaked. “That’s a bit fanciful, if you don’t mind my saying so. Why would Vic perceive Nick Barber as a threat? He was just another fucking music journalist, for crying out loud.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Banks.

“Well, good luck to you, but I honestly can’t see you getting anywhere. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. And besides, I’d guess there were plenty of heavy people more interested in Nick Barber than Vic.”

“What do you mean?”

Adams gave a twisted smile, put his finger to one nostril and sniffed through the other one. “Had quite a habit, so I heard. They can be very unforgiving, some of those coke dealers.”

Banks made a note to check into that area of Barber’s life, but he wasn’t going to be deflected so easily. “Did he talk to you?”

“Who?”

“Nick Barber. He was doing a feature on the Hatters reunion, after all. It would only have been natural.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I suppose he just hadn’t got round to it,” Banks said. “Early days. Were you present when Robin Merchant drowned in the swimming pool at Swainsview Lodge?”

Adams looked surprised at the change of direction. He took a packet of Benson and Hedges from his jacket pocket and lit one, not offering the packet to Banks. Banks was grateful; he might have accepted one. Adams inhaled noisily, and the smoke curled in the dim, chilly light of the pink-and-green shaded table lamps. “I wasn’t present at the drowning, but I was in the lodge, yeah, asleep, like everybody else.”

“Like everybody else said they were.”

“And like the police and the coroner believed.”

“We’ve had a lot of success lately with cold cases.”

“It’s not a cold case. It’s an over-and-done-with case, dead and buried. History.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” said Banks. “Did you drop by to see Vic last week at all?”

“I was in London most of last week for meetings with promoters. I called in to see him on my way back up north.”

“What day would that be?”

“I’d have to check my calendar. Why is it important?”

“Would you check, please?”

Adams paused a moment, obviously not used to being given orders, then pulled a PDA from his inside pocket. “Isn’t it wonderful, modern technology?” he said, tapping it with the stylus.

“Indeed,” said Banks. “It’s one of the reasons we’ve had such a high success rate with cold cases. New technology.
Computers. DNA. Magic.” Banks wasn’t too sure about it himself, though. He was still trying to master a laptop computer and an iPod; he hadn’t got around to PDAs yet.

Adams shot him an angry glance. “Are we talking about last week?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I would have seen him on Wednesday, on my way back from London. I’d been down there since the previous weekend.”

“Wednesday. Was there anything odd or different about his behaviour, anything he said?”

“No, not that I noticed. He was quite docile. He was reading a book when I arrived. He reads a lot, mostly non-fiction.” Adams gestured to the magazines, books and papers. “As you can see, he doesn’t like to throw anything away.”

“He didn’t tell about anything unusual or frightening happening, about Nick Barber or anyone else coming to see him?”

“No.”

According to John Butler at
Mojo
, Nick Barber had tracked down Vic Greaves to this cottage and paid him a visit, but Butler hadn’t known the actual day this had happened. Vic had freaked out, refused to talk, become angry and upset, and Barber had said he was going to try again. The phone call to Butler had been made on Friday morning, probably from the telephone box by the church.

If Vic Greaves
hadn’t
told Adams about his meeting with Barber, then it must have happened as late in the week as Thursday, perhaps, and Barber might have tried again on Friday, the day of his murder. Kelly Soames said he had been in bed with her between two and four, but that still left him virtually all day. Unless, of course, either Kelly Soames or Chris Adams was lying, in which case all bets were off. And of the
two, Banks felt that while Kelly Soames would lie to protect herself from her father, Adams might have any number of less forgivable reasons for doing it.

“Where were you on Friday?” Banks asked.

“Home. All weekend.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Sorry. I’m afraid my wife was away, visiting her mother.”

“Can you give me the names and addresses of some of the people you met with in London, and the hotel you were staying at?” Banks asked.

“Am I hearing you right? Are you asking me for an alibi now?”

“Process of elimination,” said Banks. “The more people we can rule out straightaway, the easier our job is.”

“Bollocks,” said Adams. “You don’t believe me. Why don’t you just come right out and admit it?”

“Look,” said Banks, “I’m not in the business of believing the first thing I’m told. Not by anybody. I’d be a bloody useless detective if I were. It’s a job, nothing personal. I want to get the facts straight before I come to any conclusions.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Adams, tapping his way through the PalmPilot and giving Banks some names and numbers. “And I was staying at the Montcalm. They’ll remember me. I always stay there when I’m in town. I’ve got a suite. Okay?”

“Appreciate it,” said Banks.

They heard a bang from upstairs. Adams cursed and headed out. While he was gone, Banks took as good a look as he could around the room. Some of the newspapers were ten years old or more, the same with the magazines, which meant Greaves must have brought them with him when he moved in. The books were mostly biography or history. One thing he did find of interest, on the table half-hidden under the lamp,
was a business card that had Nick Barber’s Chiswick address printed on it and his Fordham address scribbled on the other side. Had Barber left this for Vic Greaves when he paid his visit? It should be possible to check it against a sample of his handwriting.

Adams came back. “Nothing,” he said. “His book slipped off the bed to the floor. He’s still out.”

“Are you staying here overnight?” Banks asked.

“No. Vic’ll sleep right through till morning now, and by then he’ll have forgotten whatever upset him today. One of the marvels of his condition. Every day is a new adventure. Besides, it won’t take me too long to drive home, and I have a lovely young wife waiting for me there.”

Banks wished he had someone living with him, but even if he had, he realized, it wouldn’t be possible with Brian and Emilia around. How ironic, he thought. They could do whatever they wanted, but he didn’t feel he could spend the night with a woman in his own house while they were there. Chance would be a fine thing. Banks felt nervous about going home, fearing what he might disturb. He’d phone them on his way, when he got within mobile range, just to warn them, give them time to get dressed, or whatever.

He showed Adams the card. “I found this pushed under the lamp over there,” he said. “Only the edge was showing. Did you put it there?”

“Never seen it before,” said Adams.

“It’s Nick Barber’s card.”

“So what? That doesn’t prove anything.”

“It proves he was here at least once.”

“But you already know that.”

“It also has his Fordham address written on it, so anyone who saw it here would know where he was staying when he
was killed. Nice meeting you, Mr. Adams. Have a safe drive home. I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon.”

Saturday, September 20, 1969

While Chadwick was cheering on Leeds United to a 2–0 victory over Chelsea at Elland Road that Saturday afternoon, Yvonne walked over to Spring field Mount to meet Steve and the others. Judy was going to make a macrobiotic meal, then they’d smoke a joint or two and take the bus into town. There was a bunch of stuff happening at the Adelphi that night: poets, a blues band, a jazz trio.

She was surprised, and more than a little put out, when McGarrity opened the door, but she asked for Steve, and he stood aside to let her in. The place was unusually quiet. No music or conversation. Yvonne went into the front room, sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette, glancing at the Goya print, which always seemed to mesmerize her. A moment later, McGarrity strolled through the door with a joint in his hand and said, “He’s not here. Will I do?”

“What?”

McGarrity put a record on and sat in the armchair opposite her. He had that sort of fixed, crooked smile on his face, cynical and mocking, that always made her feel nervous and ill at ease in his presence. His pale skin was pockmarked, as if he’d scratched it when he had chicken pox as a child, the way her mother said would happen to her, and his dark hair was greasy and matted, flopping over his forehead and almost covering one dark brown eye. “Steve. He’s out. They’re all out.”

“Where are they?”

“Town Street, shopping.”

“When will they be back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe I should come back later.”

“No. Don’t go so soon. Here.” He handed her the joint.

Yvonne hesitated, then put her cigarette in the ashtray, accepted it and took a couple of drags. A joint was a joint, after all. It tasted good. Quality stuff. She recognized the music now: the Grateful Dead, “China Cat Sunflower.” Nice. She still felt uncomfortable with the way he was looking at her, though, and she remembered the other night at the Grove, when he’d touched her and whispered her name. At least he didn’t have his knife in his hand today. He seemed normal enough. Still, she felt edgy. She shifted on the sofa and said, “Thank you. I should go now.”