Wednesday's Child by Peter Robinson

Author:Peter Robinson [Robinson, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi

IV

Banks and Susan stood at the bar in the Queen's Arms that Monday lunch-time, wedged between two farmers and a family of tourists, and munched cheese-and-onion sandwiches with their drinks. Banks had a pint of Theakston's bitter, Susan a Slimline Tonic Water. A song about a broken love affair was playing on the jukebox in the background, and somewhere by the door to the toilets, a video game beeped as aliens went down in flames. From what he could overhear, Banks gathered that the farmers were talking about money and the tourists were arguing about whether to go home because of the rain or carry on to the Bowes Museum.

"So you found the girl's parents?" Banks asked.

"Uh-uh." Susan put her hand to her mouth and wiped away some crumbs, then swallowed. "Sorry, sir. Yes, they were home. Seems like everyone except the Pakistanis around there is unemployed or retired."

"Get anything?"

Susan shook her head. Tight blonde curls danced over her ears. Banks noticed the dangling earrings, stylized, elongated Egyptian cats in light gold. Susan had certainly brightened up her appearance a bit lately. "Dead end," she said. "Oh, it happened all right. Right charmer Carl Johnson was, from what I can gather. But the girl, Beryl's her name, she's been living in America for the past five years."

"What happened?"

"Just what his folks said. He got her in the family way, then dumped her. She came around to make a fuss, embarrass him like, at his twenty-first birthday party. He was still living at home then, off and on, and his parents invited a few close relatives over. There was a big row and he stormed out. Didn't even take any of his clothes with him. They never saw him again."

Banks sipped at his pint and thought for a moment. "So they've no idea who he hung around with, or where he went?"

"No." Susan frowned. "They know he went to London, but that's all. There was a chap called Robert Naylor. Mrs Johnson saw him as bad influence."

"Has he got form?"

"Yes, sir. I checked. Just minor vandalism, drunk and disorderly. But he's dead. Nothing suspicious. He was riding his motorbike too fast. He lost control and skidded into a lorry on the Ml."

"So that's that."

"I'm afraid so, sir. From what I can gather, Johnson was the type to fall in with bad company."

"That's obvious enough."

"What I mean, sir, is that both his parents and Beryl's mother said he looked up to tough guys. He wasn't much in himself, they said, but he liked to be around dangerous people."

Banks took another sip of beer. One of the tourists bumped his elbow and he spilled a little on the bar. The woman apologized. "Sounds like the kind that hero-worships psychos and terrorists," Banks said. "He'd probably have been happy working for the Krays or someone like that back in the old days."

"That's it, sir. He was a weakling himself, but he liked to boast about the rough company he kept."

"It fits. Small-time con-man, wants to be in with the big boys.

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