Riddle moved back to the filing cabinet and smiled, flicking a piece of imaginary fluff from his lapel. “Off the case? You should be so lucky. No, Banks, I’m going to leave your chestnuts in the fire a bit longer.”
“So what exactly is it that you want, sir?”
“For a start, I want you to start behaving like a DCI instead of a bloody probational DC. And I want to be informed before you make any move that’s likely to… to embarrass the force in any way. Any move. Is that clear?”
“The last bit is, sir, but-”
“What I mean,” Riddle said, pacing and poking at things again, “is that as an experienced senior police officer, your input might be useful. But let your underlings do the leg-work. Let them go gallivanting off to Leeds chasing wild geese. Don’t think I don’t know why you grab every opportunity to bugger off to Leeds.”
Banks looked Riddle in the eye. “And why is that, sir?”
“That woman. The musician. And don’t tell me you don’t know who I’m talking about.”
“I know exactly who you’re talking about, sir. Her name’s Pamela Jeffreys and she plays viola in the English Northern Philharmonia.”
Riddle waved his hand impatiently. “Whatever. I’m sure you think your private life is none of my business, but it is when you use the force’s time to live it.”
Banks thought for a moment before answering. This was way out of order. Riddle was practically accusing him of having an affair with Pamela Jeffreys and of driving to Leeds during working hours for assignations with her. It was untrue, of course, but any denial at this point would only strengthen Riddle’s conviction. Banks wasn’t sure of the actual guidelines, but he felt this sort of behavior far exceeded the chief constable’s authority. It was a personal attack, despite the cavil about abusing the force’s time.
But what could he do? It was his word against Riddle’s. And Riddle was the CC. So he took it, filed it away, said nothing and determined to get his own back on the bastard one day.
“What would you like me to do, then, sir?” he asked.
“Sit in your office, smoke yourself silly and read reports, the way you’re supposed to. And stay away from the media. Leave them to Superintendent Gristhorpe and myself.”
Banks cringed. He hated it when people used “myself” instead of plain old “me.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I haven’t been anywhere near the media, sir.”
“Well, make sure you don’t.”
“You want me to sit and read reports? That’s it?”
Riddle stopped prowling a moment and faced Banks. “For heaven’s sake, man! You’re a DCI. You’re not supposed to be gadding off all over the place interviewing people. Coordinate. There are plenty more important tasks for you to carry out right here, in your office.”
“Sir?”
“What about the new budget, for a start? You know these days we’ve got to be accountable for every penny we spend. And it’s about time the Annual Policing Plan was prepared for next year. Then there’s the crime statistics. Why is it that when the rest of the country’s experiencing a drop, North Yorkshire’s on the rise? Hey? These are the sort of questions you should be addressing, not driving off to Leeds and treading on people’s toes.”
“Wait a minute, sir,” said Banks. “Whose toes? Don’t tell me Neville Motcombe’s in the lodge as well?”
As soon as the words were out, Banks regretted them. It was all very well to want his own back on Riddle, but this wasn’t the way to do it. He was surprised when Riddle simply stopped his tirade and asked, “Who the hell’s Neville Motcombe when he’s at home?”
Banks hesitated. Having put his foot in his mouth, how could he avoid not shoving it down as far as his lower intestine? And did he care? “He’s an associate of Jason Fox’s. One of the people I was talking to in Leeds yesterday.”
“What does this Motcombe have to do with the lad’s death, if anything?”
Banks shook his head. “I don’t know that he does. It’s just that his name came up in the course of our inquiries and-”
Riddle began pacing again. “Don’t flannel me, Banks. I understand this Jason Fox belonged to some right-wing racist movement? Is that true?”
“Yes, sir. The Albion League.”
Riddle stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Would this Neville Motcombe have anything to do with the Albion League?”
No flies on Jimmy Riddle. “Actually,” Banks said, “he’s their leader.”
Riddle said nothing for a moment, then he went back and resumed his pose at the filing cabinet. “Does this have anything to do with the Jason Fox case at all, or are you just tilting at windmills as usual?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Banks said. “It’s what I’m trying to find out. It might have given George and his pals a motive to attack Jason.”
“Have you any proof at all that the three Asians knew Jason Fox belonged to this Albion League?”
“No. But I did find out that Jason knew George Mahmood. It’s a start.”
“It’s bloody nothing is what it is.”
“We’re still digging.”
Riddle sighed. “Have you got any real suspects at all?”
“The Asians are still our best bet. The lab hasn’t identified the stuff on George’s trainers yet because there are so many contaminating factors, but they still haven’t discounted its being blood.”
“Hmm. What about the other lad, the one who was supposed to be with Jason Fox in the pub?”
“We’re still looking for him.”
“Any idea who he is yet?”
“No, sir. That was another thing I-”
“Well, bloody well find out. And quickly.” Riddle strode toward the door. “And remember what I said.”
“Which bit would that be, sir?”
“About tending to your duties as a DCI.”
“So you want me to find out who Jason’s pal was at the same time as I’m reading reports on budgets and crime statistics?”
“You know what I mean, Banks. Don’t be so bloody literal. Delegate.”
And he walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Banks breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon. The door opened again. Riddle put his head round, pointed his finger at Banks, wagged it and said, “And whatever you might think of me, Banks, don’t you ever dare imply again that I or any of my fellow Masons fraternize with fascists. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Banks as the door closed again. Fraternize with fascists, indeed. He had to admit it had a nice ring to it. Must be the alliteration.
In the peace and silence following Riddle’s withdrawal, Banks sipped his coffee and mulled over what he’d been told. He knew Riddle had a point about the way he did his job, and that certainly didn’t make him feel any better. As a DCI, he should be more involved in the administrative and managerial aspects of policing. He should spend more time at his desk.
Except that wasn’t what he wanted.
When he had been a DI on the Met and got promoted to DCI on transferring to Eastvale, it was on the understanding – given by both Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe and Chief Constable Hemmings, Jimmy Riddle’s predecessor – that he was to take an active part as investigating officer in important cases. Even the assistant chief constable (Crime), also since retired, had agreed to that.
Recently, when the powers that be had considered abolishing the rank of chief inspector, Banks was ready to revert to inspector at the same pay, rather than try for superintendent, where he was far more likely to be desk-bound. But it had never happened; the only rank to be abolished was that of deputy chief constable.
Now Jimmy Riddle wanted to tie him to his desk anyway.
What could he do? Was it really time for another move?
But he didn’t have time to think about these matters for very long. Not more than two minutes after Riddle had left, the phone rang.
III
Susan arrived ten minutes late for lunch at the Queen’s Arms, where the object
was to discuss leads and feelings about the Jason Fox case over a drink and a pub lunch. An informal brainstorming session.
Banks and Hatchley were already ensconced at a dimpled copper-topped table between the fireplace and the window when Susan hurried in. They were both looking particularly glum, she noticed.
She stopped at the bar and ordered a St. Clement’s and a salad sandwich, then joined the others at the table. Hatchley had an almost-empty pint glass in front of him, while Banks was staring gloomily into a half. They scraped their chairs aside to make room for her.
“Sorry I’m late, sir,” she said.
Banks shrugged. “No problem. We went ahead and ordered without you. If you want something…”
“It’s all right, sir. They’re doing me a sandwich.” Susan glanced from one to the other. “Excuse me if I’m being thick or something, but it can’t be the weather that’s making your faces as long as a wet Sunday afternoon. Is something wrong? I feel as if I’ve walked in on a wake.”
“In a way, you have,” said Banks. He lit a cigarette. “You know Frank Hepplethwaite, Jason’s granddad?”
“Yes. At least I know who he is.”
“Was. I just got a call from the Halifax police. He dropped dead at Jason’s funeral.”
“What of?”
“Heart attack.”
“Oh no,” said Susan. She had never met the old man but she knew Banks had been impressed with him, and that was enough for her. “What happened?”
“Motcombe brought nine or ten of his blackshirts to the graveside and Frank took umbrage. Made a run at them. He was dead before his granddaughter could get them to back off.”
“So they killed him?”
“You could say that.” Banks glanced sideways at Hatchley, who drained his pint, shook his head slowly and went to the bar for another. Banks declined his offer of a second half. Smoke from his cigarette drifted perilously close to Susan’s nose; she waved her hand in the air to waft it away.
“Sorry,” said Banks.
“It doesn’t matter. Look, sir, I’m having a bit of trouble understanding all this. It sounds like manslaughter to me. Are we pressing charges against Motcombe or not?”
Banks shook his head. “It’s West Yorkshire’s patch. And they’re not.”
“Why not?”
“Because Frank Hepplethwaite attacked Motcombe, and his lot were merely defending themselves.”
“Ten of them? Against an old man with a bad heart? That’s not on, sir.”
“I know,” said Banks. “But apparently they didn’t punch or kick him. They just pushed him away. They were protecting themselves from him.”
“It still sounds like manslaughter.”
“West Yorkshire don’t think they can get the CPS to prosecute.”
The Crown Prosecution Service, as Susan knew, were well-known for their conservative attitude toward pursuing criminal cases through the courts. “So Motcombe and his bully boys just walk away scot-free? That’s it?”
Hatchley returned from the bar. At almost the same time, Glenys, the landlord’s wife, appeared with the food: Susan’s sandwich, plaice and chips for Hatchley and a thick wedge of game pie for Banks.
“Not exactly,” said Banks, stubbing out his cigarette. “At least not immediately. They were taken in for questioning. Their argument was that they were simply attending the funeral of a fallen comrade when this madman started attacking them and they were forced to push him away to protect themselves. The fact that Frank was an old man didn’t make a lot of difference to the charges, or lack of them. Some old men are pretty tough. And they didn’t know he had a bad heart.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Susan turned to Hatchley.
He shook his head, piece of breaded plaice on his fork in mid-air. “It doesn’t look like it.” Then he glanced at Banks, who looked up from his pie and nodded. “It gets worse,” Hatchley went on. “We’re in no position to charge Motcombe, it seems, but Motcombe has brought assault charges against Maureen Fox, Jason’s sister. It seems she attacked him and his mates with a heavy plank she picked up from the graveside and cracked a couple of heads open, including Motcombe’s.”
Susan’s jaw dropped. “And they’re charging her?”
“Aye,” said Hatchley. “I shouldn’t imagine much will come of it, but it’s exactly the kind of insult Motcombe and his sort like to throw at people.”
“And at the justice system,” Banks added.
There were times, Susan had to admit, when she hadn’t much stomach for the justice system, even though she knew it was probably the best in the world. Justice is always imperfect and it was a lot more imperfect in many other countries. Even so, once in a while something came along to outrage even what she thought was her seasoned copper’s view. All she could do was shake her head and bite on her salad sandwich.
In the background, the cash register chinked and a couple of shop workers on their lunch break laughed at a joke. Someone won a few tokens on the fruit machine.
“Any more good news?” Susan asked.
“Aye,” said Hatchley. “The lab finally got back to us on that stuff they found on George Mahmood’s trainers.”
“And?”
“Animal blood. Must have stepped on a dead spuggy or summat while he was crossing the rec.”
“Well,” Susan said, “this is all very depressing, but I think I’ve got at least one piece of good news.”
Banks raised his eyebrows.
Susan explained about the message she had left with the FoxWood Designs page. “That’s why I was late,” she said. “When I first checked, the reply hadn’t come through, so I thought I’d give it just a few minutes more and try again.”
“And?” said Banks.
“And we’re in luck. Well, it’s a start, anyway.”
Susan brought the folded sheet of paper out of her briefcase and laid it on the table. Banks and Hatchley leaned forward to read the black-edged message:
Dear Valued Customer,
Many thanks for your interest in the work of FoxWood Designs. Unfortunately, we have had to suspend business for the time being due to bereavement. We hope you will be patient and bring your business to us in the near future, and we apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.
Yours Sincerely,
Mark Wood.
“Mark Wood. So we’ve got a name,” said Banks.
Susan nodded. “As I said, it’s not much, but it’s a place to start. This could be the lad who was with Jason in the Jubilee. At the very least, he’s Jason’s business partner. He ought to know something.”
“Maybe,” said Banks. “But he still might prove to have nothing to do with the case at all.”
“But don’t you think it’s a bit fishy that he hasn’t come forward yet, no matter who he is?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “But Liza Williams didn’t come forward, either. Jason’s neighbor in Rawdon. She didn’t see any reason to. Nor did Motcombe.”
“Well, sir,” Susan went on, “I still think we should try and find him as soon as possible.”
“Oh, I agree.” Banks reached for his briefcase. “Don’t mind me, Susan, I’m just a bit down in the dumps about what happened to Frank Hepplethwaite.”
Susan nodded. “I understand.”
“Anyway,” Banks went on, “there’s one thing we can check, for a start. I got a fax from Ken Blackstone listing Motcombe’s properties and tenants. I haven’t had time to have a good look at it yet.” He pulled the sheets of paper out and glanced over them. “Seems Motcombe owns a fair bit of property,” he said after a few moments. “Four houses in addition to his own, two of them divided into flats and bed-sits, the semi where Jason Fox lived, and a shop with a flat above it in Bramley. He also owns the old grocer’s shop where the Albion League operates from, as we thought.” Finally, a few seconds later, he shook his head in disappointment. “There’s no Mark Wood listed among the tenants. Maybe that would have been too easy.”
; “I wonder where Motcombe got his money from,” Susan said.
“Members’ dues?” Hatchley chipped in.
“Hardly likely,” said Banks with a grim smile. “Maybe he inherited it? I’ll get in touch with Ken again, see if he can work up some more background on Mr. Motcombe for us.”
“You don’t really think he did it, do you?” Susan asked.
“Kill Jason? Honestly? No. For a start, he doesn’t seem to have a motive. And even if he did have something to do with it, he certainly didn’t do it himself. I doubt he’s got the bottle. Or the strength. Remember, Jason was a pretty tough customer. But let’s have a closer look at him anyway. I don’t like the bastard, or what he stands for, so any grief we can give him is fine with me. Even a traffic offense. Besides, I’d look a right prat if we overlooked something obvious, wouldn’t I? And that’s the last thing I need right now.”
“The chief constable?” Susan ventured.
Banks nodded. “Himself. In the flesh. So I’d better get back to my desk and coordinate.”
IV
Banks felt bone-weary when he arrived home that evening shortly after six o’clock. He was still upset about Frank Hepplethwaite’s senseless death, his run-in with Jimmy Riddle was still niggling him, and the lack of progress in the Jason Fox case was sapping his confidence. Well, he’d done the best he could so far. If only the lab boys or Vic Manson could come through with something.
Sandra wasn’t home. In a way, that made him feel relieved. He didn’t think he could deal with another argument right now. Or the cold shoulder.
He made himself a cheese omelet. There wasn’t any real cheese in the fridge, so he used a processed slice. It tasted fine. Shortly after eight, when Banks was relaxing with Così Fan Tutte and a small Laphroaig, Sandra got back. Anxious to avoid another scene, Banks turned the volume on the stereo very low.
But Sandra didn’t seem to notice the opera playing softly in the background. At least she didn’t say anything. She seemed distracted, Banks thought, as he tried to engage her in conversation about the day.
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