Blood At The Root

by Peter Robinson

  As it turned out, Hatchley had even more reason for assigning the interview to Susan. When they knocked on the door, a young woman opened it, and Hatchley was useless at interviewing women. Susan finessed their way inside easily enough, showing her warrant card, after learning that Mark had just “nipped out” to the shop for some cigarettes and would be back in a few minutes, Good, she thought; it gave her a chance to talk to the girlfriend alone first.

  Inside, the house was clean and tidy enough, but Susan’s sense of smell, always sensitive, reacted at once to the mingled baby odors – warm milk, mushy food and, of course, the whole mess when it all comes out transformed at the other end – plus the kitty litter. Sure enough, a black-and-white cat prowled the room and a baby slept in its cot in the corner, occasionally emitting a tiny sniffle or cry, as if disturbed by dreams. One of the walls was damp, and the wallpaper was peeling off near the ceiling.

  “What’s it all about?” the woman asked. “I’m Shirelle. Mark’s wife.”

  That was Susan’s first shock. Shirelle was Afro-Caribbean. And she didn’t look a day older than fourteen. She was small in stature, with a flat chest and slim hips, and her pale brown face was framed by long braided black hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Looking at her sitting there in the worn old armchair, it was hard to believe she was old enough to be a mother.

  “We’ve just a few questions to ask your Mark, love,” said Susan, in as reassuring a tone as she could manage. When Shirelle didn’t answer, she went on, “Maybe you can help. Do you know Jason Fox?”

  She frowned. “No. I’ve never met him. Mark mentioned him once or twice. They work together. But he’s never brought him here.”

  I’m not surprised, Susan thought. “Did Mark ever tell you anything about him?”

  “Like what?”

  “What he’s like, how they get on, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, I don’t think Mark likes him all that much. They haven’t been working together for long, and I think Mark’s going to break with him. Apparently, this Jason has some peculiar ideas about immigrants and stuff.”

  You could say that again. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “I’m not an immigrant. I was born here.”

  “How long have they been working together?”

  “A few months.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “They were both doing a computer course in Leeds at the same time, and neither of them could get a job after. I think this Jason had a bit of money to put into starting a business. Mark was top of the class, so Jason asked if he wanted to join him. Like I say, I don’t think Mark’s going to stick with him. It’s just a start, that’s all. It’s hard to get started when you don’t have the experience.”

  “How’s the business doing?” Susan asked.

  Shirelle looked around her and snorted. “What do you think? Hardly made enough to pay for this place and you can see what a dump it is.” Now she neither looked nor sounded like a fourteen-year-old.

  The cat tried to climb on Susan’s knee, but she pushed it away. “It’s not that I don’t like cats, Shirelle,” she said, “but I’m allergic to them.”

  Shirelle nodded. “Tina, come here!” she said.

  But the cat, as cats do, gave her a you-must-be-joking look and ignored her. Finally, Shirelle shot forward, scooped up Tina and deposited her in the next room, closing the door.

  “Thanks,” said Susan. “Have you heard of the Albion League?”

  Shirelle shook her head. “What’s that when it’s at home?”

  “Do you know where Mark was last Saturday night?”

  Shirelle glanced away for just long enough that Susan knew she was going to tell a lie. Why? Had her husband told her to? Or did she want to avoid trouble with the police? With some people, it was habitual. Whatever the reason, as soon as she said, “He was here. At home,” Susan asked her to think carefully about her answer.

  “What time do you mean?” Shirelle asked, after a few moments’ hesitation. “Because he might, you know, have nipped down the pub for a jar or two with his mates.”

  “Which pub would that be?”

  “Hare and Hounds. At the corner. That’s his local.” Shirelle seemed distracted by Sergeant Hatchley, who had said nothing so far, but just sat next to Susan on the sofa watching the whole proceedings, still as a statue, occasionally nodding encouragement and making a note in his black book. She kept looking at him, then turned her large, frightened eyes away, back to Susan.

  “And if we were to ask there, at this Hare and Hounds,” Susan said, “then they’d remember Mark from last Saturday night, would they?”

  “I… I don’t-”

  At that moment the front door opened and a male voice called out, “Sheri? Sheri?”

  Then Mark Wood entered the room: stocky build, muscular, short hair, loop earring and all. Early twenties. The man in the picture.

  “Hello, Mark,” said Susan. “We’ve been wanting a word with you ever since last Saturday.”

  When Mark saw Susan and Hatchley he stopped in his tracks and his jaw went slack. “Who…?” But it was obvious he knew who they were, even if he hadn’t been expecting them. He put the packet of cigarettes on the table and sat in the other armchair. “What about?” he asked.

  “Jason. We’d have thought you might have got in touch with us, you know, since Jason died.”

  “Jason what?” Shirelle burst in. She looked at Mark. “Jason’s dead? You never told me that.”

  Mark shrugged.

  “Well?” Susan asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “What do you have to say? Even if your wife didn’t know, you knew Jason was dead, didn’t you?”

  “Read about it in the paper. But it’s nothing to do with me, is it?”

  “Isn’t it? You were there, Mark. You were in Eastvale drinking with Jason. You left the Jubilee with him shortly after closing time. What we want to know is what happened next.”

  “I was never there,” Mark said. “I was here. At home. Now we’ve got little Connor, I don’t get out as much as I used to. I can’t just leave Sheri alone with him all the time, can I? Besides, as you can probably tell, we’re a bit short of the readies, too.”

  “I’ll bet you own a car, though, don’t you?”

  “Just an old banger. A van. I need it for the business.”

  “Designing Web pages?”

  “That’s not all we do. We do a bit of retail, refurbish systems, set up networks, troubleshoot, that sort of thing.”

  “So you haven’t been out dealing drugs for a while?”

  “You know about that, do you?”

  “We do our research. What do you expect?”

  Mark shifted in his chair and shot a quick glance at Shirelle. “Yeah, well, it was years ago now. It’s behind me. I’ve been clean ever since.”

  “Were you selling drugs at the Jubilee last Saturday night?”

  “No. I told you. I wasn’t even there. Besides, I served my time.”

  “You’re right,” said Susan. “Nine months, if I read the record right. It’s nice to know there really is such a thing as rehabilitation. That’s not what we’re interested in anyway. All we care about is what happened to Jason Fox. What about the Albion League, Mark? Are you a member?”

  Mark scoffed. “That bunch of wankers? That was Jason’s thing. Not mine.” He looked at Shirelle. “Or isn’t that obvious enough to you already?”

  “Did Jason ever introduce you to their leader, Neville Motcombe, or any of the other members?”

  “No. He kept asking me to go to meetings, but that’s all. I think he picked up that I wasn’t really interested.”

  “But the two of you produced the Web page for them.”

  “Jason did that in his spare time. By himself. Thought it was a good idea to put the company’s logo at the bottom. Said it could bring us more business.” He shrugged. “Business is business, even if some of it does come from crackpots.”

 
; “And did it?”

  “Did it what?”

  “Bring in more business?”

  “Nah. Not much. To be honest, I think hardly anyone even looked at it. I mean, would you?”

  “But you were friends with Jason, too, weren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t really say that.”

  “I understand he provided the capital to start the business?”

  Mark looked at Shirelle. Susan guessed he was probably trying to work out exactly what his wife had told them already.

  “Yes,” he said. “I didn’t have any money, but Jason put in a few hundred quid, just to get us going. Only a loan, mind you.”

  “So you wouldn’t say you were friends?”

  “No. It’s not as if we actually socialized together.”

  “But you were socializing last Saturday night in East-vale.”

  “I told you, I wasn’t there. I was here all evening.”

  “Didn’t you even nip out for a jar?” Susan asked. “Shirelle here said she thought you might have done.”

  Mark looked to his wife for guidance. “I… I don’t…” she said. “They’ve been confusing me, Mark. Was it Saturday? I don’t remember. I only said he might have gone out for a few minutes.”

  “Did you go out, Mark?” Susan repeated.

  “No,” said Mark. Then he turned to Shirelle. “Don’t you remember, love, when we went in town shopping in the afternoon, we picked up a couple of bottles at the offie, then we rented that Steven Seagal video and we just stayed in and watched it. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” said Shirelle. “Yes, I remember now. We stayed in and watched a video together.”

  Susan ignored Shirelle; she was lying again. And she thought it interesting that no matter how poor people seemed, how short of the “readies” they were, they always had enough money for booze, cigarettes, videos and pets. Cars, even. “So you weren’t in Eastvale at all last Saturday night, then, Mark?”

  Mark shook his head. “No.”

  “I suppose the video rental shop will have a record?”

  “I suppose so. They’re computerized, all the latest gear, so they ought to. I never asked. I mean, I didn’t think anyone would be interested.”

  “But you could still be lying, couldn’t you?” Susan went on. “In fact, it doesn’t matter at all whether you rented a video on Saturday afternoon or not, does it? You could have gone to Eastvale on Saturday evening, met Jason in the Jubilee and booted him to death. You could have watched the video after you got home.”

  “I told you. I didn’t do anything of the sort. I wasn’t anywhere near there. Besides, why would I do a thing like that? I already told you, Jason was my business partner. Why would I kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”

  “You tell me. I understand you were going to dump him?”

  Again, Mark looked at Shirelle, who stared into her lap.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m telling you, I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t anywhere near Eastvale. I’ve never even been there in my life.”

  Suddenly, Hatchley lurched to his feet, making even Susan jump. “Let’s cut the bollocks, lad,” he said, putting his notebook back in his inside pocket. “We know you were there. People saw you in the pub. And we’ve got a clear set of your fingerprints on the murder weapon. What have you got to say about that?”

  Mark looked from side to side, as if seeking an escape route. Shirelle started to cry. “Oh, Mark…” she wailed. “What can we do?”

  “Shut up blubbering,” he said, then turned back to Susan and Hatchley. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Later,” said Hatchley. “First, we’re going to fill a plastic bag with your shoes and clothes, then we’re going to go back to Eastvale for a nice long chat in a proper police interview room. How do you feel about that?”

  Mark said nothing.

  Connor stirred in his cot and started to cry.

  V

  “Tell me one thing,” Banks said. “Why the hell have you dragged me all the way to Amsterdam?”

  Burgess smiled, flipped open his tin of Tom Thumb cigars and selected one. “Everything will be made clear in time. Shit, it’s good to see you again, Banks,” he said. “I knew I could rely on your curiosity to get you here. I can’t think of a better man for a case like this.” He lit the small cigar and blew out a plume of smoke.

  “What case would that be?” asked Banks, who had learned, over the years, to trust Burgess about as much as he would trust a politician in an election year.

  “Oh, don’t be coy. The Jason Fox case, of course.”

  The waiter came out. Burgess asked Banks what he was drinking. Banks told him he’d have another De Koninck.

  “Filthy stuff,” said Burgess. Then he turned to the waiter. “Still, bring him another one, will you, mate, if that’s what he wants. I’ll have a lager. Whatever you’ve got on tap.”

  Banks noticed for the first time that Burgess had his graying hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail. Bloody typical. The aging-stud look.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Burgess said when the waiter came back with their drinks. “Aren’t you glad I got you the ticket, Banks?”

  “I’m overwhelmed with delight and gratitude,” said Banks, “but I wouldn’t mind knowing what it’s all about. Just a hint, maybe, to start with.”

  “That’s my Banks.” Burgess jerked forward – all his motions seemed jerky – and clapped him on the shoulder. “Always anxious to get down to business. You know, you could have made super by now. Who knows, even chief super. If only you weren’t such a Bolshie bastard. You never did learn to be nice to the right people, did you?”

  Banks smiled. “And you did?”

  Burgess winked. “I must’ve done something right, mustn’t I? Anyway, enough about me. Sometime earlier this week you – or someone in your division – set off an alarm bell I’d placed on a certain file.”

  “The Albion League?”

  “Who’s a clever boy, then? Yes, the Albion League. I got a bloke called Crawley – good chap – to answer and instructed him to give away as little as possible. See, I wanted to know why you were so interested in the league. It’s not as if they’ve got a big operation in North Yorkshire, after all. Then I found out about the Jason Fox killing, and things sort of fell into place.”

  “You knew Jason was a member?”

  “Of course I bloody did. He was Neville Motcombe’s right-hand man. Hotly tipped for future Führerdom himself. Now Jason getting himself killed like that was a very bad thing, because it set off all kinds of warning bells all over the place. Which is why I’m here. You, too.”

  A couple of young blond girls walked by. One of them was wearing a tight T-shirt and high-cut turquoise shorts. She was pushing her bicycle as she chatted with her friend. “Jesus Christ, would you look at that ass,” said Burgess, lapsing into his habitual American slang. “Gives me such a hard-on I don’t have enough skin left to close my eyes.” He gave a mock shudder. “Anyway, where was I?”

  “Warning bells.”

  “Yes. I don’t know how much you know about him, Banks, but Motcombe is a nasty piece of work. Just because he’s a fucking fruitcake it doesn’t mean you should under-estimate him.”

  “I’d have thought that you would have had every sympathy with him,” Banks said. “In fact, I’m surprised you’re not a member of the Albion League yourself.”

  Burgess laughed. “Oh, what a cheap shot. You know what, Banks, you’re so very predictable. Do you know that? That’s one of the reasons I like you. I’ve been waiting for a remark like that ever since I sat down.” He settled back in his chair and puffed on his Tom Thumb. “Do I think we’re letting too many foreigners in? Yes. Do I think we’ve got a problem with our immigration policy? Damn right I do. But do I think a gang of goose-stepping football hooligans are the answer? No, I don’t. Look at this lot.” He waved his arm around, as if to indicate the Dutch in general. “Look at the problems they’ve had with their d
arkies. And they’ve only got Dutch Guiana to worry about.”

  “Suriname,” said Banks.

  “Whatever.”

  “And I think you’ll find they also colonized a lot more of the world than just that.”

  “Listen, Banks, stop being a bloody smart-arse. That’s not the point, and you know it. You can’t convince me that England wouldn’t be a damn sight more civilized and law-abiding if we hadn’t let so many of the buggers in to start with.”

  “Civilized and law-abiding as in football hooligans?”

  “Oh, it’s no fucking use arguing with you, is it? Got an answer for everything, haven’t you? Let me put it in a nutshell. While I think this Albion League might have some pretty good ideas, I don’t like getting dressed up like an idiot and hanging around with skinheads and leather-fetishists without two brain cells to rub together between them. Credit me with a bit more sense than that, Banks. Whatever I am,” Burgess concluded, thrusting his thumb toward his chest, “I am not a fucking loony.”

  Burgess was actually wearing his trademark scuffed-up black leather jacket, but Banks let that one go by.

  “Anyway,” Burgess went on after a long swig of generic lager, “back to Neville Motcombe. We know he’s got connections with other right-wing groups in Europe and America. Over the past four years, he’s traveled extensively in Germany, France, Spain, Italy and Holland. He’s also been to Greece and Turkey.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought a neo-Nazi would find much to interest him in Turkey,” Banks said.

  “You’d be surprised. There are plenty of right-wing Turkish groups with access to arms. Get them cheap off the Russians in Azerbaijan or Armenia. Very strategically located for lots of nasty things, is Turkey. And don’t forget, Johnny Turk’s a slimy bastard. Anyway, Motcombe has also visited a number of militia training camps in the south-western United States, and he’s been spotted entering the Nazi party headquarters in Lincoln, Nebraska. That, for your information, is where most of the instructions on bombs and explosives come from. So this guy has talked to the sort of people who blew up that government building in Oklahoma City.” Burgess pointed his cigar at Banks. “Whatever you do, Banks, don’t underestimate Neville Motcombe. Besides, when you get right down to it, this isn’t really about politics at all. There’s something else.”