“What?”
“Money. One of the Turkish right-wingers Motcombe has been communicating with frequently of late, via the Internet, is a suspected international drug dealer. Heroin, mostly. And we happen to know he’s looking for new outlets in England. They met when Motcombe was in Turkey during the summer, and electronic traffic between them has increased dramatically over the past three weeks. The wires are hot, you might say.”
“What do these messages say?”
“Ah, well, there’s the problem. Our computer whizzes have been keeping an eye on these cyber-Nazis, as they’re called. We know some of their passwords, so we can read a fair bit of the traffic. Until they get on to us and change the passwords, that is. Problem is, some of the really hot stuff is encrypted. They use PGP and even more advanced encryption programs. I kid you not, Banks, these things make Enigma look like a fucking doddle.”
“So you can’t decipher the messages?”
“Well, maybe they’re just chatting away about Holocaust denial or some such rubbish – we can’t exactly decipher their messages – but knowing the Turk, I doubt it. I’d say he’s found the pipeline he was looking for.”
Banks shook his head. “And Jason Fox?” he said. “Do you think this could have something to do with his death?”
Burgess shrugged. “Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? And I know you don’t like coincidences. I thought you should be filled in, that’s all.”
“What a load of bollocks,” said Banks. “And don’t give me all this cloak-and-dagger shit. Encrypted E-mail. Vague suspicions. Is this what you dragged me all this way for?”
Burgess looked offended. “No,” he said. “Well, not entirely. As it happens, I don’t know much about it yet myself.”
“So why am I here?”
“Because a very important person is here, has to be here for at least a week. Because it’s essential you talk to this person before you go any further in your investigation. And because it wouldn’t do for you to be seen together back home. Believe me, he’ll be able to tell you a lot more than I can. Good enough?”
“What about the telephone?”
“Oh, give me a break, Banks. If they can eavesdrop on Charlie and Di, they can bloody well eavesdrop on you. Telephones aren’t secure. Quit bellyaching and enjoy yourself. It won’t be all work. I mean, what are you complaining about? You’ve got yourself a free weekend in one of the most exciting cities in the world. Okay?”
Banks thought for a moment, watching the bicycles and cars passing by on the canal side. He lit a cigarette. “So what happens next?” he said.
“Tomorrow afternoon, I get up-to-date on what’s going on, then I’m off on my holidays, believe it or not. I think I’ll just go out to Schiphol and take the first flight somewhere tropical. In the evening, you have a very important meeting.” Burgess told him to be at a bar near Sarphatipark at eight o’clock, but not whom he would find when he got there. “And make sure you’re not followed,” he added.
Banks shook his head at the melodrama. Burgess just loved this cloak-and-dagger crap.
Then Burgess clapped his hands, showering ash on the table. “But until then, we’re free agents. Two happy bachelors – and notice I didn’t say ‘gay’ – with the whole night ahead of us.” He lowered his voice. “Now, what I suggest is that we find a nice little Indonesian restaurant, shovel down a plate or two of rijsttafel and swill that down with a few pints of lager. Then we’ll see if we can find one of those little coffee shops where you can smoke hash.” He rested his arm over Banks’s shoulder. “And after that, I suggest we take a stroll to the red-light district and get us some nice, tight Dutch pussy. It’s all perfectly legal and aboveboard here, you know, and the girls have regular checkups. Tried and tested, stamped prime grade A.” He turned to Banks and squinted. “Now, I know you’ve got that lovely wife of yours waiting at home – Sandra, isn’t it? – but there really is nothing quite like a little strange pussy once in a while. Take my word. And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. My lips will be eternally sealed, I can promise you that. How about it?”
As usual, Banks thought, the bastard showed his unerring instinct for finding the spot that hurt, like a dentist prodding at an exposed nerve. There was no way Burgess could know what had happened between Banks and Sandra the previous evening. Nobody knew but the two of them. Yet here he was, right on the mark. Well, to hell with him.
“Fine,” said Banks. “You’re on.” Then he raised his glass and finished his beer. “But first, I think I’ll have another one of these.”
NINE
I
“I’m sorry we had to take you away from your wife and child, Mark,” said Gristhorpe. “Let’s hope it won’t be for long.”
Wood said nothing; he just looked sullen and defiant.
“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “I’d like to thank you for sparing us the time.” He balanced a pair of reading glasses on his hooked nose and flipped through some sheets of paper in front of him, glancing up over the top of his glasses from time to time. “There’s just a few points we’d like to get cleared up, and we think you can help us.”
“I’ve already told you,” Wood said. “I don’t know anything.”
Susan sat next to Gristhorpe in the interview room: faded institutional green walls, high barred window, metal table and chairs bolted to the floor, pervading odor of smoke, sweat and urine. Susan was convinced they sprayed it in fresh every day. Two tape recorders were running, making a soft hissing sound in the background. It was dark outside by the time they actually got around to the interview. Gristhorpe had already given the caution. Wood had also phoned a solicitor in Leeds, Giles Varney, and got his answering machine. You’d be lucky to find a lawyer at home on a Friday evening, in Susan’s experience. Still, he had left a message and steadfastly refused the duty solicitor. Hardly surprising, Susan thought, given that Giles Varney was one of the best-known solicitors in the county. She would have thought he was way out of Mark’s league.
“Yes,” said Gristhorpe, taking off his glasses and fingering the papers in front of him. “I know that. Thing is, though, that sometimes when people come into contact with the police, they lie.” He shrugged and held his hands out, palms up. “Now, I can understand that, Mark. Maybe they do it to protect themselves, or maybe just because they’re afraid. But they lie. And it makes our job just that little bit more difficult.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” said Wood.
Good sign, Susan noted. Gristhorpe had the lad apologizing already.
“Now,” Gristhorpe went on, “the last time you got into trouble, you told the police that you had no idea the van you were driving was used for carrying drugs, or that some of the people you were involved with were dealing drugs. Is that true?”
“Do you mean is that what I said?”
“Yes.”
Mark nodded. “Yes.”
“And is the statement true?”
Mark grinned. “Well, of course it is. It’s what I told the court, isn’t it? A matter of public record. It’s hardly my fault if the magistrate didn’t believe me.”
“Course not, Mark. Innocent people get convicted all the time. It’s one of the problems with the system. Nothing’s perfect. But with so many lies going around, you can understand why we might be just a bit wary, a little bit overcautious, and perhaps not quite as trusting as you’d like, can’t you?”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Good.”
The superintendent’s interview technique, Susan noticed, was in direct contrast to Banks’s, with whom she had more experience of questioning subjects. Banks would sometimes needle his interviewees, and when he’d got them confused and vulnerable, he would subtly suggest possible scenarios of how they had committed the crime, and why. He sometimes even went so far as to explain to them their feelings and state of mind while they were doing it. Then, if they were new to the world of crime, he would sometimes describe in g
raphic detail what kind of life they could expect in jail and after. Banks worked on his subjects’ imaginations; he used words to paint images unbearable to the hearer.
Gristhorpe seemed to concentrate more on logic and reasoned argument; he was polite, soft-spoken and unrelenting. He seemed slower than Banks, too. As if he had all the time in the world. But Susan was keen to get it over with. She had already pulled a couple favors to get the lab working overtime on Mark Wood’s shoes and clothing, and if they came up with some solid forensic evidence, or if Gristhorpe got a confession, there was a good chance they could wrap things up before tonight. Jimmy Riddle would be pleased about that.
As a bonus, she would have the weekend free, for once, and she might get her Saturday night out with Gavin. She had considered phoning him earlier – even picked up the phone – but no, she told herself, it wouldn’t do to seem too keen, too easily available. Let him cajole her. Seduce her. Win her.
“You see,” Gristhorpe went on, “that’s one of our main problems, sorting out the lies from the truth. That’s why we have science to help us. Do you know what ‘forensic’ means?”
Wood frowned and tugged on his earring. “It means science, doesn’t it? Like blood types, footprints, DNA and fingerprints?”
“That’s a common error,” Gristhorpe said, toying with his glasses on the table. “Actually, it means ‘for use in a court of law.’ It’s from the Latin, related to the word forum. So one of the best systems we have to help us tell the lies from the truth is a complex and broad-ranging branch of science dedicated solely to presenting scientific evidence in court. Now, of course, before we get to court, we use this forensic evidence to help us identify the people who should be on trial. And in your case, I’m afraid the evidence tells us that you should be in court for the murder of Jason Fox. What do you have to say about that, Mark?”
“Nothing. What can I say? I’ve done nothing.”
Wood was taken aback by Gristhorpe’s gentle and erudite logic, Susan could tell. But he was cool. She noticed that Gristhorpe let the silence stretch until Wood started squirming in his chair.
“Well, you must have something to say, lad,” Gristhorpe went on, putting on his glasses again and slipping a photograph from the file in front of him. “This is an image of a fingerprint found on the label of a beer bottle,” he said, turning it around so Wood could see it clearly. “It was developed by a very painstaking process. Forensic science doesn’t produce miracles, Mark, but sometimes it seems to come close. Now, I’m sure you’re an intelligent-enough lad to know that fingerprints are unique. So far, no two fingers have been found to possess the same ridge characteristics. Isn’t that amazing?”
Wood said nothing; his eyes were glued to the photo.
“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “what’s particularly interesting about that fingerprint is that it came from a fragment of a broken bottle found at the scene of Jason Fox’s murder. But perhaps I’m being precipitous in referring to it as a murder so soon, because that hasn’t been proven yet. You do know that there’s a big difference between homicide and manslaughter, don’t you, Mark?”
Wood nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. And there’s also a big difference in jail sentences. But we won’t let that detain us for the moment. Anyway, the point is that it is a close match for your fingerprint – one we already have on file – and that it was found in the ginnel by the rec, on a fragment of a broken beer bottle under Jason Fox’s body. I’d like you to tell me how it got there.”
Wood licked his lips and glanced at Susan. She said nothing. He looked back into Gristhorpe’s guileless blue eyes.
“Well, er… I suppose I must have touched it, mustn’t I, if it’s got my prints on it?” He smiled.
Gristhorpe nodded. “Aye. I suppose so. When might that have happened, Mark?”
“I gave it to Jason,” Wood said finally.
“When?”
“When we came out of the pub. You see, I thought I wanted another beer, so I bought a bottle from out-sales as we were leaving, but then I remembered I had to drive back down the A1, so I just gave it to Jason. He said he was walking home.”
“Ah,” said Gristhorpe. “So you gave the bottle of beer to Jason when you parted outside the Jubilee?”
“That’s right. I was parked just down the street the pub was on. Market Street. Is that right?”
“That’s the one.” Gristhorpe looked at Susan, who raised her eyebrows.
“What’s wrong?” Wood asked.
Susan scratched the cleft of her chin. “Nothing, really, Mark,” she said. “It’s just that you’ve confused me a bit. When I talked to you earlier you denied being in Eastvale at all last Saturday night. Don’t you remember?” She pretended to read from the paper in front of her. “You bought a couple of bottles of beer at the off-license and rented a Steven Seagal video, which you and your wife watched that evening. You didn’t even nip out to the Hare and Hounds for a quick one. That’s what you said, Mark.”
“Yeah, well… It’s like he said earlier, isn’t it?” He looked at Gristhorpe.
“What would that be, Mark?” Gristhorpe asked.
“About people ly – - About people not telling the exact truth sometimes when the police come after them.”
“So you didn’t tell the truth?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“I was scared, wasn’t I?”
“What of?”
“That you’d fit me up for it because I’ve been in trouble before.”
“Ah, yes,” said Gristhorpe, shaking his head. “The classic fit-up. That’s another one of the problems we constantly have to fight against: the public’s perception of the police, mostly formed by the media. Especially television. Well, I won’t deny it, Mark, there are police officers who wouldn’t stop at forging a notebook entry or altering a statement in order to convict someone. We’re all embarrassed about the Birmingham Six, you know. That’s why there are so many laws now to help people in your position. We can’t beat you up. We can’t force a confession out of you. We have to treat you well while you’re in custody – feed you, allow you exercise, give you access to a solicitor. That sort of thing. It’s all covered in the PACE guidelines.” Gristhorpe spread his hands. “You see, Mark, we’re just humble public servants, really, gentle custodians here to see that your rights aren’t abused in any way. By the way, you must be a bit hungry by now, aren’t you? I know I am. How about I send out for some coffee and sandwiches?”
“Fine with me. Long as they’re not salmon. I’m allergic to salmon.”
“No problem. Susan, would you ask one of the uniformed officers to nip over to the Queen’s Arms and ask Cyril to do us two or three ham-and-cheese sandwiches? And have one of the lads up front bring us a pot of fresh coffee, please.”
“Of course, sir.”
Susan popped her head out of the door and made the request, then she went back to her chair.
“While we’re waiting, though,” said Gristhorpe, “and if you don’t mind, Mark, let’s get back to what happened last Saturday night, shall we? As I understand it, you’ve changed your original story – which, quite understandably, you now admit was a lie.”
“Because I was scared you’d fit me up.”
“Right. Because you were scared we’d fit you up. Well, I hope I’ve put your mind at rest about that.”
Wood leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You’re a lot nicer than those bastards from West Yorkshire who nabbed me on that drugs charge.”
Bloody hell, thought Susan, the old man’s even getting compliments out of his suspects now, let alone mere apologies.
“Well,” said Gristhorpe, inclining his head modestly. “West Yorkshire have a lot more problems than we do, being a lot more urban and all. They sometimes have to cut corners a bit roughly.”
“You’re telling me.”
“But that’s all behind you now, Mark, isn’t it? I see you’ve been a good lad since then. You
took a course and then you went into business. Admirable. But now there’s just this little spot of bother, and the sooner we get it cleared up, the sooner you can get back to leading a normal and productive life with your family. Did Jason ever try to interest you in the Albion League?”
“Sometimes. He’d spout a load of garbage about how the Holocaust didn’t really happen – how most of the Jews died of typhoid and the showers were just ways of disinfecting them, like, not really death camps at all. I must admit, it made me a bit sick. Then I lost interest and didn’t pay much attention after that. Half the time I thought he couldn’t even be serious.”
“I understand your wife is Afro-Caribbean?”
“Her family’s from Jamaica, yes.”
“How did you manage to reconcile this with doing business with a racist like Jason?”
“I never thought much about it, really, not at first. Like I said, I thought Jason spouted a load of silly rubbish. I figured he’d probably grow out of it.”
“You said ‘at first.’ What about after that?”
“Yeah, well, it started getting to me, Sheri being Jamaican and all. We had a couple of arguments. I was on the verge of ditching him when-”
“When what, Mark?”
“Well, you know, he died.”
“Ah, yes. Did you tell him you were married to a Jamaican woman?”
“Are you joking? And listen to him prattle on about that? He really had a bee in his bonnet about mixed marriages. No, I kept my private life and my business activities completely separate.”
Gristhorpe adjusted his glasses again and took a moment or two to look over some sheets of paper. Then he looked back at Wood, held his glasses in his hand and frowned. “But you knew that Jason was doing this computer work for the league?”
The food came, and they took a moment’s break to pass around sandwiches and pour coffee.
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