Blood At The Root

by Peter Robinson

  Banks gave her a peck on the cheek. She smelled of jasmine. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  She turned up her nose. “We were terrible. But thanks anyway. And it’s nice to see you, stranger.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t stick around after The Pearl Fishers,” Banks said.

  “That’s okay. I was knackered anyway. Long day. What did you think?”

  “Wonderful.”

  She grinned. “For once, you’re right. Everything seemed to fit together that night. Sometimes it just does that, you know, and nobody knows why.”

  Banks gestured around the church. “I’m surprised you have time for this.”

  “St. Peter’s? Oh, if the schedules work out all right, I can do it. I need all the practice I can get. I’ve been recording the Walton Viola Concerto, too, with the orchestra. For Naxos. Finally the viola’s getting some of the respect it deserves.”

  “You were the soloist?”

  She slapped his arm. “No. Not me, you idiot. I’m not that good. The soloist was Lars Anders Tomter. He’s very good.”

  “I’m really glad it’s all working out for you, anyway.”

  Pamela smiled and made a mock curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir. So, where now?”

  Banks looked at his watch. “I know it’s a bit early, but how about dinner?”

  “Fine with me. I’m starving.”

  “Curry?”

  Pamela laughed. “Just because I’m Bangladeshi, it doesn’t mean I eat nothing but curry, you know.”

  Banks held his hands out. “Whatever, then. Brasserie Forty-four?”

  “No, not there,” Pamela said. “It’s far too expensive. There’s a new pizza place up Headingley, just off North Lane. I’ve heard it’s pretty good.”

  “Pizza it is, then. I’m parked just over in The Calls.”

  “You can have curry if you really want.”

  Banks shook his head, and they walked through the dimly lit cobbled backstreets to the car. They were in the oldest part of Leeds, and the most recent to be redeveloped. Most of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century warehouses by the River Aire had been derelict for years, until the civic-pride restoration schemes of the eighties. Now that Leeds was a boom town, they were tourist attractions, full of trendy new restaurants, usually located on something called a “wharf,” the kind of word nobody there would have used twenty years ago. Canary Wharf had a lot more to answer for than vanished fortunes, Banks thought.

  “It’s not that I think you eat curry all the time because you’re Asian,” he said. “It’s just that there isn’t a decent curry place in Eastvale. Well, there is one, but I think I might be persona non grata there at the moment. Anyway, pizza sounds great.”

  “What did you get?” Pamela asked as she got into the Cavalier and picked up the HMV package from the passenger seat. “Have a look,” said Banks, as he set off and negotiated the one-way streets of the city center.

  “The Beatles Anthology? I never would have taken you for a Beatles fan.”

  Banks smiled. “It’s pure nostalgia. I used to listen to Brian Matthew do ‘Saturday Club’ when I was a kid. If I remember rightly, it came on right after Uncle Mac’s ‘Children’s Favourites,’ and by the age of thirteen I’d got sick to death of ‘Sparky and the Magic Piano,’ ‘Little Green Man’ and ‘Big Rock Candy Mountain.’”

  Pamela laughed. “Before my time. Besides, my mum and dad wouldn’t let me listen to pop music.”

  “Didn’t you rebel?”

  “I did manage to sneak a little John Peel under the bed-clothes once in a while.”

  “I hope you’re speaking metaphorically.” Banks drove past St. Michael’s Church and the Original Oak, just opposite. The streetlights were on, and there were plenty of people about, students for the most part. A little farther on, he came to the junction with North Lane, an enclave of cafés, pubs and bookshops.

  “Here,” said Pamela, pointing. Banks managed to find a parking spot, and they walked around the corner into the restaurant. The familiar pizza smells of olive oil, tomato sauce, oregano and fresh-baked dough greeted them. The restaurant was lively and noisy, but they only had to wait at the bar for a couple of minutes before they got a tiny table for two in the back. It wasn’t a great spot, too close to the toilets and waiters’ route to and from the kitchen, but at least it was in the smoking section. After a while, sipping the one glass of red wine he was allowing himself that evening, and smoking one of the duty-free Silk Cuts he’d picked up at Schiphol, Banks hardly noticed the bustle or the volume level anymore.

  “So, have you got a boyfriend yet?” he asked when they were settled.

  Pamela frowned. “Too busy,” she said. “Besides, I’m not sure I trust myself to get involved again. Not just yet. How’s your wife? Sandra, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. She’s fine.”

  After a while of small talk, their pizzas came – Banks’s margherita and Pamela’s fungi.

  “How’s life at the cop shop?” Pamela asked between mouthfuls.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Banks. “I’ve been suspended from duty.”

  He hadn’t intended to tell her, certainly not with such abruptness, but it had come out before he could stop it. He couldn’t seem to hold back everything. In a way, he was glad he’d said it because he had to confide in someone. Her eyes opened wide. As soon as she had swallowed her food, she said, “What? Good Lord, why?”

  As best he could, he told her about the Jason Fox case, and about thumping Jimmy Riddle.

  “Aren’t you still angry?” she asked when he’d finished.

  Banks sipped some wine and watched Pamela wipe a little pizza sauce from her chin. The people at the next table left. The waiter picked up the money and began to clean up after them. “Not really angry,” Banks said. “A bit, perhaps, but not a lot. Not anymore.”

  “What, then?”

  “Disappointed.”

  “With what?”

  “Myself mostly. For being too stupid not to see it coming. And for thumping Riddle.”

  “I can’t say I blame you, from what you’ve told me.”

  “Oh, Riddle’s an arsehole, no doubt about it. He even suggested that I took you to Amsterdam with me.”

  “Me? But why?”

  “He thinks you’re my mistress.”

  Pamela almost choked on a mouthful of pizza. Banks didn’t feel particularly flattered. Afterward, he couldn’t tell if she was blushing or just red in the face from coughing. “Come again,” she managed finally, patting her chest.

  “It’s true. He thinks I’ve got a mistress in Leeds and that’s why I keep making up excuses to come here.”

  “But how could he know? I mean…?”

  “I know what you mean. Don’t ask me.” Banks smiled, felt his heart skip, but went on anyway, aiming for a light tone. “It didn’t seem like such a bad idea.”

  Pamela looked down. He could see he’d embarrassed her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was supposed to be a compliment.”

  “I know what it was supposed to be,” Pamela said. Then she smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.”

  Please do, he almost said, but managed to stop himself in time. He wondered if she would take him home with her if he told her that he and Sandra had split up. They ate some more pizza in silence, then Pamela shook her head slowly and said, “It just sounds so unfair.”

  “Fairness has nothing to do with it.” Banks pushed his plate aside and lit a cigarette. “Oh, sorry,” he said, looking at the small slice left on Pamela’s plate.

  “That’s all right. I’m full.” She pushed hers aside, too.

  “This Neville Motcombe you mentioned, isn’t he the bloke who was interviewed in the Yorkshire Post this weekend? Something to do with neo-Nazis disrupting a funeral?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Didn’t someone die there?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “Frank Hepplethwaite. I knew hi
m slightly.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. We weren’t close friends or anything. It’s just that I liked him, and I think, of anyone, he’s the real victim in this whole mess. Tell me something: Have you ever come across Motcombe in any other context?”

  “What, you mean with me being the sort of person this Albion League might target?”

  “Partly. Yes.”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I’ve been lucky, I suppose. Oh, I’ve been insulted in the street and stuff. You know, called a Paki bitch or a Paki slut. It’s always ‘Paki.’ Can’t they think of anything else but that?”

  Banks smiled. “That’s part of their problem. Severely limited thinking. No originality.”

  “I suppose so. I’m not saying it doesn’t bother me when it happens. It does. It upsets me. But you get used to it. I mean, it starts not to surprise you as much, so you don’t get shocked by it as easily. But it still hurts. Every time. Like hot needles being stuck through your skin. Sometimes it’s just the way people look at you. Am I making any sense?”

  “Perfect.”

  “I remember once when I was a kid back in Shipley – oh, this must have been in the seventies, twenty years ago now – and I was walking back from my aunt’s house with my mum and dad. We walked around this corner and there was a gang of skinheads. They surrounded us and started calling out racist insults and shoving us. There were about ten of them. There was nothing we could do. I was terrified. I think we all were. But my dad stood up to them, called them cowards and shoved them right back. At first they just laughed, but then they started to get worked up and I could tell they were getting ready to really hurt us. My mother was screaming and I was crying and they got my dad on the ground and started kicking him…” She trailed off and shook her head at the memory.

  “What happened?”

  Pamela looked up and smiled through her tears. “Would you believe it, a police car came by and they ran off? A bloody police car. About the only time the police have ever been there when I’ve needed them. Must have been a miracle.”

  They both laughed. The waiter came by and took their plates.

  “What now?” Pamela asked, after she’d wiped her eyes from the mingled tears of humiliation and laughter.

  “Coffee? Dessert?”

  She hit him on the arm again. “I don’t mean that, idiot. I mean, you. Your future.”

  “Looks bleak. I’d rather concentrate on dessert.”

  “Just a cappuccino for me.”

  Banks ordered two cappuccinos and lit another cigarette.

  “You’re smoking too much,” Pamela said.

  “I know. And just when I’d managed to cut down.”

  “Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “You know quite well. Your future. What are you going to do?”

  Banks shook his head. “I don’t know yet. It’s too early to say.”

  “Well, surely when this chief constable person has done his investigation, he’ll have to reinstate you?”

  “I doubt it. Even if a disciplinary hearing really does reinstate me, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think about it,” said Banks. “I hit the chief constable. Even if he does keep that just between the two of us, it still means I can’t work with him anymore. He’d find ways to make my life a living hell.”

  “I understand it might make things difficult.”

  “Difficult? It was difficult before all this. After…” He shrugged. “Impossible, more like.”

  The restaurant was full of students now. They looked like an artsy, literary crowd, all talking excitedly about the latest music, arguing loudly about books and philosophy. They made Banks feel old; made him feel he had wasted his life. A waiter passed by carrying plates, leaving a trail of garlic and basil smells.

  “But you can get a job somewhere else,” Pamela said. “I mean as a policeman. In a different region. Can’t you?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t mean to be negative, Pamela, I just haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

  “I understand.” She leaned forward and put her hand on his. Candlelight glittered in her diamond stud, made shadows of burnished gold and lit the fine down between her breasts.

  Banks swallowed and felt his excitement rise. He wanted to take her home and lick every inch of her golden skin. Or did he? There would be consequences, confidences shared, a relationship. He didn’t think he could handle anything like that right now.

  Pamela sat back and flipped a long tress of hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand. “What about this case you were working on?” she asked. “You seemed to imply that it’s not over.”

  “Everyone thinks it is.”

  “And you?”

  Banks shrugged.

  She toyed with a gold bracelet on her arm. “Look, Alan, this person you talked about earlier. Mark Wood. Did he do it?”

  “I don’t know. He might have done. But not, I don’t think, the way he said he did, or for the reason he claimed.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. It could mean the difference between manslaughter and murder. And if someone else was behind it, say Neville Motcombe, I’d hate to see him get away with it while Mark Wood takes the fall alone.”

  “If you were still on the force, would you be working on this case?”

  “Probably not. The chief constable’s got his confession. Everybody’s happy. Case closed.”

  “But you’re not on the force.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So that means you can still work on it if you want.”

  Banks smiled and shook his head. “What impeccable logic. But I don’t think so. I can’t do it, Pamela. I’m sorry. It’s over.”

  Pamela sat back and studied him for a moment. He reached for another cigarette, thought twice about it, then lit up anyway.

  “Remember when I was hurt?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “And thought I might never play again?”

  Banks nodded.

  “Well, if I’d taken your negative attitude, I wouldn’t have played again. And, believe me, there were times when giving up would have been the easiest thing in the world. But you helped me then. You encouraged me. You gave me strength and courage when I was at my lowest. I’d never had a friend like… someone who didn’t want…” She turned away for a moment. When she looked back, her eyes were deeply serious and intense, glistening with tears. “And now you’re giving up. Just like that. I don’t believe it. Not you.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “You can follow up on your ideas. On your own.”

  “But how? I don’t have the resources, for a start.”

  “Someone will help you. You’ve still got friends there, in the department, haven’t you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well, then?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” Banks gestured for the waiter and paid, waving aside all Pamela’s attempts to contribute. “My idea, my treat,” he said.

  “So you will do something? You promise me you won’t just sit around at home and mope?”

  “Yes, I promise. I’ll do something.” He scraped his chair back and smiled. “Now, come on. Let me take you home.”

  THIRTEEN

  I

  The first thing Banks needed to do, he realized in the cold light of Wednesday morning, was spend a few hours going over all the paperwork on the Jason Fox case – especially that which had been generated in his absence. He realized he had missed a lot over the weekend, and there were things he needed to know if he was to make any progress on his own. But how could he get hold of it? Nobody was going to kick him out of Eastvale station, he didn’t think, but neither could they let him just walk in and take what he wanted.

  There wasn’t even a crust of bread left in the house, and he didn’t fancy eating Sandra’s leftover cottage cheese, s
o he made do with coffee and Vaughan Williams’s “Serenade to Music” for breakfast.

  As he let the sensuous music flow over him, he thought about last night. When he had dropped Pamela at her flat, he had half hoped she would invite him up for a drink, but she just thanked him for the lift, said she was tired and hoped she would see him again soon. He said he would call and drove off with a pang of disappointment about not getting to do something he probably wouldn’t have done anyway, even if he had had the chance. But seeing her had been good for him. At least she had persuaded him to keep working on the case.

  When the music finished, he picked up the phone and called Sandra in Croydon. He had been thinking of calling last night when he got in, but decided it was too late.

  Her mother answered.

  “Alan? How are you doing?”

  “Oh, not so bad, considering. You?”

  “About the same. Look, er, I’m really sorry about what’s happened. Do you want to speak to Sandra?”

  “Please.”

  “Just a minute.”

  She sounded embarrassed, Banks thought as he waited. Not surprising, really. What could she say? Her daughter had left her husband and come home to sort herself out. Banks had always got on well with his mother-in-law, and he didn’t expect she was going to see him as a monster now, but nor was she going to chat with him about his feelings over the telephone.

  “Alan?”

  It was Sandra’s voice. She sounded tired. He felt the icy hand squeeze his heart. Now he had her on the line, he didn’t know what to say. “Yes. I… er… I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

  “Of course I’m okay. I wish you hadn’t called.”

  “But why?”

  “Why do you think? I told you. I need time to work things out. This doesn’t help.”