“It might help me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I spent the weekend in Amsterdam.”
“You did what?”
“In Amsterdam. It was strange. It brought back a lot of memories. Look, do you remember-”
“Alan, why are you telling me this? I don’t want to talk about it. Please. Don’t do this to me. To us.”
“I’m only-”
“I’m going now.”
“Don’t hang up.”
“Alan, I can’t deal with this. I’m going now.”
“Can I speak to Tracy?”
There was silence for a while, then Tracy came on the phone. “Dad, it’s you. I was worried.”
“I’m okay, love. Your mother…?”
“She’s upset, Dad. Honest, I don’t understand what’s happening any more than you do. All I know is Mum’s confused and she says she needs some time away.”
Banks sighed. “I know that. I shouldn’t have called. She’s right. Tell her I’m sorry. And tell her I…”
“Yes?”
“Never mind. Look, does Brian know about all this? I’m sorry, I haven’t been very organized. Other than you, I haven’t called anyone else.”
“It’s all right, Dad. You don’t have to apologize to me. I suppose it’s hard to know what to do when something like this happens. I mean, it’s not exactly something you can take a course on, is it?”
God, she sounded suddenly so mature, Banks thought. Much more mature than he felt right now. “Does he?”
“Yes. We talked to him over the weekend.”
“How’s he taking it?”
“Cool. You know Brian. He’s okay.”
“When am I going to see you?”
“I’m staying the rest of the week down here. But I’ll come up for the weekend if you want.”
“You will?” The icy hand relaxed its grip and Banks’s heart warmed a little.
“Of course. You know I love you, Dad. I love you both. I told you yesterday, I’m not taking sides. Please don’t think because I came down here that I think any less of you.”
“I don’t. Anyway, the weekend would be great.”
Tracy hesitated. “You won’t be at work all the time, will you?”
“I… er… no, I don’t think so,” Banks answered. No point telling her about his suspension, he thought. The last thing he needed right now was his daughter feeling even more sorry for him from a distance. “I’ll pick you up at the train station. What time does your train get in?”
“It gets back to Leeds mid-afternoon. But I’ll need to drop by the residence first. There might be messages. I shouldn’t really have taken off like that. I’ve only just started there.”
“I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“I hope so.”
“So why don’t I come down to Leeds and pick you up at the student residence? Does that sound like a good idea?”
“That’d be great.”
“What time?”
“About six be okay?”
“Fine. And we’ll stop at the King’s Head in Masham for something to eat on the way back.”
“Great. And, Dad.”
“What?”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will. See you on Friday. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Banks hung on to the receiver for a while after the line went dead, then he swallowed, took a deep breath and dialed Brian’s number in Portsmouth.
After six rings, a sleepy voice drawled. “Uh. Yeah. Who is it?”
“Did I wake you?”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yeah, as a matter of fact, you did. But it’s all right. I should be getting up anyway. Next lecture’s at ten. What’s up?”
“I gather you’ve heard about your mother and me?”
“Yeah. It’s too bad. Are you okay?”
“I’m doing fine.”
“And mum?”
“I just talked to her. She’s a bit confused right now, but she’ll be okay.”
“Great. What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know. She says she needs some time away.”
“She’ll come back, Dad, you’ll see.”
“I hope so.”
“Just wait and see. She’s just having a mid-life crisis, that’s all. She’ll get over it.”
Kids. Banks couldn’t help but smile. “Right. And how are you?”
“Fine.”
“How’s your classes?”
“All right. Hey, Dad, the band’s got a couple of gigs coming up next weekend. Paying gigs.” Brian played in a local blues band. Banks thought he was a pretty good guitar player.
“That’s great. Just don’t let it get in the way of your studies.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry. Gotta go now, or I’ll be late for the lecture.”
“When are you coming up?”
“I’ll try to get up to see you before Christmas. Okay?”
“Fine. If money’s a problem, I’ll pay for your ticket.”
“Thanks, Dad, that’d be a great help. Gotta go.”
“Good-bye.”
“Bye, Dad. And hang in there.”
Hang in there. Like a kid from some American television program. Banks smiled as he hung up. Well, that was enough family business for the moment, he thought. He knew he should phone his own parents and tell them what had happened, but he couldn’t face them yet. They’d be really upset. All these years they had loved Sandra like the daughter they had never had. If anyone was likely to blame him for what had happened, it would be his own parents, not Sandra’s, he thought ironically. No, best wait. Maybe Sandra would come up with Tracy at the weekend, then he wouldn’t have to tell them anything.
He poured some more coffee and put on the Beatles CD that he’d bought in Leeds yesterday. It was the second of the three anthologies, and he’d been thinking of buying it ever since it came out. He went straight to the second disc: outtakes from “Strawberry Fields Forever.” His favorite. Singing along, he tidied up a little, but soon started to feel restless and caged. Somehow, it didn’t feel right to be home during the daytime, watching neighbors walk back and forth with shopping and the unemployed bank clerk across the street wash his car for the second time in a week.
It was time for action. He picked up the telephone, dialed the station and asked to be put through to DC Susan Gay’s extension.
She answered on the second ring.
“Susan?” Banks said. “It’s me.”
“Sir? Are you… Is everything all right?”
He was sure she meant it, but her voice sounded tight and cool. “I’m fine. Is Jim there?”
“No, he’s out on the East Side Estate. Another break-in.”
“The super?”
“Away at Bramshill.”
“Good. Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound like it did. Look, I know I shouldn’t ask you this, but do you think you could do me a favor?”
“Sir?”
“I need to look over the stuff on the Jason Fox case again. All of it – from the crime-scene photographs to Mark Wood’s statements. Can you help?”
“Can I ask why you’re still interested, sir?”
“Because I’m not satisfied. Will you help me?”
There was a long pause, then Susan said, “Why don’t you come to the station?”
“Is that a good idea?”
“It’s pretty quiet here right now. The super’s going to be away for a couple of weeks.”
“Well, if you’re certain. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
Banks heard a sound like a harsh cough or bark at the other end. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Frog in my throat. That’s all. It’s okay, sir. Really it is.”
“Are you sure? If Jimmy Riddle turns up-”
“If Jimmy Riddle turns up, I’m buggered. I know that. But there’s far too much stuff to photocopy. And that would look suspiciou
s, especially the way you have to account for every penny you spend around here these days. I’ll take the risk if you will, sir.”
“All right.”
“But I’d still like to know why you’re not satisfied.”
“I’ll tell you about it when I know more myself. At the moment it’s mostly just a feeling. That and a few bits of information about Mark Wood I picked up in Amsterdam.”
“Why don’t you just come to the station as soon as you can, then. I’ll be waiting.” And she hung up hurriedly.
Banks grabbed his coat and left the house. It was another sunny day, with a little high cloud and a slight chilly edge. The leaves had turned a little more than last week, and some were beginning to fall already.
He needed the exercise, so he decided to walk. He plugged in his earphones and turned the Walkman on: Billie Holiday singing “Strange Fruit.”
He walked along Market Street past the roundabout, the zebra crossing, garage and school, the local shopping center with its Safeway supermarket and collection of smaller shops and banks. There was a lot of traffic on Market Street today and the acrid smell of petrol and diesel fumes mingled with dry, dusty air.
He paused across from the Jubilee, whose large stone-and-red-brick frontage curved around the junction of Market Street and Sebastopol Terrace. That was where Jason Fox had spent his last evening on earth before being dispatched to whatever circle of hell was reserved for racists. Why on earth did it matter who had killed him, or why? Banks wondered as he walked on. Wasn’t it good enough that he was dead? Was it only Banks’s insatiable bloody curiosity that made it so important, or was there some absolute standard of justice and truth to be served?
Banks had no answer. All he knew was that if he didn’t get to spin it out until he thought it was all over, then it would stay with him like a sore that won’t heal. And he knew that, in some way, it was the murder of Frank Hepplethwaite he was out to avenge, not Jason Fox’s.
One or two pairs of curious eyes followed him up the stairs at the station, but nobody said anything. Susan was in her office waiting for him with a thick pile of papers in front of her.
“I feel like a schoolboy sneaking a look at naughty pictures,” Banks said. “Can I take them to my office?”
“Of course,” said Susan. “You don’t have to ask my permission.” She stood up.
“Look, I appreciate this.”
“No problem.”
“Susan, is-”
“Sorry, sir. I’ve got to go.”
She dashed out and left him standing in her office. Well, he thought, it didn’t take long to become a pariah around here, did it? But he could hardly blame Susan for wanting to put a bit of distance between them. Not after all that had happened. And she had put herself out to help him.
Checking to see that the coast was clear, he tiptoed across the corridor to his own office with the papers and shut the door behind him. Nothing had changed. Even the desk was still at the same odd angle after Riddle had fallen back on it. Embarrassed at the memory of what he’d done, Banks straightened it, sat down with the pile of papers, packet of cigarettes and ashtray beside him, window a couple of inches open, and settled in to read.
II
What the hell am I doing here? Susan wondered, as Banks stood aside and held the door of the Duck and Drake open for her. Why did I agree to this? I must be insane.
The Duck and Drake was a small hideaway in Skinner’s Yard, one of the many alleys off King Street. Wedged between an antiquarian bookshop and the Victoria wineshop, it had a narrow frontage and not much more room inside. One advantage was that it was one of the few pubs that still had a snug, a tiny room handy for private conversations. The doorway was so low that even Banks had to stoop. Inside, the snug was all dark wood beams and whitewashed stone walls hung with brass ornaments. An old black-leaded fireplace took up almost one entire wall. Above it ran a long wooden mantelpiece with a few tattered leather-bound books.
They had the snug to themselves. Banks bought the drinks and sat against the wall, opposite her, a small table between them.
Sipping her St. Clement’s, Susan could hear the occasional kerchunk of the fruit machine and chink of the cash register coming from the other rooms. If they wanted the barman’s attention, they had to ring a little bell on the bar. It was an altogether too intimate and cozy setup for Susan, but there was nothing she could do about it. Banks had been right in that the Queen’s Arms was far too public a place for them to meet. And he was clearly oblivious to her discomfort, drinking his Sam Smith’s Old Brewery Bitter and chewing on a cheese-and-onion sandwich. Susan had no appetite at all. Between mouthfuls, he told her about what he had discovered in Amsterdam.
Susan listened, frowning and biting her lower lip in concentration. When Banks had finished, she said, “It makes sense, sir, but how does it change things? We already know Mark Wood killed Jason. He admitted it.”
Banks finished his sandwich, sipped some Sam Smith’s and reached for his cigarettes.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve just read through his statements. The kid’s a pathological liar. He’s confessed to manslaughter, but if I’m right, it was murder. Premeditated murder.”
“I don’t see how you can prove that.”
“There’s the rub. According to the postmortem report, Jason Fox was hit on the back of the head with the beer bottle, right?”
Susan nodded. “That’s where Dr. Glendenning found the most damage to the skull, and the glass fragments.”
“But in his statement, Mark Wood said he hit Jason on the side of the head.”
“I noticed that,” said Susan, “but, quite honestly, sir, I didn’t think much of it. He was confused, under pressure. Basically, he was saying he just lashed out.”
“Yes, I understand that. The point is, that doesn’t happen in a fight.”
“Sir?”
“Stand up.”
Banks edged out from the bench. The room itself was just about high enough for him to stand up in. There was no one else around. Susan got to her feet and stood facing him, almost close enough to feel the warmth of his body.
She concentrated on the demonstration, focusing on little details. He didn’t look well, she noticed. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his face was pale. There was also a deep sadness in him that she had never noticed before.
“Pretend to hit me on the back of the head with an imaginary beer bottle,” he said.
“I can’t, sir,” Susan said. “Not from this angle. Jason must have had his back to Wood, walking either in front of or beside him. Or he must at least have been partly turned sideways.”
“Like this?” Banks turned sideways.
“Yes, sir.”
Banks went back to his seat and lit a cigarette. “Been in many fights?” he asked.
“No, sir. But that-”
“Let me finish. I have. At school. And, believe me, you would never get your opponent to stand in that position. Not willingly. Not unless you’d hit him with your fist first and knocked him sideways.”
“Maybe that’s what happened?”
Banks shook his head again. “Listen to what you’re saying, Susan. To do that, he’d have to have been holding the beer bottle in the same hand he punched Fox with and then swung back very quickly and hit him before he moved. Even if he had the beer bottle in the other hand and switched after he’d hit him, it still doesn’t make sense. And remember, Jason was no slouch when it came to physical strength. You’d need every advantage to get the better of him. Let me ask you a question.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was Mark Wood bruised in any way? Did he have a black eye or a cauliflower ear?”
“No.”
“You’d expect something like that, wouldn’t you, if he’d been in an actual fight? Especially with as tough a customer as Jason Fox. Are you telling me Jason didn’t even get one punch in?”
“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps he hit Wood in the body, where it wouldn’t show, and not in the f
ace? I mean, we didn’t do a strip search or anything.”
Banks shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s just not on. I had another good look at the crime-scene photographs as well, and I reread Dr. Glendenning’s postmortem report. It just couldn’t have happened the way Mark Wood said it did.”
“Well,” Susan said slowly, “Superintendent Gristhorpe wasn’t entirely convinced, either. But Mark said Jason Fox was goading him about his wife and kid. They needn’t have faced off to start fighting. Mark probably just lashed out when he’d had enough. I suppose you saw it for yourself in the statement, but when we pushed Wood on exactly how and when it happened, he said it was all a blur, he couldn’t remember.”
“How very convenient. He also denied emptying Jason Fox’s pockets. Two loose ends.”
“That’s the thing that bothered me most, sir. But we just assumed that either he lied because it would look bad for him, too deliberate, stopping to empty Jason’s pockets instead of running off in a panic. Or maybe someone else came along later and robbed Fox while he was lying there.”
“I’d go for the first explanation, myself. It just didn’t fit with the scenario he was painting for you. But why take his keys as well, unless they might have led to easier identification? I think whoever did this wanted to keep the victim’s identity from us until they had a chance to clear out the Rawdon house of any dodgy files or notes he might have kept there, and they weren’t taking any chances.”
“We just thought that if some opportunist came along and did it, he simply took everything. You know, just sort of scooped it all up quickly without pausing to separate the keys from the loose change.” Susan shrugged. “Chief Constable Riddle didn’t seem to be worried by any of this. And by then we had him breathing right down our necks.”
“It’s still two loose ends too many for me.”
“Then I don’t know where that leaves us, sir. What about motive?”
Banks told her about Mark’s connection with Mot-combe’s drug deal, and Jason’s disapproval.
“So you think Motcombe’s behind it?” she said.
“I do. But proving it is another matter. Officially the case is closed. You got an easy conviction. That pleased Jimmy Riddle. That and the opportunity to suspend me. I made a mistake there. I didn’t expect you’d solve the case so quickly that he’d be buzzing round the station all weekend. To be honest, I didn’t expect he’d find out where I’d gone.”
Blood At The Root Page 28