Blood At The Root

by Peter Robinson

  “Anyway, according to Mr. Campbell, you accompanied Jason toward the ginnel, where he and Mr. Robertson were waiting at the other end to render any necessary assistance. According to them, you whacked Jason on the back of the head with the bottle a couple of times, and he went down. After that, you managed to kick him to death all by yourself. They didn’t have to do a thing. And that, Mark, with two eyewitnesses to testify against you, makes it murder.”

  Wood turned pale. “That’s not true,” he said. “It didn’t happen like that at all. They’re lying.”

  Banks leaned forward. “What didn’t happen like what, Mark?”

  “It was like I said. There was just me and Jason. We got into a fight. He slagged off Sheri and Connor. I didn’t mean for him to die.”

  Banks shook his head. “I’m afraid that story’s gone right down the toilet now, Mark, along with all your other stories. Let me see if I can get them right.” He began counting them off on his fingers, looking toward Ken Blackstone, who nodded at each one. “First, you weren’t anywhere near Eastvale the night Jason got killed. Second, you were at the Jubilee but you never went anywhere near the ginnel. Third, you were there and you saw George Mahmood and his mates kill Jason. And, fourth, you killed him yourself in a fair fight. How am I doing so far?”

  Wood licked his lips and shifted in his chair.

  “Problem is, Mark,” Banks went on, “you’re a liar. The only version we have any independent corroboration of is the one I just put to you, the one Mr. Campbell told us about. So it looks as if that’s the way it’s going to go down now.” He paused, then went on. “After this interview, DI Blackstone and I will be having a word with Crown Prosecution Service about changing the charges from manslaughter to murder. That carries a much longer jail sentence, as I’m sure you know.”

  “You can’t be serious? You can’t believe those bastards.”

  “Why not? I certainly can’t believe you. Look at your track record, Mark. No, I’m afraid this is the end of the line for you. You get charged with murder now, and you don’t get out of jail for a long, long time. In fact, by the time you get out, your wife will have run off with another bloke long since, and your kid will have grown up and forgotten you. In the meantime, you’ll be fending off the arse-bandits in Wormwood Scrubs or Strangeways. And that’s if you last that long. I suspect both Devon and Neville Motcombe have long reaches.”

  Wood seemed to shrivel, to draw in on himself like a bank of ashes collapsing. Banks could tell he was trapped. He knew lies wouldn’t save him now, but he didn’t know the best course of action. Time to tell him, time to give him a ray of hope. After pulling the carpet from under him, give him a foam mattress to land on.

  “There’s only one way out for you, Mark,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Mark’s voice was no louder than a whisper.

  “The truth. Right from the top.”

  “How will that help?”

  “I’m not saying it’ll get you off scot-free. Nothing will do that. We don’t have the power to make deals with criminals, reduce their sentences in exchange for information. That only happens on American TV shows. But I can guarantee it’ll make things easier for you.”

  Wood chewed on his knuckles for a few seconds, then said, “I need protection. They’ll kill me. My family, too.”

  “We can help you with that, Mark. If you help us.”

  Mark rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I never meant to kill him,” he said. “Honest, I didn’t. It was those two.” He was close to tears.

  “Who?”

  “Frankie and Wes.”

  “What happened, Mark? Right from the beginning.”

  Banks took out his cigarettes and offered Mark one. He took it with a shaking hand. “All right,” he said. “But what guarantee have I got that things will go easier for me if I tell you the truth? What are you offering me?”

  “You’ve got my word,” said Banks.

  “For what?”

  “That you and your family will be protected and that your cooperation will be considered.”

  “I want relocation for me and Sheri,” he said. “And new identities. The Witness Protection Program. That’s what I want.”

  “I’ve already told you, this isn’t America, Mark. We don’t do things that way in England. Look, like I said, I’m not telling you you’re going to walk out of here a free man. You’re not. One way or another, you’ll serve some time. What I’m saying is that if you give us what we want, the charge can remain manslaughter, not murder.”

  “It doesn’t sound like that good a deal to me.”

  “Well, it is,” Ken Blackstone chipped in. “The difference is between, say, twenty-five years in a very nasty place – where you’ll be vulnerable to anyone Devon or Motcombe cares to send along – and maybe five in minimum-security prison. Protected environment. Telly and conjugal visits thrown in.” He glanced at Banks, who nodded. “Your choice, Mark. It’s as simple as that.”

  Wood looked between the two of them and his gaze finally settled on Banks again. “What about Sheri and Connor?”

  “We’ll take care of them, make sure they’re safe,” said Banks. “You have my word. What about it?”

  Wood looked at Blackstone again, who assured him that Banks was right, then he rested back in his chair and said, “All right. Okay. Neville Motcombe approached me several weeks ago and said he knew about my record for drugs offenses. At first I didn’t know what he was getting at, then it became clear that he’d made a contact for getting his hands on some pretty large amounts of heroin through Turkey at a rock-bottom price, and he hadn’t a clue what to do about it. Drugs just weren’t part of his gig, but he saw a way to make a lot of money and fuck up the ‘niggers’ in the bargain, as he put it. He really does talk like that. Makes you sick. Anyway, he found out about my drug bust and decided I was to be the go-between.”

  “What was in it for you?”

  “Something in the region of fifty thousand quid over a period of a few months, if all went well. Maybe more in the future, if the supply didn’t dry up.” He leaned forward and gripped the sides of the chair. “Look, you can judge me all you like, but have you any idea what that would have meant to Sheri and me? It would have got us out of that fucking prefab, for a start, and it would have given me a good chance at expanding the business, buying some up-to-date equipment, making something out of it. And all I had to do was play go-between for Motcombe and Devon.” He laughed. “It was a bit of a joke on Motcombe, too. He didn’t know Sheri’s Jamaican and that his money would actually be going to help one of the people he wanted to destroy.”

  “Didn’t that bother you, Mark? That he was intending to cause so much suffering in the West Indian community?”

  “That was just a load of bollocks he came up with for Jason’s benefit. He was after profits, pure and simple.”

  “Takes one to know one?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, once you get heroin out on the streets, there’s no telling what color your buyers will be, is there? There’s no color bar on H. Even Jason knew that. Like I said, I thought it was funny that Sheri and Connor were going to get some benefit from this.”

  Banks shook his head. “So you agreed?”

  Wood nodded. “Under Motcombe’s instructions, I met with Wes, then with Devon. They never met Neville, didn’t know who he was. I called him Mr. H. Anyway, we talked about prices, delivery schedules, methods of getting the stuff into the country, the lot. Then Devon said he’d think about it. A few days later he got in touch with me through Wes and told me to let Mr. H know we were in business. I suppose Motcombe got in touch with his blokes in Turkey – I didn’t have anything to do with that end of the operation – and they set things in motion. There were huge profits in it for everyone. Devon wouldn’t stop at Leeds – he’d be shifting stuff to Bradford, Sheffield, Manchester, Birmingham, you name it. Somehow or other, that seemed to resolve the problems on both sides. Motcombe’s about dealing with darkie
s and Devon’s about dealing with a whitey like me.” Mark snorted. “Great healer of race relations, greed, isn’t it?”

  “And where does Jason come in?”

  “Motcombe made a big mistake there. I could have told him, but he didn’t ask. He seemed to think Jason would just love the idea. I mean, I don’t think they’d ever talked about drugs or anything other than league business before. But Jason was straight. Even with Motcombe’s justification, he wouldn’t go for it. Motcombe got worried that Jason would spread the word among his colleagues in the movement and they’d chuck him out and put Jason in charge instead. I suppose you know neo-Nazis aren’t really supposed to be into drugs?”

  Banks nodded.

  “Then there was the matter of the money to be made. Anyway, Motcombe got paranoid, especially as Jason had gained a lot of respect in the movement and people looked up to him for guidance and leadership. Jason was fast becoming a loose cannon on the deck. So Motcombe decided things would be better all around with Jason out of the way. He knew I was desperate for the money, and he also knew me and Jason didn’t get along, so he asked me if I could arrange for the Jamaicans to do away with him. That way, he said, if they happened to get caught, it’d only be two less ‘niggers’ to worry about. You have to give the guy credit, at least he’s consistent. I didn’t want to do it. I mean, I’m no killer. I know Jason and me had our problems, but I didn’t want to see him dead. You have to believe that. I had no choice.”

  “What happened?” Banks asked.

  Mark ran his hand over his head. “Like Motcombe asked, I talked to Wes and I told him Jason was involved in the Turkish end of the deal and that he was planning to rip Devon off. I also said he turned out to be a racist bastard, a member of some loony fringe group. Well, I couldn’t tell him the truth, could I? I had to make something up pretty quick, and it had to cover whatever publicity might come about when you found out who Jason was. Wes went back to Devon, who ordered it done. Just like that. No questions asked. And he also stipulated that I had to be in it with them. A sort of test of faith, I suppose. I didn’t want to do it. I just didn’t have any fucking choice.”

  “There’s always a choice, Mark.”

  “Right. Sure. Easy for you to say that. It came down to me over Jason. Sheri and Connor over Jason. What would you have done? Like I said, Jason and me weren’t close, and the bastard did get on my nerves with all that Nazi shit.”

  “Who came up with the plan?”

  “That was down to me. You know the rest. Motcombe wanted it done out of the way. I mean, he knew you’d find out who the victim was eventually, and what organization he belonged to, but he needed time to get his files out of Jason’s house. He sent two of his blokes to do that. Anyway, Scattered Dreams were playing in Eastvale and Jason had mentioned possible trouble with some Pakistani kids who went there. Told me he’d already chucked a brick through one of their windows. It couldn’t have been better.”

  “What about the actual killing? How did it happen?”

  Wood swallowed. “Frankie and Wes were waiting at the other end of the ginnel, as we’d arranged, and when I hit Jason with the bottle they came forward and started booting him. I kicked him a couple of times, to make it look like I was with them all the way. But only a couple of times. And not very hard. He-” Wood stopped for a moment and put his head in his hands. “Christ, he begged us to stop. I just thought about Connor and the damp walls and the yobs that taunt Sheri, call her a black bitch and threaten to gang-bang her every time she goes to the shops. I didn’t think about Jason lying there till it was too late. You have to believe me, I didn’t mean to kill him. It was Wes and Frankie. They’re fucking maniacs. They’d been out in the van smoking crack.”

  “All right, Mark,” said Banks. “Calm down. Tell me, what happened when we first arrested you? Why did you change your story?”

  Mark shifted in his chair. “Well, the evidence. It was getting pretty strong against me. I was up shit creek. So when Varney took me aside, I phoned Motcombe and basically explained the situation.”

  “What did he say?”

  “To tell you it was just a fight between the two of us, to leave him out of it, and he’d see I got the best legal help available. He’d also take care of Sheri and Connor financially while I was inside, if it came to that. What a laugh, Motcombe taking care of a black woman and a mixed-race kid.”

  “But he didn’t know that.”

  “No. And I didn’t tell him.”

  “Have you talked to him from jail?”

  “A couple of times. But even then he seemed very nervous.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Getting my story right when it came to court.”

  “Did you talk to Devon?”

  “No. He’s keeping a low profile. I phoned my brother-in-law, though, Wes.”

  “What did you talk to him about?”

  “I told him who Mr. H was, where he lived. Just in case something went wrong and Motcombe didn’t keep up his end of the bargain. You know, like maybe when he did find out Sheri’s black and all, then he wouldn’t help them. I needed some sort of insurance.”

  “Okay, Mark, I need to know just one more thing before we start taking fresh statements and making this all official.”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you testify that Neville Motcombe instigated this conspiracy to murder Jason Fox?”

  Wood’s lips curled. “Motcombe? Bloody right I will. No way that bastard’s going to get away with it.”

  “And Devon?”

  Mark looked away. “I don’t know. That’s different. I’d need some sort-”

  “We’ll see you and family are protected, Mark, like I told you earlier.”

  “I’ll think about it. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Banks smiled. “I think that just about wraps it up for now. Thanks, Mark, you’ve been a great help.”

  “What happens to me now?”

  “You make your official statement, then you go back to Armley. Eventually, there’ll be committal proceedings and a trial, but we’ll cross those bridges when we get to them. In the meantime, we’ll make sure you’re protected.” Banks looked at his watch. Just after three-thirty. Then he turned to Ken Blackstone. “For the moment, though, I think it’s about time we paid Mr. Motcombe another visit.”

  IV

  Leaving one of Blackstone’s most trusted DCs to take Mark Wood’s official statement, Banks and Blackstone set off in the Cavalier for Motcombe’s house. Most of the journey, they talked about getting enough evidence together for the CPS to take on Motcombe.

  “I’m still not sure about this,” Banks said, driving along through Pudsey. “I can’t help feeling I’m jumping the gun. How bloody long’s Motcombe likely to get for conspiracy to commit murder? That’s assuming we can prove it. Giles Varney will whittle it down to conspiracy to assault, if he’s got any brains. We might be better off leaving him to the Drugs Squad. He’d get longer for dealing heroin. And I promised Craig McKeracher I’d wait till I had something really solid before I moved in.”

  Ken Blackstone shook his head. “At this point, I don’t think we have much choice. We’ve got evidence we have to act on. Mark Wood has actually named Motcombe as one of the blokes who requested Jason Fox’s murder. Now Wood’s blurted it all out, we have to go ahead. I don’t think he’ll get such a light sentence. And this way we also get Wes and Frankie in the bargain, and maybe even Devon, too. That’d be a real plus.”

  “Maybe so,” said Banks. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Besides,” Blackstone added, “I’d say we’re best getting Motcombe off the streets as soon as possible. And none of what we’re doing blows Craig McKeracher’s cover. What we’ve got all came from Mark Wood.”

  Banks turned down the hill to Motcombe’s house and they got out of the car. The sky was clear and the country-side shone green and gold and silver. A chill wind from the valley whistled around their ears as they stood and knocked at the front door.


  No answer.

  “What’s that noise?” Blackstone asked.

  Straining his ears, Banks could detect a faint whining above the sound of the wind. “Sounds like an electric drill or something. He must be down in the workshop. That’s why he can’t hear us.”

  “Let’s try the back.”

  They walked around to the back of the house, which over-looked the valley and parkland. The sound of the drill was louder now.

  Banks hammered on the back door. Still nothing. Just on the off chance, he tried the doorknob. It opened.

  “Mr. Motcombe!” he called out as the two of them walked down the stairs to the workshop. “We’re coming in.” He began to feel a slight shiver of trepidation. It looked dark at the bottom, and they could be walking into a trap. Motcombe could have a Kalishnikov or an Uzi with him. He might be hiding in a dark corner ready to start blasting away at them.

  But still they advanced slowly toward where the sound was coming from. Then Banks noticed something odd. The high-pitched whine the drill was making hadn’t changed the entire time they’d been there. Surely if Motcombe was working on something and really couldn’t hear them, there would be variations in the pitch of the drill – when he stuck it into a piece of wood, for example. And if he was making so much noise when he worked, he would hardly leave the back door unlocked so that anyone could walk in, would he? Banks felt the back of his neck tingle.

  At last, they approached the workroom and pushed the door open slowly on the brightly lit room.

  Motcombe was there all right.

  His body hung at an awkward angle, naked to the waist, his polo-neck tunic hanging in shreds around his hips as if it had been ripped or cut off. His left wrist had been wedged in a vise, which had been tightened until the bones cracked and poked through the flesh. Blood caked the oiled metal. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with iron filings, shaved wood and linseed oil. And cordite. The room felt crowded, claustrophobic, even with only the two of them there. Three, if you counted the dead man.