Final Account

by Peter Robinson

  “Thank you. He must have made a fair bit of money somehow,” Susan said. “How did he do it?”

  Pratt, who if truth be told, Susan thought, suppressing a giggle, might not be entirely happy about his name, either, made a steeple of his hairy hands. “The same way we all do, I assume,” he said. “Hard work. Good investments. Excellent service. Arkbeck Farm was in pretty poor shape when they bought it, you know. It didn’t cost a fortune, and he’d no trouble arranging a fair mortgage. He put a lot into that house over the years.”

  Susan looked at her notes and frowned as if she were having trouble reading or understanding them. “I understand Mr Rothwell actually owned a number of businesses. Do you know anything about this?”

  Pratt shook his head. “Not really. I understand he was interested in property development. As I said, Keith was an astute businessman.”

  “Did Mrs Rothwell work?”

  “Mary? Good heavens, no! Well, not in the sense that she went out and made money. Mary was a housewife all the way. Well, perhaps ‘house manager’ or ‘lady of leisure’ would be a more appropriate term, as she didn’t actually do the work herself. Except for the garden. You must have seen Arkbeck, how clean it is, how well appointed?”

  “I’m afraid I had other things on my mind when I was there, sir,” Susan said, “but I know what you mean.”

  Pratt nodded. “For Mary,” he went on, “everything centred around the home, the family and the immediate community. Everything had to be just so, to look just right, and it had to be seen to look that way. I imagine she was a hard taskmaster, or should that be taskmistress? Of course, she didn’t spend all her time in the house. There were the Women’s Institute, the Church committees, the good works and the charities. Mary kept very busy, I can assure you.”

  “Good works? Charities?” There was something positively Victorian about this. Susan pictured an earnest woman striding from hovel to hovel in a flurry of garments, long dress trailing in the mud, distributing alms to the peasants and preaching self-improvement.

  “Yes. She collected for a number of good causes. You know, the RSPCA, NSPCC, cancer, heart foundation and the like. Nothing political—I mean, no ban the bomb or anything—and nothing controversial, like AIDS research. Just the basics. She was the boss’s daughter, after all. She had certain Conservative standards to keep up.”

  “The boss’s daughter?”

  “Yes, didn’t you know? Her maiden name was Mary Hatchard. She was old man Hatchard’s daughter. He’s dead now, of course.”

  “So Keith Rothwell married the boss’s daughter,” Susan mused aloud. “I don’t suppose that did his career any harm?”

  “No, it didn’t. But that was more good luck than good management, if you ask me. Keith didn’t just marry the boss’s daughter, he got her pregnant first, with Tom, as it turns out, then he married her.”

  “How did that go over?”

  Pratt paused and picked up a paper-clip. “Not very well at first. Old man Hatchard was mad as hell. He kept the lid on it pretty well, of course, and after he’d had time to consider it, I think he was glad to get her off his hands. He could hardly have her married to a mere junior, though, so Keith came up pretty quickly through the ranks to full partner.”

  Pratt twisted the paper-clip. He seemed to be enjoying this game, Susan thought. He was holding back, toying with her. She had a sense that if she didn’t ask exactly the right questions, she wouldn’t get the answers she needed. The problem was, she didn’t know what the right questions were.

  They sat in his office over Winston’s Tobacconists, looking out on north Market Street, and Susan could hear the muted traffic sounds through the double-glazing. “Look,” Pratt went on, “I realize I’m the one being questioned, but could you tell me how Mary is? And Alison? I do regard myself as something of a friend of the family, and if there’s anything I can do …”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure they know. Can you think of any reason anyone might have for killing Mr Rothwell?”

  “No, I can’t. Not in the way you described.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I suppose I could imagine a burglar, say, perhaps killing someone who got in the way. You read about it in the papers, especially these days. Or an accident, some kids joy-riding. But this …? It sounds like an assassination to me.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “About a month ago. No, earlier. In March, I think. Shortly after St Patrick’s Day. The wife and I went for dinner. Mary’s a splendid cook.”

  “Did they entertain frequently?”

  “Not that I know of. They had occasional small dinner parties, maximum six people. Keith didn’t like socializing much, but Mary loved to show off the house, especially if she’d acquired a new piece of furniture or something. So they compromised. Last time it was the kitchen we had to admire. They used to have a country-style one, Aga and all, but someone started poking fun at ‘Aga-louts’ in the papers, so Mary got annoyed and went for the modern look.”

  “I see. What about the son, Tom? What do you know of him?”

  “Tom? He’s travelling in America, I understand. Good for him. Nothing like travel when you’re young, before you get too tied down. Tom was always a cheerful and polite kid as far as I was concerned.”

  “No trouble?”

  “Not in any real sense, no. I mean, he wasn’t into drugs or any of that weird stuff. At worst I’d say he was a bit uncertain about what he wanted to do with his life, and his father was perhaps just a little impatient.”

  “In what way?”

  “He wanted Tom to go into business or law. Something solid and respectable like that.”

  “And Tom?”

  “Tom’s the artsy type. But he’s a bright lad. With his personality he could go almost anywhere. He just doesn’t know where yet. After he left school, he drifted a bit. Still is doing, it seems.”

  “Would you say there was friction between them?”

  “You can’t be suggesting—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything.” Susan leaned back in the chair. “Look, Mr Pratt, as far as we know Tom Rothwell is somewhere in the USA. We’re trying to find him, but it could take time. The reason I’m asking you all these questions is because we need to know everything about Keith Rothwell.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. But what with the shock of Keith’s death and you asking about Tom …”

  Susan leaned forward again. “Is there any reason,” she asked, “why you should think I was putting forward Tom as a suspect?”

  “Stop trying to read between the lines. There’s nothing written there. It was just the way you were asking about him, that’s all. Tom and his father had the usual father-son arguments, but nothing more.”

  “Where did Tom get the money for a trip to America?”

  “What? I don’t know. Saved up, I suppose.”

  “You say you last saw Keith Rothwell in March?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you spoken with him at all since then?”

  “No.”

  “Did he seem in any way different from usual then? Worried about anything? Nervous?”

  “No, not that I can remember. It was a perfectly normal evening. Mary cooked duck à l’orange. Tom dropped in briefly, all excited about his trip. Alison stayed in her room.”

  “Did she usually do that?”

  “Alison’s a sweet child, but she’s a real loner, very secretive. Takes after her father. She’s a bit of a bookworm, too.”

  “What did you talk about that evening?”

  “Oh, I can’t remember. The usual stuff. Politics. Europe. The economy. Holiday plans.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Just us, this time.”

  “And Mr Rothwell said nothing that caused you any concern?” “No. He was quiet.”

  “Unusually so?”

  “He was usually quiet.”

  “Secretive?”

  Pratt swiv
elled his chair and gazed out of the window at the upper storey of the Victorian community centre. Susan followed his gaze. She was surprised to see a number of gargoyles there she had never noticed before.

  When he spoke again, Pratt still didn’t look at Susan. She could see him only in profile. “I’ve always felt that about him, yes,” he said. “That’s why I hesitated to call him a close friend. There was always something in reserve.” He turned to face Susan again and placed his hands, palms down, on the desk. “Oh, years ago we’d let loose once in a while, go get blind drunk and not give a damn. Sometimes we’d go fishing together. But over time, Keith sort of reined himself in, cut himself off. I don’t really know how to explain this. It was just a feeling. Keith was a very private person … well, lots of people are … But the thing was, I had no idea what he lived for.”

  “Did he suffer from depression? Did you think—”

  Pratt waved a hand. “No. No, you’re getting me wrong. He wasn’t suicidal. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Can you try and explain?”

  “I’ll try. It’s hard, though. I mean, I’d be hard pushed to say what I live for, too. There’s the wife and kids, of course, my pride and joy. And we like to go hang-gliding over Semerwater on suitable weekends. I collect antiques, I love cricket and we like to explore new places on our holidays. See what I mean? None of that’s what I actually live for, but it’s all part of it.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, then put them back on again. “I know, I’m getting too philosophical. But I told you it was hard to explain.”

  Susan smiled. “I’m still listening.”

  “Well, all those are just things, aren’t they? Possessions or activities. Things we do, things we care about. But there’s something behind them all that ties them all together into my life, who I am, what I am. With Keith, you never knew. He was a cipher. For example, I’m sure he loved his family, but he never really showed it or spoke much about it. I don’t know what really mattered to him. He never talked about hobbies or anything like that. I don’t know what he did in his spare time. It’s more than being private or secretive, it’s as if there was a dimension missing, a man with a hole in the middle.” He scratched his temple. “This is ridiculous. Please forgive me. Keith was a perfectly nice bloke. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. But you never really knew what gripped him about life, what his dream was. I mean, mine’s a villa in Portugal, but a dream doesn’t have to be a thing, does it? I don’t know … maybe he valued abstractions too much.”

  He paused, as if he had run out of breath and ideas. Susan didn’t really know what to jot down, but she finally settled for “dimension missing … interests and concerns elusive.” It would do. She had a good memory for conversations and could recount verbatim most of what Pratt had said, if Banks wished to hear it.

  “Let’s get back to Mr Rothwell’s work with your firm. Is there anything you can tell me about his … style … shall we say, his business practices?”

  “You want to know if Keith was a crook, don’t you?”

  She did, of course, though that wasn’t why she was asking. Still, she thought, never look a gift horse in the mouth. She gave him a “you caught me at it” smile. “Well, was he?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh, come on, Mr Pratt. Surely in your business you must sail a little close to the wind at times?”

  “I resent that remark, especially coming from a policeman.”

  Susan let that one slip by. “Touché,” she said. Pratt seemed pleased enough with himself. Let him feel he’s winning, she thought, then he’ll tell you anyway, just to show he holds the power to do so. She was still sure he was holding something back. “But seriously, Mr Pratt,” she went on, “I’m not just playing games, bandying insults. If there was anything at all unusual in Mr Rothwell’s business dealings, I hardly need tell you it could have a bearing on his murder.”

  “Hmm.” Pratt swirled the rest of the brandy and tossed it back. He put the snifter in his “Out” tray, no doubt for the secretary to take and wash. “I stand by what I said,” he went on. “Keith Rothwell never did anything truly illegal that I knew of. Certainly nothing that could be relevant to his death.”

  “But … ?”

  He sighed. “Well, maybe I wasn’t entirely truthful earlier. I suppose I’d better tell you about it, hadn’t I? You’re bound to find out somehow.”

  Susan turned her page. “I’m listening,” she said.

  THREE

  I

  The Black Sheep was the closest Swainsdale had to a well-kept secret. Most tourists were put off by the pub’s external shabbiness. Those who prided themselves on not judging a book by its cover would, more often than not, pop their heads around the door, see the even shabbier interior and leave.

  The renowned surliness of the landlord, Larry Grafton, kept them away in droves, too. There was a rumour that Larry had once refused to serve an American tourist with a Glenmorangie and ginger, objecting to the utter lack of taste that led her to ask for such a concoction. Banks believed it.

  Larry was Dales born and bred, not one of the new landlords up from London. So many were recent immigrants these days, like Ian Falkland in the Rose and Crown. That was a tourist pub if ever there was one, Banks thought, probably selling more lager and lime, pork scratchings and microwaved curries than anything else.

  The Black Sheep didn’t advertise its pub grub, but anyone who knew about it could get as thick and fresh a ham and piccalilli sandwich as ever they’d want from Elsie, Larry’s wife. And on some days, if her arthritis hadn’t been bothering her too much and she felt like cooking, she could do you a fry-up so good you could feel your arteries hardening as you ate.

  As usual, the public bar was empty apart from one table of old men playing dominoes and a couple of young farm-hands reading the sports news in the Daily Mirror.

  As Banks had expected, Pat Clifford also stood propping up the bar. Pat was a hard, stout man with a round head, stubble for hair and a rough, red face burned by the sun and whipped by the wind and rain for fifty years.

  “Hello, stranger,” said Pat, as Banks stood next to him. “Long time, no see.”

  Banks apologized for his absence and brought up the subject of Keith Rothwell.

  “So tha only comes when tha wants summat, is that it?” Pat said. But he said it with a smile, and over the years Banks had learned that Yorkshire folk often take the sting out of their criticisms that way. They put a sting in their compliments, too, on those rare occasions they get around to giving any.

  In this case, Banks guessed that Pat wasn’t mortally offended at his protracted absence; he only wanted to make a point of it, let Banks know his feelings, and then get on with things. Banks acknowledged his culpability with a mild protest about the pressures of work, as expected, then listened to a minute or so of Pat’s complaining about how the elderly and isolated were neglected by all and sundry.

  When Pat’s glass was empty, an event which occurred with alarming immediacy at the end of the diatribe, Banks’s offer to buy him another was grudgingly accepted. Pat took a couple of sips, put the glass down on the bar and wiped his lips with the back of his grimy hand.

  “He came in once or twice, did Mr Rothwell. Local, like. Nobody objected.”

  “How often?”

  “Once a week, mebbe. Sometimes twice. Larry—?” And he asked the landlord the same question. Larry, who hardly had a charabanc full of thirsty customers to serve, came over and stood with them. He still treated Banks with a certain amount of disdain—after all, Banks was a southerner and a copper—but he showed respect, too.

  Banks had never tried too hard to fit in, to pretend he was one of the crowd like some of the other incomers. He knew there was nothing that annoyed a Dalesman so much as pretentiousness, airs and graces, and that there was nothing more contemptible or condescending than a southerner appropriating Dales speech and ways, playing the expert on a place he had on
ly just come to. Banks kept his distance, kept his counsel, and in return he was accorded that particular Yorkshire brand of grudging acceptance.

  “Just at lunch-times, like,” Larry said. “Never saw him of an evening. He’d come in for one of Elsie’s sandwiches and always drink half a pint. Just one half, mind you.”

  “Did he talk much?”

  Larry drifted off to dry some glasses and Pat picked up the threads. “Nay. He weren’t much of chatterbox, weren’t Mr Rothwell. Bit of a dry stick, if you ask me.”

  “What do you mean? Was he stuck-up?”

  “No-o. Just had nowt to talk abaht, that’s all.” He tapped the side of his nose. “If you listen as much as I do,” he said, “you soon find out what interests people. There’s not much when it comes down to it, tha knows.” He started counting on the stubby fingers that stuck out of his cut-off gloves. “Telly, that’s number one. Sport—number two. And sex. That’s number three. After that there’s nobbut money and weather left.”

  Banks smiled. “What about politics?” he asked.

  Pat pulled a face. “Only when them daft buggers in t’Common Market ’ave been up to summat with their Common Agricultural Policy.” Then he grinned, showing stained, crooked teeth. “Aye, I suppose that’s often enough these days,” he admitted, counting it off. “Politics. Number four.”

  “And what did Mr Rothwell talk about when he was here?” Banks asked.

  “Nowt. That’s what I’m telling thee, lad. Oh, I s’pose seeing as he was an accountant, he was interested in money, but he kept that to himself. He’d be standing there, all right, just where you are, munching on his sandwich, supping his half-pint, and nodding in all the right places, but he never had owt to say. It seemed to me as if he were really somewhere else. And he didn’t know ‘Neighbours’ from ‘Coronation Street,’ if you ask me—or Leeds United from Northampton.”

  “There’s not a lot of difference as far as their performances go over the last few weeks, if you ask me, Pat.”