Final Account

by Peter Robinson

  And no, she told them, she had never met Robert Calvert. The man was a model tenant; he paid his rent on time, and that was all that mattered. One of the secretaries probably handed him the key, but he’d had the place about eighteen months and turnover in secretaries was pretty high. However, if Banks wanted to come back on Monday morning … Still, Banks reflected as they stood at the front door, all in all it had taken only about an hour and a half from the first time they had heard of the place, so that wasn’t bad going.

  “Better not touch anything,” Banks said as they stood in the hallway. “Which is the living-room?” he asked Pamela.

  “That one, on the left.”

  The door was ajar and Banks nudged it open with his elbow. The bottom of the door rubbed over the fitted beige carpet. Susan Gay and Pamela walked in behind him.

  “There’s only this room, a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom,” Pamela said. “It’s not very big, but it’s cosy.”

  The living-room was certainly not the kind of place Banks could imagine Mary Rothwell caring much for. Equipped with all the usual stuff—TV, video, stereo, a few jazz compact discs, books, armchairs, gas fireplace—it smelled of stale smoke and had that comfortable, lived-in feel Banks had never sensed at Arkbeck Farm. Perhaps it was something to do with the old magazines—mostly jazz and racing— strewn over the scratched coffee-table, the overflowing ashtray, the worn upholstery on the armchair by the fire or the framed photographs of a younger-looking Rothwell on the mantelpiece. On the wall hung a framed print of Monet’s “Waterloo Bridge, Grey Day.”

  They went into the bedroom and found the same mess. The bed was unmade, and discarded socks, underpants and shirts lay on the floor beside it.

  There was also a small desk against one wall, on which stood a jar of pens and pencils, a roll of Sellotape and a stapler, in addition to several sheets of paper, some of them scrawled all over with numbers. “Is this the kind of thing you’re looking for?” Pamela asked.

  Carefully, Banks opened the drawer and found a wallet. Without disturbing anything, he could see, through the transparent plastic holder inside, credit cards in the name of Robert Calvert. He put it back.

  A couple of suits hung in the wardrobe, along with shirts, ties, casual jackets and trousers. Banks felt in the pockets and found nothing but pennies, sales slips, a couple of felt-tip pens, matches, betting slips and some fluff.

  As wood doesn’t usually yield fingerprints, he didn’t have to be too careful opening cupboards and drawers. Calvert’s dresser contained the usual jumble of jeans, jumpers, socks and underwear. A packet of condoms lay forlornly next to a passport and a selection of Dutch, French, Greek and Swiss small change in the drawer of the bedside table. The passport was in the name of Robert Calvert. There were no entry or exit stamps, but then there wouldn’t be if he did most of his travelling in Europe, as the coins seemed to indicate. On the bedside table was a shaded reading lamp and a copy of The Economist.

  The kitchen was certainly compact, and by the sparsity of the fridge’s contents, it looked as if Calvert did most of his eating out. A small wine-rack stood on the counter. Banks checked the contents: a white Burgundy, Veuve Clicquot Champagne, a Rioja.

  Calvert’s bathroom was clean and tidy. His medicine cabinet revealed only the barest of essentials: paracetamol tablets, Aspro, Milk of Magnesia, Alka Seltzer, Fisherman’s Friend, Elastoplast, cotton swabs, hydrogen peroxide, Old Spice deodorant and shaving cream, a packet of orange disposable razors, toothbrush and a half-used tube of Colgate. Calvert had squeezed it in the middle, Banks noticed, not from bottom to top. Could this be the same man who returned his used matches to the box?

  “Come on,” Banks said. “We’d better use a call-box. I don’t want to risk smudging any prints there may be on the telephone.”

  “What’s going on?” Pamela asked as they walked down the street.

  “I’m sorry,” Susan said to her. “We really don’t know. We’re not just putting you off. We’re as confused as you are. If we can find some of Robert’s fingerprints in the flat, then we can check them against our files and find out once and for all if it’s the same man.”

  “But it just can’t be,” Pamela said. “I’m sure of it.”

  A pub on the main road advertised a beer garden at the back, and as they were all thirsty, Banks suggested he might as well make the call from there.

  He phoned the station and Phil Richmond said he would arrange to get Vic Manson to the flat as soon as possible.

  That done, he ordered the drinks and discovered from the barman that Arsenal had won the FA Cup. Good for them, Banks thought. When he had lived in London, he had been an Arsenal supporter, though he always had a soft spot for Peterborough United, his home-town team, struggling as they were near the bottom of the First Division.

  The beer garden was quiet. They sat at a heavy wooden bench beside a bowling green and sipped their drinks. Two old men in white were playing on the green, and occasionally the clack of the bowls disturbed the silence. Banks and Susan shared salted roast peanuts and cheese-and-onion crisps, as neither had eaten since breakfast. The sun felt warm on the back of Banks’s neck.

  “You can go home whenever you want,” Banks told Pamela as she took off the tan suede jacket she had put on to go out. “We have to stay here, but we’ll pay for a taxi. I’m sorry we had to ruin your day for you.”

  Pamela squinted in the sun, reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of large pink-rimmed sunglasses. “It’s all right,” she said, picking up her gin and tonic. “I know it wasn’t Robert they were talking about in the paper. Who was this man, this Keith Rothwell?”

  “He was an accountant who got murdered,” Banks told her. “We can’t really say much more than that. Did you ever hear the name before?”

  Pamela shook her head. “The papers said he was married.”

  “Yes.”

  “Robert didn’t act like a married man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Guilt. Secrecy. Fleeting visits. Furtive phone calls. The usual stuff. There was none of that with Robert. We went about quite openly. He wasn’t tied down. He was a dreamer. Besides, you just know.” She took her glasses off and squinted at Banks. “I’ll bet you’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Banks, and saw, he hoped, a hint of disappointment in her eyes.

  “Told you.” She put her sunglasses on again.

  Banks noticed Susan grinning behind her glass of lemonade. He gave her a dirty look. A clack of bowls came from the green and one of the old men did a little dance of victory.

  “So, you see,” Pamela went on. “It can’t be the same man. If I’m sure of one thing, it’s that Robert Calvert definitely wasn’t a married man with a family.”

  Banks picked up his pint and raised it in a toast. “I hope you’re right,” he said, looking at her brave smile and remembering the scene in Rothwell’s garage only two nights ago. “I sincerely hope you’re right.”

  FIVE

  I

  There was always something sad about an empty farmyard, Banks thought as he got out of the car in front of Arkbeck Farm again. There should be chickens squawking all over the place, the occasional wandering cow, maybe a barking sheepdog or two.

  He thought of the nest egg he had held at his Uncle Len’s farm in Gloucestershire on childhood family visits. They used it to encourage hens to lay, he remembered, and when his Aunt Chloe had handed it to him in the coop, it had still felt warm. Banks also remembered the smells of hay and cow dung, the shiny metal milk churns sitting by the roadside waiting to be picked up.

  As he rang the doorbell, he doubted that the Rothwells felt the same way about empty farmyards. The place seemed to suit Alison’s introspective nature; her father had no doubt appreciated the seclusion and the protection from prying eyes and questions it offered; and Mary Rothwell … well, Banks could hardly imagine her mucking out the byre or feeding the pigs. He couldn’t imagine her handing a child a warm porcelain egg,
either.

  “Do come in,” Mary Rothwell said, opening the door. Banks followed her to the split-level living-room. Today she wore a white shirt that buttoned on the “man’s” side and a loose grey skirt that reached her ankles. Alison lay sprawled on the sofa reading.

  On the way to Arkbeck Farm, he had considered what to say to them regarding his talk with Pamela Jeffreys in Leeds, but he hadn’t come up with any clear plan. Vic Manson hadn’t got back to him yet about the prints, so he still couldn’t be absolutely certain that Robert Calvert and Keith Rothwell were the same person. Best play it by ear, he decided.

  “How are you doing?” he asked Mary Rothwell.

  “Could be worse,” she replied. He noticed her eyes were baggy under the make-up. “I haven’t been sleeping well, despite the pills, and I’m a mass of nerves, but if I keep myself busy, time passes. I have the funeral to organize. Please, sit down.”

  Banks had come partly to explain that a van was on its way to pick up Keith Rothwell’s computer disks and business files and spirit them off to the Fraud Squad’s headquarters in Northallerton, where a team of suits would pore over them for months, maybe years, costing the taxpayers millions. He didn’t put it like that, of course. Just as he had finished explaining, he heard the van pull up out front.

  He went to the front door and directed the men to Rothwell’s office, then returned to the living-room, shutting the door firmly behind him. It was dark in the room, and a little chilly, despite the fine weather outside. “They shouldn’t bother us,” he said. “Perhaps a little music?”

  Mary Rothwell nodded and turned on the radio. Engelbert Humperdinck came on, singing “Release Me.” Banks often regretted that humans hadn’t been born with the capacity to close their ears as they did their eyes. He did his best, anyway, and reflected that it was all in a good cause, blanking out the sounds of Keith Rothwell’s office being dismantled and carried away.

  “Have you found Tom?” Mary Rothwell said, sitting down. She sat at the edge of the armchair, Banks noticed, and twisted her hands in her lap, a mass of gold and precious stones. She seemed so stiff he wished someone would give her a massage. Her skin, he felt, would be brittle as lacquered hair to the touch.

  Banks explained that they had tracked down the car rental agency he had used and that it wouldn’t be long before someone spotted the car.

  “He should be home,” she said. “We need him. There’s the funeral … all the arrangements …”

  “We’re doing our best, Mrs Rothwell.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

  “It’s all right. Are you up to answering a few more questions?”

  “I suppose so. As long as you don’t want to talk about what I went through the other night. I couldn’t bear that.” Her eyes moved in the direction of the garage and Banks could see the fear and horror flood into them.

  “No, not that.” She would have to talk about it sometime, Banks almost told her, but not now, not yet. “It’s Mr Rothwell I want to talk about. We need a better idea of how he spent his time.”

  “Well, it’s hard to say, really,” she began. “When he was here, he was up in his office most of the time. I could hear him clicking away on the computer.”

  “Did you ever hear him on the phone?”

  “He had his own line up there. I didn’t listen in, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. But sometimes you just can’t help overhearing something, anything.”

  “No. He always kept the door shut. I could hear his voice, like I could hear the keyboard, but it was muffled, even if I was passing by the office.”

  “So you never knew who he was talking to or what he was saying?”

  “No.”

  “Did he have many calls in the days leading up to his death?”

  “Not so much as I noticed. No more than usual. I could always hear it ring, you see, even from downstairs.” She stood up. “Would you like a cup of tea? I can—”

  “Not at the moment, thank you,” Banks said. He didn’t want her crossing the path of the removal team. For one thing, it would upset and distract her, and for another she would start telling them off about trailing dirt in and out.

  She walked over to the fireplace, straightened a porcelain figurine, then came and sat down in the same position. Alison went on reading her book. It was Villette, by Charlotte Brontë, Banks noticed. Surely a bit heavy for a fifteen-year-old?

  “I understand your husband would drop in at the Black Sheep or the Rose and Crown now and then?” Banks asked.

  “Yes. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he liked to get out of the house for an hour or so. You do when you work at home, don’t you? You get to feel all cooped up. He’d usually walk there and back. It was good exercise. Businessmen often don’t exercise enough, do they, living such sedentary lives, but Keith believed in keeping in good shape. He swam regularly, too, in Eastvale, and he would sometimes go for long runs.” She started picking pieces of imaginary lint from her skirt. Banks heard a thud from the staircase, and this time he couldn’t stop her from dashing to the door and yanking it open.

  “Watch what you’re doing, you clumsy little man!” she said. “Just look at this. You’ve gouged a hole in my wall. The plaster’s fallen off. You’ll have to pay for that, you know. I’ll be talking to your superior.” She popped her head back around the door and said, “I’ll make that tea now, shall I?” then disappeared into the kitchen.

  Banks, still sitting, noticed Alison look up and raise her eyes. “She’s been like this since yesterday,” she said. “Can’t sit still. It’s even worse than usual.”

  “She’s upset,” Banks said. “It’s her way of dealing with it.”

  “Or not dealing with it. I saw him too, you know. Do you think I can forget so easily?”

  “You’ve got to talk to each other,” Banks said. He noticed the book was shaking in her hands and she was making an effort to keep it still.

  “If Tom doesn’t come home soon, I’m going to run away,” she said. “I can’t stand it any longer. She’s always going on about something or other and running about like a headless chi—” She put her hand to her mouth. “My God, what a thing to say. I’m awful, aren’t I? Oh, I hope Tom comes back soon. He must or I’ll go mad. We’ll both go mad.”

  A bit melodramatic, Banks thought, but perhaps to be expected from a young girl on a steady diet of Charlotte Brontë.

  Mary Rothwell came in bearing a tea tray and wearing a brave smile. Alison picked up her book again and lapsed into moody silence while her mother poured the tea into delicate china cups with hand-painted roses on the sides and gold around the rims. Banks always felt clumsy and nervous drinking from such fine china; he was afraid he would drop the cup or break off the flimsy handle while lifting it to his mouth.

  “Why are they taking all Keith’s files anyway?” Mary Rothwell asked.

  “We’re beginning to think that your husband might have been involved in some shady financial dealings,” Banks explained. “And they could have something to do with his murder.”

  “Shady?” She said it as Lady Bracknell said, “A handbag?”

  “He might not have known what he was involved in,” Banks lied. “It’s just a line of enquiry we have to follow.”

  “I can assure you that my husband was as honest as the day is long.”

  “Mrs Rothwell, can you tell me anything about what your husband did when he was travelling on business?”

  “How would I know? I wasn’t there.”

  “Which hotels did he stay in? You must have phoned him.”

  “No. He phoned me occasionally. He told me it was better that way for his tax expenses.” She shrugged. “Well, he was the businessman. I’ve already told you he travelled all over the place.”

  “You never went with him?”

  “No, of course not. I have an aversion to lengthy car rides. Besides, they were business trips. One doesn’t take one’s spouse on busin
ess trips.”

  “So you’ve no idea what he got up to in Leeds or wherever?”

  She put down her cup. “Are you implying something, Chief Inspector? Keith didn’t ‘get up to’ anything.”

  Banks was dying for a cigarette. He finished the weak tea and put his cup and saucer down gently on the coffee-table. “Do you know if your husband was much of a gambler?” he asked.

  “Gambler?” She laughed. “Good heavens, no. Keith never even bet on the Grand National, and most people do that, don’t they? No, money for my husband was too hard earned to be frittered away like that. Keith had a poor childhood, you know, and one learns the value of money quite early on.”

  “What sort of childhood?”

  “His father was a small shopkeeper, and they suffered terribly when the supermarkets started to become popular. He eventually went bankrupt. Keith didn’t like to talk about it.”

  Banks remembered the cigarettes he had found among the contents of Rothwell’s pockets. “Did you know that your husband smoked?” he asked.

  “One minor weakness,” Mary Rothwell said, turning up her nose. “It’s a smelly and unpleasant habit, as well as a possibly fatal one. I certainly wouldn’t let him do it in the house, and I was always trying to persuade him to stop.”

  I’ll bet you were, Banks thought. “Have you ever heard of a woman called Pamela Jeffreys?” he asked.

  Mary Rothwell frowned. For the first time, she sat back in the chair and gripped its arms with both hands. “No. Why?” Banks saw suspicion and apprehension in her eyes.

  Outside, the van door closed and the engine revved up. Banks noticed Mrs Rothwell glance towards the window. “They’re finished,” he said. “What about Robert Calvert? Does the name mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head. “No, nothing. Look, what’s this all about? Are these the people you think killed Keith? Are these the ones who got him involved in this criminal scheme you were talking about?”