Final Account

by Peter Robinson

  She was wearing a yellow sun-dress with thin straps that left most of her nicely tanned and freckled shoulders and throat bare. About forty, Banks guessed, she looked as if she watched what she ate and exercised regularly, tennis probably. Her straight blonde hair, parted in the middle, hung just above her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones. It was a cheerful face, one to which a smile was no stranger, and the youthful, uneven fringe suited her. But Banks also noticed marks of stress and strain in the wrinkles under her blue-grey eyes and around her slightly puckered mouth. A pair of no-nonsense glasses with tortoiseshell frames dangled on a cord around her neck.

  “Your phone call piqued my curiosity,” she said, leaning back in her chair and linking her hands behind her head. Banks noticed the shadow of stubble under her arms. “What has Danny-boy been up to now?”

  “I’m sorry?” said Banks. “I don’t follow.”

  “Didn’t Betty tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Oh, God, that woman. Gormless. About Danny and me. We’re separated. Have been for about two years now. It was all perfectly amicable, of course.”

  Of course, Banks thought. How often had he heard that? If it was all so bloody amicable, he wondered, then why aren’t you still together? “I didn’t know,” he said.

  “Then I’m sorry you’re probably on a wild goose chase.” She changed her position, resting her hands on the desk and playing with a rubber band. There were no rings on her fingers. “Anyway, I’m still intrigued,” she said. “I am still fond of Danny. I would be concerned if I thought anything had happened to him. It hasn’t, has it?”

  “Do you still see one another?”

  “From time to time.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Hmm …” She pursed her lips and thought. “A couple of months ago. We had lunch together at Whitelocks.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “Fine.” She stretched the rubber band tight. “Look, you’ve got me worried. All this interest in Danny all of a sudden. First those clients of his. Now you.”

  Banks pricked up his ears. “What clients?”

  “On Saturday. Saturday afternoon. Just a couple of businessmen wondering if I knew where he was.”

  “Did they know you were separated?”

  “Yes. They said it was a long shot and they were sorry to bother me but they’d had an appointment scheduled with him that morning and he hadn’t shown up. He’d mentioned me and the shop at some time or other, of course. He often does, by way of sending me business. What a sweetheart. Anyway, they asked if I had any idea where he was, if he’d suddenly decided to go away for the weekend. As if I’d know. It all seemed innocent enough. Is something wrong?”

  “What did they look like?”

  She described the same two men who had visited Betty Moorhead. It wouldn’t have been difficult for them to find out about Melissa’s shop—perhaps even Betty had told them—and if they were looking for Clegg, it was reasonable to assume that his ex-wife might know where he was. She must have convinced them quickly that she neither knew nor cared.

  The rubber band snapped. “Look,” she said, “I’ve a right to know if something’s happened to Danny, haven’t I?”

  “We don’t know if anything has happened to him,” Banks said. “He’s just gone missing.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “So that’s all.”

  Banks frowned. “His secretary seems worried enough. She says it’s unusual.”

  “Oh, Betty’s a nice enough girl, but she is a bit of an alarmist. Danny always did have an eye for the ladies. That’s one reason we’re no longer together. I should imagine if he’s gone missing, then something came up, so to speak.” She grinned, showing slightly overlapping front teeth.

  “Wouldn’t he at least let his secretary know where he was?”

  “I’ll admit that is a bit unusual. While Danny was never exactly tied to his desk, he didn’t like to be too far from the action. You know the type, always on his car phone to the office. Who knows? Maybe he’s having a mid-life crisis. Maybe he and his bit of crumpet have gone somewhere where there are no telephones. He’s such a romantic, is Danny.”

  The phone rang and Mrs Clegg excused herself for a moment. Banks caught her half of the conversation about an order of méthode champenoise. A couple of minutes later she put the phone down. “Sorry. Where were we?”

  “Mrs Clegg, we think your husband might have been mixed up in some shady dealings and that might have had something to do with his disappearance.”

  She laughed. “Shady dealings? That hardly surprises me.”

  “Do you know anything about his business activities?”

  “No. But dishonest in love …” She let the thought trail, then shrugged. “Danny never was one of the most ethical, or faithful, of people. Careful, usually, yes, but hardly ethical.”

  “Would you say he was the type to get mixed up in something illegal?”

  She thought for a moment, frowning, then answered. “Yes. Yes, I think so. If he thought the returns were high enough.”

  “Is he a greedy man?”

  “No-o. Not in so many words, no. I wouldn’t call him greedy. He just likes to get what he wants. Women. Money. Whatever. It’s more a matter of power, manipulation. He just likes to win.”

  “What about the risk?”

  She tipped her head to one side. “There’s always some risk, isn’t there, Chief Inspector? If something’s worth having. Danny’s not a coward, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Did you know Keith Rothwell?”

  “Yes. Not well, but I had met him. Poor man. I read about him in the paper. Terrible. You’re not suggesting there’s any link between his murder and Danny’s disappearance, are you?”

  She’s quicker on the ball than Betty Moorhead, Banks thought. “We don’t know. I don’t suppose you’d be in a position to enlighten us about their business dealings?”

  “Sorry. No. I haven’t seen Keith since Danny and I split up. Even then I’d just bump into him at the office now and then, or when he helped with my taxes.”

  “So you’ve no idea what kinds of dealings they were involved in?”

  “No. As I said, Keith Rothwell did my accounts a couple of times—you know, the wine business—when Dan and I were together, before things became awkward and our personal life got in the way. He was a damn good accountant. He saved me a lot of money from the Inland Revenue—all above board. Now, it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out that if the two of them were in business together it probably involved tax havens of one kind or another, and that they both probably did quite well from it.”

  “Have you ever heard of a man called Robert Calvert?”

  “Calvert? No. I can’t say I have. Should I have? Look, I’m really sorry I can’t help you, Chief Inspector. And I certainly didn’t mean to sound callous at all. But knowing Danny, I’m sure he’s popped off to Paris for the weekend with some floozie or other and just got too over-excited to remember to let anyone know. He’ll turn up.”

  Banks stood up. “I hope you’re right, Mrs Clegg. And if he gets in touch, please let us know.” He gave her his card. She stood up as he left the office. He turned in the doorway and smiled. “One more thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you recommend a decent claret for dinner, not too pricey?”

  “Of course. If you’re not absolutely stuck on Bordeaux, try a bottle of the Chateau de la Liquière. It’s from Faugères, in Languedoc. Very popular region these days. Lots of character.” She smiled. “And you can even afford it on a policeman’s salary.”

  After Banks thanked her, he made his way back down the corridor, dodging the wine cases, and bought the bottle she had suggested. Not an entirely wasted visit, he thought. At least he’d got a decent bottle of wine out of it. And then there was the Classical Record Shop just around the corner. He couldn’t pass so closely without going in. Besides, he needed balm for h
is wounds. He was still feeling annoyed with himself after the way he had messed things up with Pamela Jeffreys. The new CD of the Khachaturian Piano Concerto, if they had it, might just help make him feel better.

  As he walked outside with his bottle of wine, he felt a large hand clap down on his shoulder.

  “Well, if it isn’t my old mate, Banksy,” a voice said in his ear.

  Banks spun round and saw the source of the voice: Detective Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess, from Scotland Yard. What the hell was he doing here?

  “I hope you haven’t been accepting bribes,” Burgess said, pointing to the wine. Then he put his arm around Banks’s shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “We need to go somewhere and have a little chat.”

  II

  Laurence Pratt was waiting in his office, again with his shirtsleeves rolled up, black-framed glasses about halfway down his nose, fingers forming a steeple on the neat desk in front of him. His white shirt was more dazzling than any Susan had seen in a detergent advert. Susan felt stifled. The temperature outside was in the twenties, and the window was closed.

  Pratt seemed less easy in his manner this time, Susan observed, and she guessed it was because he had given too much away on her last visit. This was going to be a tough one, she thought, taking her notebook and pen out of her handbag. They had discovered a lot more about Keith Rothwell since Friday, and this time, she didn’t want to give too much away.

  Susan opened her notebook, resisting the impulse to fan her face with it, and unclipped her pen. “The last time I talked to you, Mr Pratt,” she began, “you told me you saw the Rothwells for the last time in March.”

  “That’s right. Carla and I were out to Arkbeck for dinner. Duck à l’orange, if I remember correctly.”

  “And the new kitchen.”

  “Ah, yes. We all admired the new kitchen.”

  “Can you be a bit more precise about the date?”

  Pratt frowned and pulled at his lower lip. “Not exactly. It was just after St Patrick’s Day, I think. Hang on a sec.” He fished in his briefcase by the side of the desk and pulled out a Filofax. “Be lost without it,” he grinned. “Even in the computer age. I mean, you don’t want to turn the computer on every time you need an address, do you?” As he talked, he flipped through the pages. “Ah, there it is.” He held up the open page for Susan to see. “19th March. Dinner with Keith and Mary.”

  “And you said Tom dropped in to talk about his trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  “What? Oh, I see. From his room, I suppose. At least I think he’d been up there. He just came in to say hello while we were having cocktails. Is he back from America, by the way?”

  No harm in telling a family friend that, Susan thought. “He’s on his way,” she said. “What was the atmosphere like between Tom and his father that night?”

  “They didn’t talk, as I remember.”

  “Did you notice any antagonism or tension between them?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, no. I told you before that their relationship was strained because Tom drifted off the course his father had set for him.”

  “Was anything said about that on the night you were there?”

  “No, I’m certain of it. They didn’t talk to one another at all. Tom was excited about going to America. I think he’d been upstairs poring over a map, planning his route.”

  “And Keith Rothwell said nothing during your little chat?”

  “No. He just sat there rather po-faced. Now you mention it, that was a bit odd. I mean, you’d hardly call old Keith a live wire these days, but he’d usually take a bit more interest than he did that night. Especially as his son was off on a big adventure.”

  “So his behaviour was strange?”

  “A little unusual, on reflection, yes.”

  “What about Tom? Did he say anything to or about his father?”

  Pratt shook his head slowly. Susan noticed a few beads of sweat around his temples where his hairline was receding. She could feel her own sweat tickling her ribs as it slid down her side. So much for the expensive extra-dry, long-lasting anti-perspirant she had put on after her morning shower. This didn’t happen to the high-powered women executives and airline pilots in the television adverts. On the other hand, they didn’t have to deal with the return of Sergeant Hatchley. It had taken her a good five minutes to stop shaking after he had left the office.

  She asked Pratt to open the window. He complied, but it didn’t do much good. The air outside was still and hot. Even the gargoyles on the upper walls of the community centre looked grumpy and sweaty.

  “Did Mr Rothwell ever express any interest in pornography?”

  Pratt raised his eyebrows. “Good lord. How do you mean? As a business venture or for personal consumption?”

  “Either.”

  “Not in my presence. As I said, I don’t know about the extent of his business interests, but he always struck me as rather … say … sexless. When we were younger, of course, we’d chase the lasses, but since his marriage …”

  “Have you ever met a solicitor called Daniel Clegg?”

  “No. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Are you sure he practises in Eastvale?”

  “You’ve never met him?”

  “I told you, I’ve never even heard of him. Why do you ask? Is there some—”

  “Did Mr Rothwell ever mention him?”

  “Is there some connection?”

  “Did Mr Rothwell ever mention him?”

  Pratt stared at Susan for about fifteen long seconds, then said, “No, not that I recall.”

  Susan ran the back of her hand across her moist brow. She was beginning to feel a little dizzy. “What about Robert Calvert?”

  “Never heard of him, either. Is this another business colleague of Keith’s? I told you we never talked about his business. He played his cards close to his chest.”

  “Did he ever mention a woman called Pamela Jeffreys?”

  Pratt raised an eyebrow. “A woman? Keith? Another woman? Good lord, no. I told you he didn’t strike me as the type. Not these days, anyway. Besides, Mary would have killed him. Oh, my God …”

  “It’s all right, Mr Pratt,” Susan said. “Slip of the tongue. Jealous type, is she?”

  He pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “Mary? Well, I’d guess so, yes.”

  “But you don’t know for certain?”

  “No. It’s just the impression she gives. How everything centred around Keith, the house, the family. If anything came along to jeopardize that, threaten it, then she’d be a formidable enemy. Possessive, selfish, I’d say, definitely. Is that the same thing?”

  Susan closed her notebook and stood up. “Thank you, Mr Pratt. Thank you very much. Again, you’ve been most helpful.” Then she hurried out of the hot, stuffy office before she fainted.

  III

  They walked down to Stumps, under the museum, and made their way to the bar, where Burgess ordered a pint of McEwan’s lager and Banks a pint of bitter. It wasn’t Theakston’s, but it would have to do.

  As it was a warm day, they took their drinks outside and found a free table. There was a broad, tiled area between the museum-library complex and the buses roaring by on The Headrow, and pedestrians hurried back and forth, some heading for the Court Centre or the Town Hall and some taking short-cuts to Calverley Street and the Civic Hall. A group of people stood playing chess with oversize figures on a board drawn on the tiles. Scaffolding covered the front of one of the nineteenth-century buildings across The Headrow, Banks noticed. Another renovation.

  Banks felt both puzzled and apprehensive at Burgess’s arrival on the scene. The last time they had locked horns was over the killing of a policeman at an anti-government demonstration in Eastvale back in the Thatcher era.

  Burgess had fitted in just fine back then. An East Ender, son of a barrow boy, he had fought his way up from the bottom with a fierce mixture of ego, ambition, cunning and a tota
l disregard for the rules most people played by. He also felt no sympathy for those who had been unable to do likewise. Now, at about Banks’s age, he was a Detective Superintendent working for a Scotland Yard department that was not quite Special Branch and not quite MI5, but close enough to both to give Banks the willies.

  In a period when a fully functioning human heart was regarded as a severe disability, he had been one of the new, golden breed of working-class Conservatives, up there in the firmament of the new Britain alongside the bright young things in the City, the insider traders and their like. Cops and criminals: it didn’t seem to make a lot of difference, as long as you were successful. But then, it never did to some people.

  Nobody could gainsay Burgess’s abilities—intelligence and physical courage being foremost among them—but “The end justifies the means” could have been written just for him. The “end” was some vague sort of loyalty to whatever the people in power wanted done for the preservation of order, as long as the people in power weren’t liberals or socialists, of course; and as for the “means,” the sky was the limit.

  Maybe he had changed, Banks wondered. After all the recent inquiries and commissions, a policeman could surely no longer walk into a pub, pick up the first group of Irish people he saw and throw them in jail as terrorists, could he? Or walk down Brixton Road and arrest the first black person he saw running? According to the public-relations people, today’s policeman was a cross between Santa Claus and a hotel manager.

  On the other hand, perhaps that was only according to the PR people: truth in advertising, caveat emptor and the rest. Besides, if there was one thing not likely to make the slightest impression on Burgess’s obsidian consciousness, it was political correctness.

  Banks lit a cigarette and held out his lighter as Burgess fired up one of his Tom Thumb cigars. He was still in good shape, though filling out a bit around the belly. He had a square jaw and slightly crooked teeth. His black, slicked-back hair was turning silver at the temples and sideboards, and the bags under his seen-it-all grey eyes looked as if they had taken on a bit more weight since Banks had last seen him. About six feet tall, casually dressed in a black leather jacket, open-neck shirt and grey cords, he was still handsome enough to turn the heads of a few thirtyish women, and had a reputation as something of a rake. It wasn’t entirely unfounded, Banks had discovered the last time they worked together.