Final Account

by Peter Robinson

  As he glanced out of the window, he glimpsed two men in suits across the street looking up at him. They were partially obscured by trees, but he could see that one was black, the other white.

  He hurried down to the street. When he got there, nobody was about except a young man washing his car three houses down.

  Banks approached him and showed his identification. The man wiped the sweat off his brow and looked up at Banks, shielding his eyes from the glare. Sunlight winked on the bubbles in his bucket of soapy water.

  “Did you see a couple of blokes in business suits pass by a few minutes ago?” Banks asked.

  “Yeah,” said the man. “Yeah, I did. I thought it was a bit odd the way they stopped and looked up at that house. To be honest, though, the way they were dressed I thought they were probably coppers.”

  Banks thanked him and went back to the car. So he wasn’t getting paranoid. How did the saying go? Just because you think they’re out there following you, it doesn’t mean they aren’t.

  EIGHT

  I

  Tom Rothwell resembled his father more than his mother, Banks thought, sitting opposite him in the split-level living-room at Arkbeck Farm the following morning. Though his hair was darker and longer, he had the same thin oval face and slightly curved nose and the same grey eyes as Banks had seen in the photograph. His sulky mouth, though, owed more to early Elvis Presley, and was no doubt more a result of artifice than nature.

  His light brown hair fell charmingly over one eye and hung in natural waves over his ears and the collar of his blue denim shirt. Both knees of his jeans were torn, and the unlaced white trainers on his feet were scuffed and dirty.

  The best of the lot, Cathy Grafton had said, and it wasn’t hard to guess why a rather plain girl like her would value a smile and a kind word from a handsome lad like Tom.

  But right from the start Banks sensed something else about him, an aura of affected arrogance, as if he were condescending from a great intellectual and moral height to answer such stupid questions as those relating to his father’s murder.

  It was rebellious youth, in part, and Banks certainly understood that. Also, Tom seemed to exhibit that mix of vanity and over-confidence that Banks had often encountered in the wealthy. In addition there was a hell of a lot of the wariness and subterfuge that he usually associated with someone hiding a guilty secret. Tom’s body language said it all: long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, arms folded high on his chest, eyes anywhere but on the questioner. Susan Gay sat in the background to take notes. Banks wondered what she thought about Tom.

  “Did you have any problems getting a flight?” Banks asked.

  “No. But I had to change at some dreary place in Carolina, and then again in New York.”

  “I know you must be tired. I remember from my trip to Toronto, the jet lag’s much worse flying home.”

  “I’m all right. I slept a little on the plane.”

  “I can never seem to manage that.”

  Tom said nothing. Banks wished that Alison and Mary Rothwell weren’t flanking Tom on the sofa. And again the room felt dark and cold around him. Though it had windows, they were set or angled in such a way that they didn’t let in much natural light. And they were all closed.

  “I imagine you’re upset about your father, too,” he said.

  “Naturally.”

  “We wanted to talk to you so soon,” Banks said, “because we hoped you might be able to tell us something about your father, something that might help lead us to his killers.”

  “How would I know anything? I’ve been out of the country since the end of March.”

  “It’s possible,” Banks said, weighing his words carefully, “that the roots of the crime lie farther back than that.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You lot have far too much imagination for your own good.”

  “Oh? What do you think happened?”

  Tom curled his lip and looked at the carpet. “It was clearly a robbery gone wrong. Or a kidnap attempt. Dad was quite well off, you know.”

  Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. “Kidnapping, eh? We’d never thought of that. Can you explain?”

  “Well, that’s your job, isn’t it? But it’s hardly difficult to see how it could have been a kidnap attempt gone wrong. My father obviously wouldn’t co-operate, so they had to kill him.”

  “Why not just knock him out and take him away?”

  Tom shrugged. “Perhaps the gun went off by accident.”

  “Then why not take the body and pretend he was still alive till they got the money?”

  “How would I know? You’re supposed to be the professionals. I only said that’s what it might have been. I also suggested a bungled robbery.”

  “Look, Tom, this is a pointless game we’re playing. Believe me, we’ve covered all the possibilities, and it wasn’t a kidnap attempt or a bungled burglary. I realize how difficult it is for the family to accept that a member may have been involved in something illegal, but all the evidence points that way.”

  “Absurd,” spat Mary Rothwell. “Keith was an honest businessman, a good person. And if you persist in spreading these vicious rumours, we’ll have to contact our solicitor.”

  “Mrs Rothwell,” Banks said, “I’m trying to talk to your son. I’d appreciate it if you would keep quiet.” More than once he had thought about breaking the news that her husband led another existence as Robert Calvert, but he held back. In the first place, it would be cruel, and in the second, Gristhorpe said the Chief Constable wanted it kept from the press and family, if possible, at least until they developed a few more leads on the case.

  Mary Rothwell glared at him, lips pressed so tight they were white around the edges.

  Banks turned back to Tom. “Were you close to your father?”

  “Close enough. He wasn’t …” Tom turned up his nose. “He wasn’t a clinging, emotional sort of person.”

  “But you were on good terms?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then you might know something that could help us.”

  “I still don’t see how, but if I can be of any use … Ask away.”

  “Did he ever mention a man called Martin Churchill?”

  “Churchill? No.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “That chap in the Caribbean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you serious?” Tom looked puzzled. “You are, aren’t you. The answer’s no, of course he didn’t. Why would he?”

  “Did you ever see your father with two well-dressed men, both about six feet tall, one black, one white?”

  Tom frowned. “No. Look, I’m sorry but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about business?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever meet any of his business associates?”

  “Only if they came over to dinner. And even then, I wasn’t generally invited.” Tom looked at his mother. “I had to find something else to do for the evening. Which usually wasn’t much trouble.” He glanced over at Susan, and Banks sensed a softening in his expression as he did so. He seemed interested in her presence, curious about her.

  The radio had been playing a request programme quietly in the background, and Banks suddenly picked out the haunting chorus of Delibes’s “Viens, Mallika … Dôme épais,” popularized as the “Flower Duet” by a television advert. Even trivialization couldn’t mar its beauty and clarity. After pausing for a moment, he went on.

  “When did you leave for your holiday?”

  “March,” he said. “The thirty-first. But I don’t see—”

  “What about your job?”

  “What job?”

  “The one in the video shop in Eastvale.”

  “Oh, that. I packed it in.”

  “What kind of videos did they deal in?”

  “All sorts. Why?”

  “Under-the-counter stuff?”

  “Oh, come off it, Chief In
spector. Suddenly my father’s a crook and I’m a porn merchant? You should be writing for television.” Alison looked up from her book and giggled. Tom smiled at her, obviously pleased with his insolence. “It was called Monster Videos, that place in the arcade by the bus station. Ask them if you don’t believe me.”

  “Why did you leave?” Banks pressed on.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but it was hardly a fast track to a career.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I’m going to film school in the States.”

  “I see.”

  “I want to be a movie director.”

  “Was that what your father wanted?”

  “I don’t see that what he wanted has anything to do with it.”

  It was there, the rancour, Banks thought. Time to push a little harder. “It’s just that I understood you had a falling out over your career choice. I gather he wanted you to become an accountant or a lawyer but he thought you preferred to be an idle, shiftless sod.”

  “How dare you?” Mary Rothwell jumped to her feet.

  “It’s all right, Mother,” Tom sneered. “Sit down. It’s all part of their game. They only say things like that to needle you into saying something you’ll regret. Just ignore it.” He looked at Susan again, as if expecting her to defend Banks, but she said nothing. He seemed disappointed.

  Mary Rothwell sat down again slowly. Alison, at the other side of Tom, glanced up from Villette again for a couple of seconds, raised the corners of her lips in what passed for a smile, then went back to her book.

  “Well?” said Banks.

  “Well what?”

  “What is it that I might needle you into regretting you said?”

  “Clever. It was just a figure of speech.”

  “All right. Did you and your father have such an argument?”

  “You must know as well as I do,” Tom said, “that fathers and sons have their disagreements. Sure, Dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but I had my own ideas. He’s not big on the arts, isn’t Dad, except when it’s good for business to get tickets for the opera or the theatre or something to impress his clients.”

  “Where did you travel in America?”

  “All over. New York. Chicago. Los Angeles. San Francisco. Miami. Tampa.”

  “How did you get around?”

  “Plane and car rental. Where is this—”

  “Did you visit the Caribbean? St Corona?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “How did you finance the trip?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You were over there a month and a half, and you’d still be there now if it weren’t for your father’s death. All that travelling costs money. You can’t have earned that much working in a video shop, especially one that only deals in legal stuff. How could you afford a lengthy trip to America?”

  Tom shifted uncomfortably. “My parents helped me out.”

  Banks noticed a confused look flit across Mary Rothwell’s face.

  “Did you?” Banks asked her.

  “Why, yes, of course.”

  He could tell from the hesitation that she knew nothing about it. “Do you mean your father helped you?” he asked Tom.

  “He was the one with all the money, wasn’t he?”

  “So your father financed your trip. How?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did he finance it? Cash? Cheque?”

  “He got me the ticket, some travellers’ cheques and a supplementary card on his American Express Gold account. You can check the records, if you haven’t done already.”

  Banks whistled between his teeth. “American Express Gold, eh? Not bad.” Judging by the look on Mary Rothwell’s face, it was news to her. Alison didn’t seem to care. She turned a page without looking up. “Why would he do that?” Banks asked.

  “I’m his son. It’s the kind of thing parents do, isn’t it? Why not?”

  Banks had never spent so much on Brian and Tracy, but then he had never been able to afford it. “Was he usually so generous?” he asked.

  “He was never mean.”

  Banks paused. When the silence had made Tom restless, he went on. “Just before you went away, you had an argument with your father in which he expressed great disappointment in you. Now, I know why that is. You’ve just told me you didn’t want to follow the career he set out for you. But you also expressed disappointment in him. Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t remember any argument.”

  “Come on, Tom. You can do better than that.”

  Tom looked at Susan again, and Banks noticed a plea for help in his eyes. He looked left and right for support, too, but found none. His mother seemed lost in thought and Alison was still deep in her Charlotte Brontë.

  “I’m telling you,” Tom said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Why were you disappointed in your father, Tom?”

  Tom reddened. “I wasn’t. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Did you find out something incriminating about his business dealings?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “You’d better tell me, Tom. It could help us a lot. What was he up to?”

  Tom seemed to relax. “Nothing. I don’t know. You’re way off beam.”

  “Does the name Aston or Afton mean anything to you?”

  Banks was sure he saw a flicker of recognition behind Tom’s eyes. Recognition and fear. “No,” Tom said. “Never heard of him.”

  Banks decided they would get nothing more out of this situation, not with the whole family closing ranks. It would be best to leave it for now. No doubt, when Banks and Susan left, the Rothwells would fall into an argument, for Mary Rothwell wasn’t looking at all pleased with the return of her prodigal son. Tom could stew over whatever it was that confused him. Plenty of time.

  It was a gorgeous morning in the dale. Banks put a Bill Evans solo piano tape in the cassette player as he drove through Fortford, gold and green in the soft, slanting light. To their left, the lush fields of the Leas were full of buttercups, and here and there the fishermen sat, still as statues, lines arcing down into the River Swain.

  “What do you think?” he asked Susan.

  “He’s lying, sir.”

  “That’s obvious enough. But why? What about?”

  “I don’t know. Everything. I just got a strange feeling.”

  “Me, too. Next time, I think it might be a good idea if you talked to him alone.”

  “Maybe I can catch him after the funeral?”

  “You were thinking of going? Damn!”

  Half a mile before the road widened at the outskirts of Eastvale, a farmer was moving his sheep across from one pasture to another. There was nothing to be done. They simply had to stop until the sheep had gone.

  “Stupid creatures,” Banks said.

  “I think they’re rather cute, in a silly way,” Susan said. “Anyway, I thought I might go. You never know, the murderers might turn up to pay their respects, like they do in books.”

  Banks laughed. “Do you know that actually happened to me once?” he said.

  “What?”

  “It did. Honest. Down in London. There was a feud between two families, the Kinghorns and the Franklins—none of them exactly intellectual giants—been going on for years. Anyway, old man Franklin gets shot in broad daylight, and there’s half a dozen witnesses say they saw Billy Kinghorn, the eldest son, do it. Only trouble is, Billy does a bunk. Until the funeral, that is. Then there he is, young Billy, black tie, armband and all, face as long as a wet Sunday, come to pay his last respects.”

  “What happened?”

  “We nabbed him.”

  Susan laughed. The sheep kept wandering all over the road, despite the ministrations of an inept collie, which looked a bit too long in the tooth for such exacting work.

  “I thought there had to be a reason for going,” Susan said. “Anyway, I quite like funerals. My Auntie Mavis d
ied when I was six and my mum and dad took me to the funeral. It was very impressive, the hymns, the readings. I couldn’t understand a word of it at that age, of course, but it certainly sounded important. Anyway, when we got outside I asked my mum where Auntie Mavis was and she sniffled a bit then said, ‘In Heaven.’ I asked her where that was and she pointed up at the sky. It was a beautiful blue sky, a bit like today, and there was only one cloud in it, a fluffy white one that looked like a teddy bear. From then on I always thought when people died they became clouds in a perfect blue sky. I don’t know … it made me feel happy, somehow. I mean, I know funerals are solemn occasions, but I don’t seem to mind them so much after that.”

  The last sheep finally found the gate and scrambled through. The farmer held up his hand in thanks, as if Banks had had any option but to wait, and closed the gate behind him. Banks set off.

  “Rather you than me,” he said. “I can’t stand them. Anyway, see if you can take young Tom aside, take him for a drink or something. I’ve a feeling he really wants to tell us what he knows. Did you notice the way he kept looking at you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think he fancies you?”

  “No,” Susan said, after a pause for thought. “No. Somehow, I don’t think it was that at all.”

  II

  Banks crunched the last pickled onion of his ploughman’s lunch and swilled it down with a mouthful of Theakston’s bitter, then he lit a cigarette. He would have to resort to a Polo mint if he found himself interviewing anyone in the afternoon. Superintendent Gristhorpe sat opposite him in the Queen’s Arms, cradling a half-pint. It was the first time they had been able to get together since Banks had met Burgess.

  “So,” Gristhorpe said, “according to Burgess, Rothwell was laundering money for Martin Churchill?”

  “Looks that way,” said Banks. “He said he couldn’t be certain but I don’t think he’d come all the way up here if he wasn’t, do you?”

  “Knowing how little Burgess thinks of the north, no. But I still don’t think we should overlook the possibility of Rothwell’s involvement in some other kind of organized crime, most likely drugs, prostitution or porn. Even if he were laundering money for Churchill, he could have been into something else dirty too. We can’t assume it was the Churchill link that got him killed until we know a hell of a lot more.”