“Aye. We’ll give it our best. Hey up, the lads have come to pick up the car.”
Banks watched the police tow-team tie a line to the Escort. “I’d better be off,” he said. “You’ll let me know?”
“Just a minute,” said Blackstone. “What are your plans?”
“I’m checking into the Holiday Inn. For tonight, at least. There’s a couple of people I want to talk to again in connection with Clegg and Rothwell—Clegg’s secretary and his ex-wife, for a start. I’d like to get a clearer idea of their relationship now we’ve got a bit more to go on.”
“Holiday Inn? Well, la-di-da. Isn’t that a bit posh for a humble copper?”
Banks laughed. “I could do with a bit of luxury. Maybe they’ll give me the sack when they see my expenses. These days we can’t even afford to do half the forensic tests we need.”
“Tell me about it. Anyway, if you’re going to be sticking around, I’d appreciate it if we could have a chat. There seems to be a lot going on here I don’t know about.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know about, too.”
“Still … I’d appreciate it if you would fill me in.”
“No problem.”
Blackstone hesitated and shifted from foot to foot. “Look,” he said, “I’d like to invite you over for a bit of home-cooking but Connie left a couple of months ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Banks. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, it happens, right? Comes with the territory. Still taking care of that lovely wife of yours?”
“You wouldn’t think so by the amount of time we’ve spent together lately.”
“I know what you mean. That was one of the problems. She said we were living such separate lives we might as well make it official. Anyway, I’m not much of a cook myself. Besides, Connie got the house and I’m in a rather small bachelor flat for the moment. But there’s a decent Indian restaurant on Eastgate, near the station, if you fancy it? It’s called the Shabab. About half past six, seven o’clock? We might have something on Hamilton and the car by then, too.”
“All right,” said Banks. “You’re on. Make it seven o’clock.”
“And, Alan,” said Blackstone as Banks walked away, “you watch yourself. Hotels give married men strange ideas sometimes. I suppose it’s the anonymity and the distance from home, if you know what I mean. Anyway, there’s some seem to act as if the normal vows of marriage don’t apply in hotels.”
Banks knew what Blackstone meant, and he felt guilty as an image of Pamela Jeffreys flashed unbidden through his mind.
II
Susan Gay heard Sergeant Hatchley burp before she had even opened the office door after more fruitless interviews with Rothwell’s legitimate clients. She felt apprehension churn in her stomach like a badly digested meal. She could not work with Hatchley; she just couldn’t.
Hatchley sat at his desk, smoking. The small, stifling room stank of stale beer and pickled onions. The warped window was open about as far as it would go, but that didn’t help much. If this oppressive weather didn’t end soon, Susan felt she would scream.
And, by God, he’s repulsive, she thought. There was his sheer bulk, for a start—a rugby prop forward gone to fat. Then there was his face: brick-red complexion, white eyelashes and piggy eyes; straw hair, thinning a bit at the top; a smattering of freckles over a broad-bridged nose; fleshy lips; tobacco-stained teeth. To cap it all, he wore a shiny, wrinkled blue suit, and his red neck bulged over his tight shirt collar.
From the corner of her eye, Susan noticed the coloured picture on the cork-board: long blonde hair, exposed skin. Without even stopping to think, she walked over and pulled it down so hard the drawing-pin shot right across the room.
“Oy!” said Hatchley. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
“I’m not playing at anything,” Susan said, waving the picture at him. “With all respect, sir, I don’t care if you are my senior officer, I won’t bloody well have it!”
A hint of a smile came to Hatchley’s eyes. “Calm down, lass,” he said. “You’ve got steam coming out of your ears. Maybe you’re being a bit hasty?”
“No, I’m not. It’s offensive. I don’t see why I should have to work with this kind of thing stuck to the walls. You might think it’s funny, but I don’t. Sir.”
“Susan. Look at it.”
“No. Why—”
“Susan!”
Slowly, Susan turned the picture over and looked at it. There, in all her maternal innocence, Carol Hatchley, with her long blonde hair hanging over her shoulders, held her naked, newborn baby to her breast, which was covered well beyond the point of modesty by a flesh-tone T-shirt. Susan felt herself blush. All she had seen were the woman’s face, hair and a lot of skin colour. “I … I thought …” She could think of nothing else to say.
“I know what you thought,” said Hatchley. “You thought my daughter’s head was a tit. You could apologize.”
Susan felt such a fool she couldn’t even bring herself to do that.
“All right,” Hatchley said, putting his feet up on the desk, “then you can listen to me. Now, nobody’s ever going to convince me that looking at a nice pair of knockers is wrong. Since time immemorial, since our ancestors scratched images on cave walls, men have enjoyed looking at women’s tits. They’re beautiful things, nothing dirty or pornographic about them at all.”
“But they’re private,” Susan blurted out. “Don’t you understand? They’re a woman’s private parts. You don’t see pictures of men’s privates all over the place, do you? You wouldn’t like people staring at yours, would you?”
“Susan, love, if I thought it would make you happy I’d drop my trousers right now. But that’s not the point. What I’m saying is it’s my opinion that there’s nowt wrong in admiring a nice pair of bristols. A lot of people agree with me, too. But you don’t like it.” He held up his large hand. “All right, now I might not be the most sensitive bloke in Christendom, and I certainly reserve my right to disagree with you, but I’m not that much of a monster that I’d use my rank to expose you to something you feel offends you day in, day out, however wrong-headed I think you are. I respect your opinion. I don’t agree with you, and I never will, but I respect it. I can live without.
“And another thing. I know you’re a bugger about smoking. I’ll try and cut down on the cigarettes in the office, too. But don’t expect miracles, and don’t expect it’s going to be all bloody give and no take on my part. You don’t like my smoke. I don’t like your perfume. It makes my nose itch and it’s probably rotting my lungs as we speak. But for better or for worse, lass, we’ve got to work together, and we’ve got to do it in the same damn little cubby-hole for the time being. Mebbe one day we’ll have separate offices. Myself, I can hardly wait. But for now, let’s just keep the window open and make a bit of an effort to get along, all right?”
Susan nodded. She felt all the wind go out of her sails. She swallowed. “All right. Sorry, sir.”
Hatchley swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his hands together. “We’ll say no more, then. Now, about that wadding?”
“Yes, sir?”
Hatchley burped again and put his hamlike hand to his mouth. “Shaved pussies. Smooth and shiny as a baby’s bottom.”
“Yes, sir.” Susan felt herself blush again and hated herself for it. Hatchley smiled at her. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Her spirits sank. She had thought for a moment that he might be getting serious about the case, but here he was simply creating another opportunity to embarrass her.
“Aye. Now, I know that’s not a lot to go on, but at least we know it’s not kiddie porn or the bum brigade. And we’ve got penetration and a clear image of ‘a penis in an excited state,’ as it says in the book, so this is definitely under-the-counter stuff.”
“True, sir.”
“And as far as I can tell,” he went on, “there’s no sign of dogs or cats, either.”
“Sir, can you
get to the point?” Susan couldn’t keep the impatience out of her voice.
“Hold your horses, lass.” He started to laugh. “Get that? No animals. Hold your horses? Never mind. The point is, shaved pussies aren’t exactly ten a penny, though if we’d come up with something really kinky it would have made my job a lot easier. I mean, there aren’t many people sell photos of Rottweilers bonking thirteen-year-old girls that we don’t know about.”
“I still don’t see what you’re getting at, sir,” said Susan, a little calmer. She should have known that, if anyone was, Hatchley would be an expert on pornography. “Surely most of that stuff is sent through the mail from abroad, or from London?”
“Not all of it. There’s a fair chance it was bought under the counter somewhere. When I did my stint on Vice with West Yorkshire a few years back, I made one or two useful contacts. Now, if we’re assuming these lads were at all local, the odds are they’re from the city, as there aren’t that many killers-for-hire living in rural areas. Too exposed. That means Leeds, Bradford, Manchester, maybe Newcastle or Liverpool at a stretch. Now if the boss thinks this Clegg chap from Leeds was involved, then Leeds is as good a choice as any, agreed?”
Susan nodded. “Yes. The daughter, Alison, thought the man had a Leeds accent. She could be wrong about that, of course. Not everyone’s accurate on voices. I don’t reckon I could tell the difference. But it looks like they’ve found the car used for the job there. Anyway, as I’ve already told you, West Yorkshire’s got some men asking around. Have had for days.”
“Well, you know how I hate sitting idle,” Hatchley said. “Guess where I’ve been this lunch-time.”
“The Queen’s Arms, sir?”
Hatchley smiled. “Not far off. We’ll make a detective of you yet, lass. I’ve been having drinks with an old informer of mine in The Oak, that’s what.” He touched the side of his nose. “Lives in Eastvale now, but he used to live in Leeds. Gone straight. See, I thought I probably remembered a few purveyors of this kind of porn—if they’re still around, that is—and it’s odds on that some wet-behind-the-ears young pansy DC fresh from university doesn’t even know they exist. There aren’t as many as you think, you know, at least not selling shaved pussy porn. It is something of a specialist taste. Anyway, there’s still plenty prefer the friendly old corner shop to the impersonal supermarket, if you get my drift. I’m not talking about sex shops—I imagine they’ve all been checked already—just regular newsagents that sell a bit of imported stuff from under the counter along with their Woman’s Weeklys and gardening magazines. Harmless enough. Hardly any reason for our lads to be interested, really. So I asked my old friend.”
“And?”
“Yes. They’re still in business, still selling the same kind of stuff to the same old customers. Some of them, anyway. A couple have retired, some have moved on, and one’s dead. Heart attack. Not business related. The point is, I knew these blokes were a bit bent, but I left them alone. In exchange, they’d pass on the odd tip if anyone came hawking really serious stuff, like kiddie porn or snuff films. Live and let live. Now, what I propose is that you and me go to Leeds and ask a few questions of our own.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange permission from the super and from West Yorkshire CID. Are you game?”
Susan was aware of her jaw dropping. He made sense, all right, and that was the problem. She was about to go on a porn hunt with Sergeant Hatchley, she could feel it in her bones. But it could pay off. If it led to the owner of the wadding, that would be feathers in both their caps. She swallowed.
“It’s a hell of a long shot,” she said.
Hatchley shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. What do you say?”
Susan thought for a moment. “All right,” she said. “But you’ve got to convince Superintendent Gristhorpe.”
“Right, lass,” Hatchley beamed, rubbing his hands together. “You’re on.”
Oh my God, thought Susan, with that sinking feeling. A porn hunt. What have I let myself in for?
III
By the looks of it, the heat had drawn one or two refugees from the Magistrates Court over to the Park Square. Two skinheads, stripped to the waist, dozed on the grass under a tree. One, lying on his back, had tattoos up and down his arms and scars criss-crossing his abdomen, old knife wounds by the look of them; the other, on his stomach, boasted a giant butterfly tattoo between his shoulder-blades.
In Clegg’s offices, Betty Moorhead was still holding the fort and fighting off her cold.
“Oh, Mr Banks,” she said when he entered the anteroom. “It’s nice to see a friendly face. There’s been nothing but police coming and going since you were last here, and nobody will tell me anything.”
Had she forgotten he was a policeman, too? he wondered. Or was it just that he had been the first to arrive and she had somehow latched onto him as a lifeline?
“Some men in suits took most of his papers,” she went on, “and there’s been others asking questions all day. They’ve got someone keeping an eye on the building as well, in case those two men come back. Then there was that man from Scotland Yard. I don’t know what’s what. They all had identification cards, of course, but I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”
Banks smiled. “Don’t worry, Betty,” he said. “I know it sounds complicated, but we’re all working together.”
She nodded and pulled a tissue from the box in front of her and blew her nose; it looked red raw from rubbing. “Is there any news of Mr Clegg?” she asked.
“Nothing yet. We’re still looking.”
“Did you talk to Melissa?”
“Yes.”
“How is she?”
Banks didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t used to giving out information, just digging it up, but Betty Moorhead was obviously concerned. “She didn’t seem unduly worried,” he said. “She’s sure he’ll turn up.”
Betty’s expression brightened. “Well, then,” she said. “There you are.”
“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions?”
“Oh, no. I’d be happy to be of help.”
“Good.” Banks perched at the edge of her desk and looked around the room. “Sitting here,” he said, “you’d see everyone who called on Mr Clegg, wouldn’t you? Everyone who came in and out of his office.”
“Yes.”
“And if people phoned, you’d speak to them first?”
“Well, yes. But I did tell you Mr Clegg has a private line.”
“Did he receive many calls on it?”
“I can’t say, really. I heard it ring once in a while, but I was usually too busy to pay attention. I’m certain he didn’t give the number out to just anyone.”
“So you didn’t unintentionally overhear any of the conversations?”
“I know what you’re getting at,” she said, “and you can stop right there. I’m not that sort of a secretary.”
“What sort?”
“The sort that listens in on her boss’s conversations. Besides,” she added with a smile, “the walls are too thick. These are old houses, solidly built. You can’t hear what’s being said in Mr Clegg’s office with the door shut.”
“Even if two people are having a conversation in there?”
“Even then.”
“Or arguing?”
“Not that it happened often, but you can only hear the raised voices, not what they’re saying.”
“Did you ever hear Mr Clegg arguing with Mr Rothwell?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t think so. I mean if they ever did, it would certainly have been a rarity. Normally they were all cordial and businesslike.”
“Mr Clegg specializes in tax law, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“How many clients does he have?”
“That’s very hard to say. I mean, there are regular clients, and then people you just do a bit of work for now and then.”
“Roughly? Fifty? A hundred?”
&nb
sp; “Closer to a hundred, I’d say.”
“Any new ones?”
“He’s been too busy to take on much new work this year.”
“So there’s been no new clients in, say, the past three months?”
“Not really, no. He’s done a bit of extra work for friends of friends here and there, but nothing major.”
“What I’m getting at,” Banks said, leaning forward, “is whether there’s been anyone new visiting him often or phoning in the past two or three months.”
“Not visiting, no. There’s been a few funny phone calls, though.”
“What do you mean, funny?”
“Well, abrupt. I mean, I know I told you people are sometimes rude and brusque, but usually they at least tell you what they want. Since you were here last, I’ve been thinking, trying to remember, you know, if there was anything odd. My head’s so stuffed up I can hardly think straight, but I remembered the phone calls. I told the other policeman, too. “
“That’s okay. Tell me. What did this brusque caller say?”
“I don’t know if it was the same person each time, and it only happened two or three times. It was about a month ago.”
“Over what time period?”
“What? Oh, just a couple of days.”
“What did he say? I assume it was a he?”
“Yes. He’d just say, ‘Clegg?’ And if I said Mr Clegg was out or busy, he’d hang up.”
“I see what you mean. What kind of voice did he have?”
“I couldn’t say. That’s all I ever heard him say. It just sounded ordinary, but clipped, impatient, in a hurry.”
“And this happened two or three times over a couple of days?”
“Yes.”
“You never heard the voice again?”
“I never had that sort of call again, if that’s what you mean.”
“Nobody visited the office who sounded like the man?”
She sneezed, then blew her nose. “No. But I told you I don’t think I would recognize it.”
Final Account Page 17