Flies buzzed around her head, and Susan kept fanning them away. “How was it?” she asked.
Tom shrugged. “I hate those kinds of social gatherings,” he said. “And Laurence Pratt gets on my nerves.”
Susan smiled. At least they had something in common. She let the silence stretch as she looked closely at the youth sitting opposite her. Wavy brown hair fell over his ears about halfway down his neck. He was tanned, slender, handsome and he looked as good now in his mourning suit as he had in torn jeans and a denim shirt. The more she let herself simply feel his presence, the more she was sure she was right about him.
He shifted in his chair. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about the other day. I was rude, I know. But I was tired, upset.”
“I understand,” Susan said. “It’s just that I got the impression there was something you wanted to tell me.”
Tom looked away over the river. His face was scrunched up in a frown, or maybe the sun was in his eyes. “You know, don’t you?” he asked. “You can tell.”
“That you’re homosexual? I have a strong suspicion, yes.”
“Am I that obvious?”
Susan laughed. “Maybe not to everyone. Remember, I’m a detective.”
Tom managed a weak smile. “Funny thing, that, isn’t it?” he said. “You’d think it would be men who’d guess.”
“I don’t know. Women are used to responding to men in certain ways. They can tell when something’s …”
“Wrong?”
“I was going to say missing, but even that’s not right.”
“Different, then?”
“That’ll do. Look, I’m not judging you, Tom. You mustn’t think that. It’s really none of my business, unless your sexual preference connects somehow with your father’s murder.”
“I can’t see how it does.”
“You’re probably right. Tell me about this Aston, or Afton, then. When Chief Inspector Banks mentioned the name, you assumed it was a man. Why?”
“Because I didn’t assume. I know damn well who he is. His name’s Ashton. Bloody Clive Ashton. How could I forget?”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the son of one of my father’s clients—Lionel Ashton. We were at a party together once. I made a mistake.”
“You made advances towards him?”
“Yes.”
“And they weren’t welcome?”
Tom gave a dry laugh. “Obviously not. He told his father.”
“And?”
“And his father told my father. And my father told me I was disgusting, sick, queer, and that I should see about getting myself cured. That’s the exact word he used, cured. He said it would kill Mum if she ever found out.”
“And he suggested you take off to America for a while, at his expense?”
“Yes. But that came a bit later. First we let it lie while we figured out what was best.”
“What did you do in the meantime?”
Tom looked at her, tilted his tin back and finished his Coke. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Susan turned away and watched a family of ducks drift by on the Swain. Tom wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then said, “I followed him.”
She turned back towards him. “You followed your father? Why?”
“Because I thought he was up to something. He was away so often. He was always so remote, like he wasn’t really with us even when he was at home. I thought he was doing damage to the family.”
“He wasn’t always like that?”
Tom shook his head. “No. Believe it or not, Dad used to have a bit of life about him. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to make a bad joke.”
“I know. How long had he been behaving this way?”
“Hard to say. It was gradual, like. But this past couple of years it was getting worse. You could hardly talk to him.” He shrugged.
“Was that the only reason you followed him, because you thought he was up to something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to get something on him. Revenge, I don’t know. Find out what his guilty secret was.”
“And did you?”
Tom took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out loudly with a nervous laugh. “This is harder than I thought. Okay. Here goes. Yes. I saw my father with another woman.” He said it fast, staccato-style. “There, that’s it. I said it.”
Susan paused a moment to take the information in, then asked, “When?”
“Sometime in February.”
“Where?”
“Leeds. In a pub. They were sitting together at a table in the Guildford, on The Headrow. They were holding hands. Christ.” His eyes were glassy with gathering tears. He rubbed the backs of his hands over them and collected himself. “Do you know what that feels like?” he asked. “Seeing your old man with another woman. No, of course you don’t. It was like a kick in the balls. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Did your father see you?”
“No. I kept myself well enough hidden. Not that they had eyes for anyone but each other.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing. I left. I was so upset I just got in the van and drove around the countryside for a while. I remember stopping somewhere and walking by a river. It was very cold.”
“Was the woman dark-skinned? Indian or Pakistani?”
Tom looked surprised. “No.”
Susan took her notepad and pen out. “What did she look like?”
Tom closed his eyes. “I can see her now,” he said, “just as clearly as I could then. She was young, much younger than Dad. Probably in her mid-twenties, I’d guess. Not much older than me. She was sitting down, so I couldn’t really see her figure properly, but I’d say it was good. I mean, she didn’t look fat or anything. She looked nicely proportioned. She was wearing a blouse made of some shiny white material and a scarf sort of thing, more like a shawl, really, over her shoulders, all in blues, whites and reds. It looked like one of those Liberty patterns. She had long fingers. I noticed them for some reason. Am I going too fast?”
“No,” said Susan. “I’ve got my own kind of shorthand. Carry on.”
“Long, tapered fingers. No nail varnish, but her nails looked well kept, not bitten or anything. She had blonde hair. No, that’s not quite accurate. It was a kind of reddish blonde. It was piled and twisted on top with some strands falling loose over her cheeks and shoulders. You know the kind of look? Sort of messy but ordered.”
Susan nodded. Hairstyles like that cost a fortune.
“She was extraordinarily good-looking,” Tom went on. “Very fine, pale skin. A flawless complexion, like marble, sort of translucent. The kind where you can just about see the blue veins underneath. And her features could have been cut by a fine sculptor. High cheekbones, small, straight nose. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue. They may have been contact lenses, but they were sort of light but very bright blue. Cobalt, I guess. Is that it?”
“It’ll do. Go on.”
“That’s about all really. No beauty spots or anything. She was wearing long dangly earrings, too. Lapis lazuli. No rings, I don’t think.”
“That’s a very good description, Tom. Do you think you could work with a police artist on this? I think we’d like to have a talk with this woman, and your description might help us find her.”
Tom nodded. “No problem. I could paint her myself from memory if I had the talent.”
“Good. We’ll arrange something, then. Maybe this evening.”
Tom took his watch out again. “I suppose I’d better be going home. Mum and Alison need my support.”
“Did you ever challenge your father about what you saw?” Susan asked.
Tom shook his head. “I came close once, when he kept going on about how disappointed he was in me, how sick I was. I told him I was disappointed in him, too, but I wouldn’t tell him why.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Just carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.”
“Does your
mother know?”
He shook his head. “No. She doesn’t know. I’m sure of it.”
“Do you think she suspects?”
“Maybe. Who knows? She’s been living in a bit of a dream world. I’m worried about her, actually. Sometimes I get the feeling that underneath all the lies she knows the truth but she just won’t admit it to herself. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes. What about Alison?”
“Alison’s a sweet thing really, but she hasn’t got a clue. Lives in her books. She’s Brontë mad, is Alison, you know. Reads nothing but. And she’s got notebooks full of her own stories, all in tiny handwriting like the Brontës did when they were kids. Made up her own world. I keep thinking she’ll grow out of it, but … I don’t know … she seems even worse since … since Dad …” He shook his head slowly. “No, she doesn’t know. I wouldn’t confide in her. I kept it all to myself. Can you imagine that? I still do. You’re the first person I’ve told.” He stood up. “Look, I really must be off.”
“We’ll be in touch about the artist, then.”
“Yes. Okay. And …”
“Yes?”
“Thanks,” he said, then turned abruptly and hurried off.
Susan watched him go down the path, hands in pockets, shoulders slumped. She poured herself another cup of tea, stewed though it was, and looked out at the river. A beautiful insect with iridescent wings hovered a few feet above the water. Suddenly, a chaffinch shot out from one of the trees and took the insect in its beak in mid-air. Susan left her lukewarm tea and headed off to meet Sergeant Hatchley. The porn hunt awaited.
III
After Banks had gone for a swim in the hotel pool, taken a long sauna, and put away three cups of freshly brewed coffee and a plateful of bacon and eggs, courtesy of room service, he was feeling much better.
As he made a few phone calls, he tried to remember something that had been nagging away at him since the early hours, something he should do, but he failed miserably. At about the same time that Susan Gay was talking to Tom Rothwell, he went out for his first appointment, with Melissa Clegg.
The morning sun had burned off most of the rain, and the pavements had absorbed the rest, leaving them the colour of sandstone, with small puddles catching the light here and there. As wind ruffled the water’s surface, golden light danced inside the puddles.
It wasn’t as warm as it had been, Banks noticed. He had left his torn sports jacket at the hotel. All he wore on top was a light blue, open-neck shirt. He carried his notebook, wallet, keys and cigarettes in his briefcase.
A cool wind whispered through the streets, and there were plenty of dark, heavy clouds now lurking on the northern horizon behind the Town Hall. It looked like the region was in for some “changeable” weather, as the forecasters called it: sunny with cloudy periods, or cloudy with sunny periods.
He could drive to his appointment, he knew, but the one-way system was a nightmare. Besides, the city centre wasn’t all that big, and the fresh air would help blow away the cobwebs that still clung to his brain.
Banks had grown quite fond of Leeds since he had been living in Yorkshire. It had an honest, slightly shabby charm about it that appealed to him, despite the new “Leeds-look” architecture— redbrick revival with royal blue trim—that had sprouted up everywhere, and despite the modern shopping centres and the yuppie developments down by the River Aire. Leeds was a scruff by nature; it wouldn’t look comfortable in fancy dress, no matter what the price. And then there was Opera North, of course.
Avoiding City Square and the scene of the previous evening’s debacle, he cut up King Street instead, walked past the recently restored Metropole Hotel, all redbrick and gold sandstone masonry, and along East Parade through the business section of banks and insurance buildings in all their jumbled glory. Here, Victorian Gothic rubbed shoulders with Georgian classicism and sixties concrete and glass. As in many cities, you had to look up, above eye level, to see the interesting details on the tops of the buildings: surprising gables where pigeons nested, gargoyles, balconies, caryatids.
As he walked along The Headrow past Stumps and the art gallery, he became aware again of the sharp pain in his knee, with which he had probably chipped a cheekbone or broken a jaw the previous evening.
He arrived at the Merrion Centre a couple of minutes early. Melissa Clegg had told him on the phone that she had a very busy day planned. She was expecting a number of important deliveries and had appointments with her suppliers. She could, however, allow him half an hour. There was a quiet coffee bar with outside tables, she told him, on the second level, up the steps over the entrance to Le Phonographique. She would meet him there at half past ten.
Banks found the coffee bar, and an empty table, with no trouble. At that time on a Wednesday morning, the Merrion Centre was practically deserted: especially the upper level, which seemed to have nothing but small offices and hairdressers.
Melissa Clegg arrived on time with all the flurry of the busy executive. When she sat down, she tucked her hair behind her ears. Today, she wore a pink dress cut square at her throat and shoulders.
The last thing on earth Banks felt he needed was another cup of coffee, but he took an espresso just to have something in front of him. Also, by the feel of his chest, he didn’t need a cigarette, either, but he lit one nonetheless. The first few drags made him a bit dizzy, then it tasted fine.
“You look a bit the worse for wear,” Melissa observed.
“You should have seen the other two,” Banks said. He could tell by the way she laughed that she didn’t believe him, just as he had expected. But he had also noticed the angry contusion high on his left cheek, just to the side of his eye, when he shaved that morning. Another result of his crash into the alley wall. He tried to keep his skinned knuckles out of sight, which made drinking coffee difficult.
“What can I do for you this time, Inspector, or Chief Inspector, is it?”
“Chief Inspector. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your husband?”
“Ex. Well, near as. No, I haven’t. But he’s hardly likely to get in touch with me. I still don’t know why you’re so worried. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
“I don’t think so, Mrs Clegg. Remember last time we met I asked you if you knew a Robert Calvert?”
“Yes. I said I didn’t and I still don’t.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would keep this quiet for the moment, but we believe that Robert Calvert was also Keith Rothwell.”
“I don’t understand. Do you mean he had a false name, an alias?”
“Something like that. More, actually. He lived in Leeds, had a flat in the name of Robert Calvert. A whole other life. Mary Rothwell doesn’t know, so—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. You’ve got me puzzled.”
“We were, too. But the reason I’m telling you this is that your husband acted as a reference for Robert Calvert in the matter of his bank account and credit card. Also, ironically enough, Calvert listed his employer as Keith Rothwell.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Melissa. “Daniel must have known about this double life, then?”
“It looks that way.”
“Well, I certainly knew nothing about it. As I told you before, I haven’t seen Keith Rothwell since Danny and I split up two years ago.” She frowned. “I must say it surprises me that Daniel would risk doing something so obviously dishonest as that. Not that dishonesty is beneath him, but it seems too much of a risk for no return.”
“We don’t know what the returns were,” Banks said. “How close are you and Daniel?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he ever mention a woman called Marci Lapwing to you?”
“God, what a name. No. Who is she? His girlfriend?”
“Someone he’s been seeing lately.”
“Well, he wouldn’t tell me about her, would he?”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “He never does. Maybe he thinks I’d be
jealous.”
“Would you?”
“Look, I don’t see what it has to do with anything, but no. It’s over. O. V. E. R. We made our choices.”
“Is there someone else?”
She blushed a little but met his gaze with steady eyes as she fingered the top of her dress over her freckled collarbone. “As a matter of fact there is. But I won’t tell you anything more. I don’t want him dragged into this. It’s none of your business, anyway. Danny’s probably run off with his bimbo.”
“No. Marci Lapwing is still around. Never mind. Let’s move on. How do you explain the two men who visited you?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps her husband sent them?”
“Whose husband?”
“The bimbo’s. Marci whatever-her-name-is.”
“She’s not married. Since we last talked,” Banks said, lowering his voice, “things have taken several turns for the worse. We’re talking about very serious matters indeed. It looks as if your husband might be implicated in murder, money-laundering, theft and fraud, and that he may be partly responsible for the savage beating of a young woman.”
“My God … I …”
“I know. You didn’t take all this seriously. Nor did you want to. Now will you?”
She began to fidget with her coffee-spoon. “Yes. Yes, of course. I assume you’re talking about Keith Rothwell’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“And who has been beaten?”
“A friend of Mr Rothwell’s. The way it looks, both Keith Rothwell and your husband were laundering money for a Mr X. We think we know his identity, but I’m afraid I can’t reveal it to you. Rothwell was either stealing or threatening to talk, or both, and Mr X asked your husband to get rid of him.”
She shook her head. “Danny? No. I don’t believe it. He couldn’t kill anyone.”
“Hear me out, Mrs Clegg. He did as he was asked. Maybe his own life was threatened, we don’t know. Immediately after he arranged to get rid of Keith Rothwell, he either became a threat himself, or he made off with a lot of illegal money, so Mr X sent two goons to track him down. Maybe he’d seen it coming and anticipated what they would do. At this point, there’s a lot we can only speculate about.”
Final Account Page 21