“Right, Ken,” he said. “I think we’ve got the bastard, National Trust or not. Time to call in the SOCOs.”
III
Banks cadged a lift with Blackstone back to Millgarth, where Susan and Hatchley were just about to take Mrs Gardiner home before returning to Eastvale. They had found out nothing more from her, Hatchley said as they stood at the doors ready to leave. It seemed that Jameson was a bit of a loner. He had had no frequent visitors, male or female, and she had seen no-one answering the vague description of his partner. Neither had the other neighbours, according to the results of the house-to-house.
Banks asked about Pamela Jeffreys’s condition and was told there had been some improvement but that she was still in intensive care.
Christ, Banks thought, as he sat opposite Blackstone, it had been a long day. He felt shagged out, especially given his previous night’s folly, which seemed light years ago now. He looked at his watch: ten to six. He wanted to go home, but knew he might not be able to make it tonight, depending on the developments of the next few hours. At least he could go back to the hotel and have a long bath, phone Sandra, listen to Classic FM and read the army and probation officer’s reports on Jameson while he waited around. If nothing happened by, say, eight o’clock, then he would perhaps go back to Eastvale for the night.
He slipped the reports into his briefcase and again decided to walk back to the hotel. It was that twilight hour between the evening rush-hour and going-out-on-the-town time. The city centre was practically deserted; the shops had closed, workers had gone home, and only a few people lingered in the few cafés and restaurants still open in the arcades and pedestrian precincts off Vicar Lane and Briggate. The sun had at last won its day-long battle with cloud; it lay in proud gold pools on the dusty streets and pavements, where last night’s rain was a dim memory; it cast black shadows that crept slowly up the sides of buildings; it reflected harshly in shop windows and glittered on the specks of quartz embedded in stone surfaces.
Back at the hotel, he picked up his jacket, which he had handed over to be mended before leaving for The Vic. There was one message for him: “Please come to Room 408 as soon as you get back, where you will find out some useful information.” It wasn’t signed.
That was odd. Informers didn’t usually operate this way. They certainly didn’t book rooms in hotels to pass along their information.
“Who’s staying in room 408?” Banks asked, slipping his jacket on. After the obligatory refusal to give out such information on the part of the clerk, and the showing of a warrant card on the part of Banks, he discovered that the occupant of said room was a Mr Wilson. Very odd indeed. It was a common enough name, but Banks couldn’t remember, offhand, any Mr Wilson.
He was tempted to ignore the message and carry on with what he planned, but curiosity got the better of him, as it always did.
When the lift stopped at the fourth floor, he poked his head through the doors first to see if there was anyone in the corridor. It was empty. He followed the arrow to room 408, took a deep breath and knocked. He debated whether to stand aside, but decided it was only in American films that people shot holes through hotel doors. Still, he found himself edging away a little, so he couldn’t be seen through the peep-hole.
The door opened abruptly. Banks tensed, then let out his breath. Before him stood Dirty Dick Burgess.
“You again? What the hell?” Banks gasped. But before he could even enter the room Burgess had put on a leather jacket and taken him by the elbow.
“About bloody time, Banks,” he said. “I’m sick of being cooped up in here. There’s been developments. Come on, let’s go get a drink.”
FOURTEEN
I
Despite Burgess’s protest that it would be full of commercial travellers and visiting rugby teams, Banks insisted on their drinking in the Holiday Inn’s idea of a traditional English pub, the Wig and Pen. He did this because his car was nearby and he still held hopes of getting back to Eastvale that evening. As it turned out, Burgess seemed to take a shine to the place.
He sat at the table opposite Banks with his pint of McEwan’s lager, lit a Tom Thumb and looked around the quiet pub. “Not bad,” he said, tapping his cigar on the rim of the ashtray. “Not bad at all. I never did like those places with beams across the ceiling and bedpans on the walls.”
“Bed warmers,” Banks corrected him.
“Whatever. Anyway, what do you think of those two over there as a couple of potential bed warmers? Do you think they fancy us?”
Banks looked over and saw two attractive women in their late twenties or early thirties who, judging by their clothes, had dropped by for a drink after working late at one of the many Wellington Street office buildings. There was no doubt about it, the one with the short black hair and the good legs did give Burgess the eye and whisper something in her friend’s ear.
“I think they do,” said Burgess.
“Didn’t you say something about developments?”
“What? Oh, yes.” Burgess looked away from the women and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “For a start, Fraud Squad think they’ve found definite evidence in Daniel Clegg’s books and records that Clegg and Rothwell were laundering money for Martin Churchill.”
“That hardly counts as a development,” Banks said. “We were already working on that assumption.”
“Ah, but now it’s more than an assumption, isn’t it? You’ve got to hand it to those Fraud Squad boys, boring little fuckers that they are, they’ve been burning the candle at both ends on this one.”
“Have you any idea why Churchill would use a couple of provincials like Rothwell and Clegg?”
“Good point,” said Burgess. “As it happens, yes, I do know. Daniel Clegg and Martin Churchill were at Cambridge together, reading law. Simple as that. The old boy network. I’d reckon the one knew the other was crooked right from the start.”
“Did they keep in touch over the years?”
“Obviously. Remember, Clegg’s a tax lawyer. He’s been using St Corona as a tax shelter for his clients for years. It must have seemed a natural step to call on him when Churchill needed expert help. You can launder money from just about anywhere, you know. Baby Doc used a Swiss lawyer and did a lot of his business in Canada. You can take it out or bring it into Heathrow or Gatwick by the suitcase-load, using couriers, or you can run it through foreign exchange, wire services, whatever. Governments keep coming up with new restrictive measures, but it’s like plugging holes in a sieve. It’s easy if you know how, and a tax lawyer and a financial consultant with a strong background in accounting certainly knew how.”
“What made Clegg choose Rothwell as his partner?”
“How would I know? You can’t expect me to do your job for you, Banks, now can you? But they clearly knew one another somehow. Clegg must have known that Rothwell was exceptionally good with finances and none too concerned about their source. Takes one to know one, as they say.”
Burgess looked over at the two women, who had got another round of drinks, and smiled. The black-haired one crossed her long legs and smiled back shyly; the other put her hand over her mouth and giggled.
“My lucky night, I think,” Burgess said, clapping his hands and showering cigar ash over his stomach. He had a disconcerting habit of sitting still for ages then making a sudden, jerky movement. “I’ll say one thing for the north,” he went on, “you’ve got some damned accommodating women up here. Damned accommodating. Look, why don’t you get a couple more pints in, then I’ll tell you something else that might interest you? And mine’s lager, remember, not that pissy real ale stuff.”
Banks thought about it. Two pints. Yes, he would be fine for driving back to Eastvale, if he got the chance. “All right,” he said, and went to the bar.
“Okay,” said Burgess, after his first sip. “The two men, the white one and the darkie who were following you around?”
Banks lit a cigarette. “You know who they are?”
“I’ve go
t to admit, I wasn’t entirely truthful with you last time we met.”
“When have you ever been?”
“Unfair.”
“So you knew who they were last time we talked?”
“Suspected. Now we’ve got confirmation. They’re Mickey Lanois and Gregory Jackson, two of Churchill’s top enforcers. They came into Heathrow last Friday. The way it looks is that Churchill asked Clegg to get rid of Rothwell, and after he did it he took off with a lot of money, probably figuring that he might be next. Churchill heard about Clegg’s scarpering pretty quickly and sent his goons to do some damage control. You know what their favourite torture is, Banks?”
Banks shook his head. He didn’t want to know, but he knew Burgess would tell him anyway.
“They get a handful of those little glass tubes the doctors use to keep liquid in. What do you call them, phials, right? Really thin glass, anyway. And they put them in the victim’s mouth, lots of them. Then they tape the mouth shut securely and beat him a bit about the face. Or her. Churchill himself thought that up. He likes to watch. Think about it.”
Banks thought, swallowed and felt his throat constrict. “Been letting you practise it at the Yard, have they?” he asked.
Burgess laughed. “No, not yet. They’re still running tests in Belfast. Anyway, the point is that we know who they are.”
“No, that’s not entirely the point,” said Banks. “The point is where are they now and what are you going to do about them?”
Burgess shook his head. “That’s a whole different ball game. We’re talking about international politics here, politically sensitive issues. It’s out of your hands, Banks. Accept that. All you need to know is that we know who they are and we’re keeping tabs.”
“Don’t give me that politically sensitive crap,” said Banks, stabbing out his cigarette so hard that sparks flew out of the ashtray. “These two men damn near killed a woman here a few days ago. You say they like to go around stuffing people’s mouths full of glass, then you tell me to trust you, you’re keeping tabs. Well, bollocks, that’s what I say.”
Burgess sighed. “Somehow, I knew you were going to be difficult, Banks, I just knew it. Can’t you leave it be? They won’t get away with it, don’t worry.”
“Do you know where they are now?”
“They won’t get away with it,” Burgess repeated.
Banks took a sip of his beer and held back his rage. There was something in Burgess’s tone that hinted he had something up his sleeve. “What are you telling me?” Banks asked.
“That we’ll get them. Or somebody will. But they’ll go down quietly, no fuss, no publicity.”
Banks thought for a moment. He still didn’t trust Burgess. “Can I talk to them?” he asked, aware he was speaking through clenched teeth, still keeping his anger in check.
Burgess narrowed his eyes. “Got to you, did it? What they did to the girl? I’ve seen pictures of her, before and after. Nasty. I’ll bet you fancied her, didn’t you, Banks? Nice dusky piece of crumpet, touch of the tarbrush, probably knew a lot of those Kama Sutra tricks. Just your type. Tasty.”
Banks felt his hand tighten on the pint glass. Why did he always let Burgess get to him this way? The bastard had a knack of touching on exactly the right raw nerve. Did it every time. “I’d just like to be there when you question them, that’s all,” he said quietly.
Burgess shrugged. “No problem. If it’s possible, I’ll arrange it. All I’m saying is no publicity on the Churchill matter, okay? Let your liberal humanist sentiments fuck this one up and you’ll be in deep doo-doo, Banks, very deep doo-doo indeed.”
“What about the press?”
“They can be dealt with. Have you ever considered that for every scandal you read about how many you don’t? Do you think it’s all left to chance? Don’t be so bloody naïve.”
“Come off it. You might be able to tape a few mouths shut, but even you can’t guarantee that no hotshot investigative reporters aren’t going to be all over this one like flies around shit.”
Burgess shrugged. “Maybe they’ll hear Churchill’s been killed in a coup. Maybe they’ll even see the body.”
“Maybe it’d be best for everyone if he did get killed in a coup. Less embarrassing all round.”
Burgess remained silent for a moment, glass in hand. Then he said, slowly, “And maybe he’s got life insurance.”
“Well, I suppose you’d know. Let’s hope there’s a good plastic surgeon on St Corona.”
“Look,” Burgess said, “let’s stop pissing around. What I want from you is a promise that you won’t talk to the press about the Churchill angle.”
Banks lit another cigarette. What could he do? If Burgess were telling the truth, Mickey Lanois and Gregory Jackson would be caught and punished for their crimes. He could live with that. He would have to. Burgess certainly had a better chance of catching them than Banks did, by the sound of things. Perhaps they were even in custody already.
Also, with luck, Arthur Jameson and his accomplice would go down for the murder of Keith Rothwell. But was Burgess telling the full truth? Banks didn’t know. All he knew was that he couldn’t trust the bastard. It all sounded too easy. But what choice did he have?
“All right,” he said.
Burgess reached over and patted his arm. “Good,” he said. “Good. I knew I could depend on you to keep mum when it counts.”
Banks jerked his arm away. “Don’t push it. And if I find out you’ve been buggering me around on this one, my promise is null and void, okay?”
Burgess held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay.”
“There is another thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Rothwell’s killers. Lanois and Jackson didn’t do that.”
Burgess shook his head. “I’m not interested in them. They’re not in my brief.”
“So what happens when we catch Jameson, if we catch him?”
“Jameson?”
“Arthur Jameson. One of Rothwell’s killers.”
“I don’t give a monkey’s toss. That’s up to you. I’m not interested. It’s unlikely that this Jameson, whoever he is, knows anything about Churchill’s part in the matter. He was probably just a hired killer working for Clegg, who has conveniently disappeared with a shitload of cash.”
“Any ideas where?”
Burgess shook his head then jabbed his finger in the air close to Banks’s chest. “But I can tell you one thing. Wherever he is, he won’t be there for long. Churchill has the memory of an elephant, the reach of a giraffe and the tenacity of a bloody pit bull. He didn’t get to bleed an entire country dry for nothing. It takes a special talent. Don’t underestimate the man just because he’s a butcher.”
“So we write off Clegg?”
“I think he’s already written himself off by double-crossing Churchill.”
“And Jameson?”
“If he goes to trial, and if he talks—both big ifs, by the way—all he can say is that Clegg hired him to kill Rothwell. I doubt that Clegg would tell him the real reason. He might be a crooked lawyer, but I’m sure he still knows the value of confidentiality. He wouldn’t want to let his hired killers know exactly how much money was involved, would he? It would make him too vulnerable by half. Anyway, I trust you’ll have enough physical evidence to prosecute this Jameson when the time comes. If not, maybe we can fabricate some for you. Always happy to oblige.” He held his hand up. “Only kidding. My little joke.”
Burgess glanced over at the two women, who had got yet another round of drinks and seemed to be laughing quite tipsily. “Look,” he said, “if I don’t strike soon they’ll be past it. Are you sure you won’t join me? It’ll be a laugh, and the wife need never know.”
“No,” said Banks. “No, thanks. I’m going home.”
“Suit yourself.” Burgess stretched back his shoulders and sucked in his gut. “Anything to liven up a miserable evening in Leeds,” he said. “Once more unto the breach.” And with that, h
e strutted over to their table, smiling, pint in hand. Banks watched them make room for him, then shook his head, drank up and left.
II
“What on earth happened to you?” asked Sandra when Banks walked into the living-room at about ten o’clock that evening.
“I had a slight disagreement with a couple of would-be muggers,” Banks said. “Don’t worry, I’m okay.” And he left it at that. Sandra raised her dark eyebrows but didn’t pursue it. He knew she wouldn’t. She wasn’t the mothering type, and she rarely gave him much sympathy when he whimpered through flu or moaned through a bad cold.
Banks walked over to the cocktail cabinet and poured a stiff shot of Laphroaig single malt whisky. Sandra said she’d have a Drambuie. A good sign. After that, he put on his new CD of Khachaturian’s piano concerto and flopped onto the sofa.
As he listened to the music, he looked at Sandra’s framed photograph over the fireplace: a misty sunset in Hawes, taken from the daleside above the town, all subdued grey and orange with a couple of thin streaks of vermilion. The unusual church tower, square with a turret attached to one corner, dominated the grey slate roofs, and smoke curled up from some of the chimneys. Banks sipped the peaty malt whisky and smacked his lips.
Sandra sat beside him. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
Banks told her about his meetings with Dirty Dick Burgess. “There’s always some sort of hidden agenda with him,” he said. “I’m not sure what he’s up to this time, but there’s not a hell of a lot I can do about it except wait and see. That’s about all we can do now, wait.”
“‘They also serve …’”
“I was thinking about the Rothwells on the drive home, too. How could a man lead an entire other life, away from his family, under another name?”
“Is that what happened?”
“Yes.” Banks explained about Robert Calvert and his flat in Leeds, his fondness for gambling, women and dancing. “And Pamela Jeffreys said she was sure he wasn’t a married man. She said she’d have been able to tell.”
Final Account Page 25