“Right,” said Banks. “Looks like we’ve run the bastard to earth. Now we wait for the reinforcements.”
IV
For grey, the hotel manager could have given John Major a good run for his money. His suit was grey; his hair was grey; his voice was grey. He also had one of those faces—receding chin, goofy teeth, stick-out ears—that attract such abusive and bullying attention at school. At the moment, his face was grey, too.
He reminded Banks of Parkinson, a rather unpleasant large-nosed boy who had been the butt of ridicule and recipient of the occasional thump in the fourth form. Banks had always felt sorry for Parkinson—had even defended him once or twice—until he had met him later in life, fully transformed into a self-serving, arrogant and humourless Labour MP. Then he felt Parkinson probably hadn’t been thumped enough.
The manager had obviously never seen so many rough-looking, badly dressed coppers gathered in one place since they stopped showing repeats of The Sweeney. Jeans abounded, as did leather jackets, anoraks, blousons, T-shirts and grubby trainers. There wasn’t a uniform, a tie or a well-polished shoe in sight, and the only suit was Sergeant Hatchley’s blue polyester one, which was so shiny you could see your face in it.
It was also obvious that a number of the officers were armed and that two of them wore bullet-proof vests over their T-shirts.
Short of the SAS, Police Support Units or half a dozen Armed Response Vehicles, none of which the police authorities wanted the public to see mounting a major offensive on a quiet Kensington hotel on a Thursday lunch-time, these two were probably the best you could get. Vest One, the tallest, was called Spike, probably because of his hair, and his smaller, more hirsute associate was called Shandy. Spike was doing all the talking.
“See, squire,” he said to the wide-eyed hotel manager, “our boss tells us we don’t want a lot of fuss about this. None of this evacuating the area bollocks you see on telly. We go in, we disarm him nice and quiet, then bob’s your uncle, we’re out of your hair for good. Okay? No problems for us and no bad publicity for the hotel.”
The manager, clearly not used to being called “squire,” swallowed, bobbing an oversize Adam’s apple, and nodded.
“But what we do need to do,” Spike went on, “is to clear the floor. Now, is there anyone else up there apart from this Jameson?”
The manager looked at the keys. “Only room 316,” he said. “It’s lunch-time. People usually go out for lunch.”
“What about the chambermaids?”
“Finished.”
“Good,” said Spike, then turned to one of the others in trainers, jeans and leather jacket. “Smiffy, go get number 316 out quietly, okay?”
“Right, boss,” said Smiffy, and headed for the stairs.
Spike tapped his long fingers on the desk and turned to Banks. “You know this bloke, this Jameson, right, sir?” he said.
Banks was surprised he had remembered the honorific. “Not personally,” he said, and filled Spike in.
“He’s shot a policeman, right?”
“Yes. Two of them. One’s dead and the other’s still in the operating room waiting to find out if he’s got a brain left.”
Spike slipped a stick of Wrigley’s spearmint gum from its wrapper and popped it in his mouth. “What do you suggest?” he asked between chews.
Banks didn’t know if Spike was being polite or deferential in asking an opinion, but he didn’t get a chance to find out. As Smiffy came down the stairs with a rather dazed old dear clutching a pink dressing-gown around her throat, the phone rang at the desk. The manager answered it, turned even more grey as he listened, then said, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. At once, sir.”
“Well?” Spike asked when the manager had put the phone down. “What’s put the wind up you?”
“It was him. The man in room 324.”
“What’s he want?”
“He wants a roast beef sandwich and a bottle of beer sent up to his room.”
“How’d he sound?”
“Sound?”
“Yeah. You know, did he seem suspicious, nervous?”
“Oh. No, just ordinary.”
“Right on,” said Spike, grinning at Banks. “Opportunity knocks.” He turned back to the manager. “Do the doors up there have those peep-hole things, so you can see who’s knocking?”
“No.”
“Chains?”
“Yes.”
“No problem. Right,” said Spike. “Come with me, Shandy. The rest of you stay here and make sure no-one gets in or out. We got the back covered?”
“Yes, sir,” one of the blousons answered.
“Fire escape?”
“That, too, sir.”
“Good.” Spike looked at Banks. “I don’t suppose you’re armed?” Banks shook his head. “No time.”
Spike frowned. “Better stay down here then, sir. Sorry, but I can’t take the responsibility. You probably know the rules better than I do.”
Banks nodded. He gave Spike and Shandy a floor’s start, then turned to Sergeant Hatchley. “Stay here, Jim,” he said. “I don’t want to lead you astray.”
Without waiting for an answer, he slipped into the stairwell. One of the Yard men in the lobby noticed but made no move to stop him. At the first-floor landing, Banks heard someone wheezing behind him and turned.
“Don’t worry, I’m not deaf,” said Hatchley. “I just thought you might like some company anyway.”
Banks grinned.
“Mind if I ask you what we’re doing this for?” Hatchley whispered, as they climbed the next flight.
“To find out what happens,” said Banks. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this. Something Spike said.”
“You know what curiosity did.”
They reached the third floor. Banks peeked around the stairwell and put his arm out to hold Hatchley back.
Glancing again, Banks saw Spike point at his watch and mouth something to Shandy. Shandy nodded. They drew their weapons and walked slowly along the corridor towards Jameson’s room.
The worn carpet that covered the floor couldn’t stop the old boards creaking with each footstep. Banks saw Spike knock on the door and heard a muffled grunt from inside.
“Room service,” said Spike.
The door rattled open—on a chain, by the sound of it. Someone—Spike or Jameson—swore loudly, then Banks saw Shandy rear back like a wild horse and kick the door open. The chain snapped. Spike and Shandy charged inside and Banks heard two shots in close succession, then, after a pause of three or four seconds, another shot, not quite as loud.
Banks and Hatchley waited where they were for a minute, out of sight. Then, when Banks saw Spike come out of the room and lean against the door jamb, he and Hatchley walked into the corridor. Spike saw them coming and said, “It’s all over. You can go in now, if you like. Silly bugger had to try it on, didn’t he?”
They walked into the room. Banks could smell cordite from the gunfire. Jameson had fallen backwards against the wall and slid down into a perfect sitting position on the floor, legs splayed, leaving a thick red snail’s trail of blood smeared on the wallpaper. His puppy-dog eyes were open. His face bore no expression. The front of his green shirt, over the heart, was a tangle of dark red rag and tissue, spreading fast, and there was a similar stain slightly above it, near his shoulder. His hands lay at his side, one of them holding his gun. Another dark wet patch spread between his legs. Urine.
Banks thought of the chair at Arkbeck Farm, where this man had scared Alison Rothwell so much that she had wet herself. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
“We’d no choice,” Spike said behind him. “He had his gun in his hand when he came to the door. You can see for yourself. He fired first.”
Two shots, in close succession, followed by another, sounding slightly different. Two patches of spreading blood. “Our boss tells us we don’t want a lot of fuss about this.”
Banks looked at the two policemen, sighed and said, “Give my regards to Dirty
Dick.”
Shandy came back with a not very convincing, “Who’s that?” Spike grinned, rubbed the barrel of his gun against his upper thigh, and said, “Will do, sir.”
SIXTEEN
I
Banks had always hated hospitals: the antiseptic smells, the starched uniforms, the mysterious and unsettling pieces of shiny equipment around every corner—things that looked like modern sculpture or instruments of torture made of articulated chrome. They all gave him the creeps. Worst of all, though, was the way the doctors and nurses seemed to huddle in corridors and doorways and whisper about death, or so he imagined.
It was Saturday afternoon, 21st May, just over a week since Rothwell’s murder and two days after Jameson’s shooting, when Banks walked into Leeds Infirmary.
He had spent Thursday night in London, then headed back to Amersham for his car the next morning. After spending a little time with Superintendent Jarrell, Banks and Hatchley had driven back to Eastvale that Friday evening and arrived a little after nine.
On Saturday morning, he had to go into Leeds to consult with Ken Blackstone and wrap things up. After their pub lunch, he had taken a little time off to go and buy some more compact discs at the Classical Record Shop and pay a sick visit before heading back to Eastvale for Richmond’s farewell bash. Sandra was off with the Camera Club photographing rock formations at Brimham Rocks, so he was left to his own devices for the day.
Banks paused and looked at the signs, then turned left. At last, he found the right corridor. Pamela Jeffreys shared a room with one other person, who happened to be down in X-ray when Banks called. He pulled up a chair by the side of the bed and put down the brown paper package he’d brought on the table. Pamela looked at it with her one good eye. The other was covered in bandages.
“Grapes,” said Banks, feeling embarrassed. “It’s what you bring when you visit people in hospital, isn’t it?”
Pamela smiled, then decided it hurt too much and let her face relax.
“And,” Banks said, pulling a cassette from his pocket, “I made you a tape of some Mozart piano concertos. Thought they might cheer you up. Got a Walkman?”
“Wouldn’t go anywhere without it,” Pamela said out of the side of her mouth. “It’s a bit difficult to get the headphones on with one hand, though.” She directed his gaze to where her bandaged right hand lay on the sheets.
He set the cassette on the bedside table beside the grapes. “The doctor says you’re going to be okay,” he said.
“Hm-mm,” murmured Pamela. “So they tell me.” It came out muffled, but Banks could tell what she said.
“He said you’ll be playing the viola again in no time.”
“Hmph. It might take a bit longer than that.”
“But you will play again.”
She uttered a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. “They broke two fingers on my right hand,” she said. “My bowing hand. It’s a good thing they know bugger all about musical technique. If they’d broken my wrist that might really have put an end to my career.”
“People like that aren’t chosen for their intelligence, as a rule,” said Banks. “But the important thing is that there’s no permanent damage to your fingers, or to your eye.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “I ought to think myself lucky.”
“Well?”
“Oh, I’m okay, I suppose. Mostly just bored. There’s the tapes and the radio, but you can’t listen to music all day. There’s nothing else to do but watch telly, and I can stomach even less of that. Reading still hurts too much with just one good eye. And the food’s awful.”
“I’m sorry,” Banks said. “And I’m sorry about that day in the park.”
She moved her head slowly from side to side. “No. My fault. You had to ask. I overreacted. Is this an official visit? Have you come about the men? The men who hurt me?”
“No. But we know who they are. They won’t get away with it.”
“Why have you come?”
“I … that’s a good question.” Banks laughed nervously and looked away, out of the window at the swaying tree-tops. “To see you, I suppose,” he said. “To bring you some grapes and some Mozart. I just happened to be in the area, you know, buying CDs.”
“What did you get?”
Banks showed her: Keith Jarrett playing Shostakovitch’s 24 preludes and fugues; Nobuko Imai playing Walton’s viola concerto. She raised her eyebrow. “Interesting.” Then she tapped the Walton. “It’s beautiful if you get it right,” she said. “But so difficult. She’s very good.”
“It says in the notes that the viola is an introvert of an instrument, a poet-philosopher. Does that describe you?”
“My teacher told me I had to be careful not to get overwhelmed by the orchestra. That tends to happen to violas, you know. But I manage to hold my own.”
“How long are they going to keep you here?”
“Who knows? Another week or so. I’d get up and go home right now but I think my leg’s broken.”
“It is. The right one.”
“Damn. The prettiest.”
Banks laughed.
“Did you catch the men who killed Robert?” she asked. “Was it the same ones?”
Banks gave her the gist of what had happened with Jameson, avoiding the more lurid details.
“So one got away?” she said.
“So far.”
“That’s not bad going.”
“Not bad,” Banks agreed. “Fifty per cent success rate. It’s better than the police average.”
“Will you get a promotion out of it?”
He laughed. “I doubt it.”
“Don’t look so worried,” she said, resting her bandaged hand on his. “I’ll be all right. And don’t blame yourself … you know … for what happened to me.”
“Right. I’ll try not to.” Banks felt his eyes burn. He could see her name bracelet and the tube attached to the vein in her wrist. It made him feel squeamish, even more so than seeing Jameson’s body against the wall in the hotel room. It didn’t make sense: he could take a murder scene in his stride, but a simple intravenous drip in a hospital made him queasy.
Pamela was right. She would be fine. Her wounds would heal; her beauty would regenerate. In less than a year she would be as good as new. But would she ever recover fully inside? How would she handle being alone in the house? Would she ever again be able to hear someone walking up the garden path without that twinge of fear and panic? He didn’t know. The psyche regenerates itself, too, sometimes. We’re often a damn sight more resilient than we’d imagine.
“Will you come and see me again?” she asked. “I mean, when it’s all over and I’m home. Will you come and see me?”
“Sure I will,” said Banks, thinking guiltily of the feelings he had had for Pamela, not sure at all.
“Do you mean it?”
He looked into her almond eye and saw the black shape of fear at its centre. He swallowed. “Of course I mean it,” he said. And he did. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her good cheek. “I’d better go now.”
II
Why was he born so beautiful?
Why was he born so tall?
He’s no bloody use to anyone,
He’s no bloody use at all.
Richmond took the Yorkshire compliment, delivered in shaky harmonies by Sergeant Hatchley and an assorted cat’s choir of PCs, very well, Banks thought, especially for someone who listened to music that sounded like Zamfir on Valium.
“Speech! Speech!” Hatchley shouted.
Embarrassed, Richmond gave a sideways glance at Rachel, his fiancée, then stood up, cleared his throat and said, “Thank you. Thank you all very much. And thanks specially for the CD-ROM. You know I’m not much at giving speeches like this, but I’d just like to say it’s been a pleasure working with you all. I know you all probably think I’m a traitor, going off down south—” Here, a chorus of boos interrupted his speech. “But as soon as I’ve got that lot down there sorted
out,” he went on, “I’ll be back, and you buggers had better make sure you know a hard drive from a hole in the ground. Thank you.”
He sat down again, and people went over to pat him on the back and say farewell. Everyone cheered when Susan Gay leaned forward and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. She blushed when Richmond responded by giving her a bear-hug.
They were in the back room of the Queen’s Arms on Saturday night, and Banks leaned against the polished bar, pint of Theakston’s in his hand, with Sandra on one side and Gristhorpe on the other. Someone had hung balloons from the ceiling. Cyril had hooked up the old jukebox for the occasion, and Gerry and the Pacemakers were singing “Ferry Across the Mersey.”
Banks knew he should have been happier to see the end of the Rothwell case, but he just couldn’t seem to get rid of a niggling feeling, like an itch he couldn’t reach. Jameson had killed Rothwell. True. Now Jameson was dead. Justice had been done, after a fashion. An eye for an eye. So forget it.
But he couldn’t. The two men who had beaten Pamela Jeffreys hadn’t been caught yet. Along with Jameson’s accomplice, that left three on the loose. Only a twenty-five per cent success rate. Not satisfactory at all.
But it wasn’t just that. Somehow, it was all too neat. All too neat and ready for Martin Churchill to slip into the country one night with a new face and a clean, colossal bank account and retire quietly to Cornwall, guarding the secrets of those in power to the grave. Which might not be far off. Banks wouldn’t be surprised if someone from MI6 or wherever slipped into Cornwall one night and both Mr Churchill and his insurance had a nasty accident.
Susan Gay walked over from Richmond’s table and indicated she’d like a word. Banks excused himself from Sandra and they found a quiet corner.
“Sorry for dragging you away from the festivities, sir,” Susan said, “but I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since you got back. There’s a couple of things you might be interested in.”
“I’m listening.”
Susan told him about her talk with Tom Rothwell after the funeral, about his homosexuality and what he had seen his father do that day he followed him into Leeds. “The artist came in on Wednesday evening, sir, and we managed to get the impression in the papers on Thursday, while you were down south.”
Final Account Page 28