“That was one of the things that bothered me,” Banks said. “In retrospect, it was all too easy. And we never found a copy of the letter among his papers. He could have destroyed it, of course, but it was just one those little niggling details. Lawyers tend to hang onto things.”
“I never sent it,” said Rothwell. “I just created the file so you’d get onto Daniel if you hadn’t already. It was a way of telling you his name, but I couldn’t make it too easy. Then you’d assume he’d had me killed and disappeared with the money.”
“Oh, we did,” said Banks. “We did.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I’m a persistent bastard, among other things. There were too many loose ends. They worried me. Two different sets of thugs roaming the country, for a start. They could be explained, of course, but it still seemed odd. And we couldn’t find any trace of Clegg, no matter how hard we tried. His ex-wife said he fancied Tahiti, but we had no luck there. We had no luck anywhere else, either. Of course we didn’t. We were looking for the wrong person. But mostly, I think, it was the connection with Julia that really did you in.”
“How did you find out about her?”
“Pamela Jeffreys mentioned her first. She said she thought you were in love. Just a feeling she had, you understand. Then I began to wonder how it would upset the apple-cart if you fell in love as Robert Calvert. How would you handle it? Then Tom came back from America for your funeral.”
“Ah, Tom. My Achilles heel.”
“Oh, he didn’t realize the significance of it. But you made him angry. He followed you to Leeds once. He saw you have lunch with a woman. Julia Marshall. You didn’t know that, did you? But Tom couldn’t imagine the scale of your plans. He’s just a kid who caught his father with another woman. He was already angry, mixed up and confused at the way you treated him. He was after getting his own back, but what he saw upset him so much that all he could do was keep it to himself.”
“Christ,” he muttered. “I didn’t know that. He didn’t tell Mary?”
“No. He wanted to protect her.”
“My God.” Rothwell ran his hand over the side of his face. “Maybe you think I reacted too harshly, Chief Inspector? I know we’re living in liberal times, where anything goes. I know it’s old-fashioned of me, but I still happen to believe that homosexuality is an aberration, an abomination of nature, and not just an ‘alternative life-style,’ as the liberals would have it. And to find out that my own son …”
“So you decided it would be best to send Tom away?”
“Yes. It seemed best for both of us if he went away, a long way away. He was well provided for. As it turned out, he wanted to go travelling in America and try to get into film school there. By then I knew I had to get away, too, so it seemed best to let him go. At least he had a good chance. I might have abhorred his homosexuality, but I’m not a tyrant. He was still my son, after all.”
“Tom gave us an accurate description of Julia,” Banks went on. “He’s a very observant young man. We ran the artist’s impression in the Yorkshire Post and a woman called Barbara Ledward came forward, a colleague of Julia’s, then Julia’s family. Nobody lives in a vacuum. When we followed up on their phone calls, we found out that Julia had resigned from her teaching job suddenly and told everyone she was going away, that she had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity abroad but couldn’t divulge the details. She said she’d be in touch, then she simply disappeared about three days before your apparent murder. Her family and friends were worried about her. She didn’t usually behave so irresponsibly. But they didn’t report her as a missing person because she had told them she was going away.
“We might have been a bit slow on the uptake, but we’re not stupid. All Julia’s friends and colleagues mentioned how fascinated she was by the ancient Greeks. She even tried to teach the kids about the classics at school, though I’m told it didn’t go down well with the head. He wanted them to study computers and car maintenance instead. We had to assume you didn’t think we’d find out about Julia. Oh, you might have suspected we’d find out there was someone, but you didn’t think we’d try to find her, did you?”
“No,” said Rothwell. “After all, why should you want to? No more than I thought you would waste time and money doing tests to see if it really was my body in the garage. Another risk. I was clearly dead, executed because of my involvement in international crime. What did it matter if I, or Calvert, had a girlfriend? I never thought for a moment you’d look very closely at the rest of my private life.”
“Then you shouldn’t have revealed the Calvert identity to us,” Banks said. “If it hadn’t been for that, we might have gone on thinking you were a dull, mild-mannered accountant who just happened to get into something beyond his depth. But Calvert showed imagination. Calvert showed a dimension to your character I had to take into account. And I had to ask myself, what if Calvert fell in love?”
“I couldn’t get rid of Calvert,” said Rothwell. “You know that. I didn’t have time. Too many people had seen him. I had to figure out a way to make him work to my advantage quickly. I thought he’d be a dead end.”
“Your mistake. Poor judgment.”
“Obviously. But I had no choice. What else could I do?”
“So how did you handle the killing?”
“Another drink?”
“Please.”
Banks stared out over the pink and purple flowers in the window box at the barren hillside and the blue sea below. Rothwell’s mention of the forensic tests galled him. He knew they should have tried to establish the identity of the deceased beyond doubt. Forensics should have reconstructed the teeth and checked dental records. That was an oversight. It was understandable, given the way Rothwell had apparently been assassinated, and given the state the teeth were in, but it was an oversight, nevertheless.
Of course, the lab had been as burdened with work as usual, and tests cost money. Then, when the fingerprints at Calvert’s flat matched the corpse’s, they didn’t think they needed to look any further. After all, they had the pasta meal, the appendix scar and the right blood group, and Mary Rothwell had identified the dead man’s clothing, watch and pocket contents.
A red flying insect settled on his bare arm. He brushed it off gently. When Rothwell came back with a Grolsch and a Pepsi, he was not moving with quite the same confidence and grace as he had before.
“I gave Jameson instructions to hold Alison until we got back,” he began, “but not to harm her in any way.”
“That’s considerate of you. He didn’t. What about his accomplice, Donald Pembroke?”
Rothwell shook his head. He held the Pepsi against his shorts. The tin was beaded with moisture and Banks watched the damp patch spread through the white cotton. “I never met him. That was Jameson’s business. He said he needed someone to help and I left it to him, getting guarantees of discretion, of course. I never even knew the man’s name, and that’s the truth. Pembroke, you say? What happened to him?”
Banks told him.
Rothwell sighed. “I suppose fate catches up with us all in the end, doesn’t it? What is it the eastern religions call it? Karma?”
“Back to the murder.”
Rothwell paused a moment, then went on. “They held Alison, then when Mary and I got home, they tied her up, too, and took me out to the garage. They had instructions to pick Clegg up after dinner. I knew he didn’t like to cook for himself and on Thursdays he always dropped by a trattoria near the office for a quick pasta before going home. That’s why I chose that day. I knew Mary and I would be going out for the annual anniversary dinner, and I arranged for us to eat at Mario’s. You see, I thought of everything. Even the stomach contents would match.
“They’d already knocked Clegg out and secured him earlier. I even made sure to tell Jameson to use loose handcuffs to avoid rope burns on Clegg’s wrists. We got him into my clothes as quickly as possible. He was starting to come round. He was on his hands and knees, I remember, sha
king his head as if he was groggy, just waking up, then Jameson put the shotgun to the back of his head. I … I turned away. There was a terrible explosion and a smell. Then we went through the woods and they drove me to Leeds. I drove Clegg’s Jaguar to Heathrow, wearing gloves, of course. Then I left the country as David Norcliffe. I already had a passport and bank accounts set up in that name. I joined Julia here. It was all pre-arranged. It had to be so elaborate because I was supposed to be murdered. I’d read about a similar murder in the papers a while back and it seemed one worth imitating.”
“Well, you know what the poet said. ‘The best laid plans …’”
“But you can’t prove anything,” said Rothwell.
“Don’t be an idiot. Of course we can. We can prove that you’re alive and Daniel Clegg was murdered in your garage.”
“But you can’t prove I was there. It’s only your word against mine. I could say they were taking me out to kill both of us. I managed to get away and I ran and hid here. They killed Daniel, but I escaped.”
“They killed him in your clothes?” Banks shook his head slowly. “It won’t wash, Keith.”
“But it’s all circumstantial. Jameson and Pembroke are both dead. A good lawyer could get me off, and you know it.”
“You’re dreaming. Say you do beat the murder conspiracy charge, which I think is unlikely, there’s still the money-laundering and the rest.”
Rothwell looked around the room, mouth set firmly. “I’m not going back,” he said. “You can’t make me. I know there are European extradition treaties. Procedures to follow. They take time. You can’t just take me in like some bounty hunter.”
“Of course I can’t,” said Banks. “That was never my intention.” He heard the gate open and walked over to the window.
A pale, beautiful woman in a yellow sun-dress, red-blonde hair piled and knotted high on her head, had walked into the courtyard and paused to check on the flowers and potted plants. She carried a basket of fresh bread and other foodstuffs in the crook of her arm. She put out her free hand and bent to hold a purple blossom gently between her fingers for a moment, then inspected the herbs. The sun brought out the blonde highlights in her hair. “It looks like Julia’s back,” Banks said. “Doesn’t tan well, does she?”
Rothwell jumped up and looked out. “Julia knows nothing,” he said quickly, speaking quietly so she couldn’t hear him. “You have to believe that. I told her I had business problems, that I had to burn a lot of bridges if we were to be together, that we’d be well set up for life but we couldn’t go back. Ever. She agreed. I don’t know if you can understand this or not, but I love her, Banks, more than anyone or anything I’ve ever loved in my life. I mean it. It’s the first time I’ve ever … I already told you. I love her. She knows nothing. You can do what you want with me, but leave her alone.”
Banks kept quiet.
“You’ll never be able to prove anything,” Rothwell added.
“Maybe I don’t even want to take that risk,” said Banks. By now they could both see Julia and hear her humming softly as she rubbed the leaves on a pot of basil and sniffed her fingers. “Maybe I’d rather you made a clean breast of it,” he went on, keeping his voice low. “A confession. It might even go in your favour, you never know. Especially the love bit. Juries love lovers.”
Julia stood up. Some of her piled tresses had come loose and trailed over her cheeks. She was flushed from the walk and some of the hairs stuck to her face, dampened with sweat.
“You must be mad if you think I’d give all this up willingly,” Rothwell said.
“You can’t buy paradise with blood, Keith,” said Banks. “Come on home. Tell us everything about Martin Churchill’s finances, everything you know about the bastard. Let’s go public, make plenty of noise, sing louder than a male-voice choir. We can make sure he never sets foot in the country even if he turns up looking like Mr Bean. We could offer you protection, then perhaps another identity, another new life. You’d do some time, of course, but I’m willing to bet that by the time you got out, Martin Churchill would be just another of history’s unpleasant footnotes, and Julia would be still waiting.”
“You’re insane, do you know that? I’d kill you before I’d do what you’re suggesting.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Keith. Besides, there’d be others after me.”
Rothwell paused on his way to the door and stared at Banks, eyes wide open and wild, no longer calm and steady. “Do you know what will happen if I go home?”
“It might not be half as bad as what will happen if I let Churchill know you’re still alive,” said Banks. “They say he has a long reach and a nasty line in revenge.” Julia had almost reached the door. “It wouldn’t stop at you,” Banks said.
Rothwell froze. “You wouldn’t. No. Not even you would do a thing like that.”
At that moment, Banks hated himself probably more than at any other time in his life. He felt sorry for Rothwell, and he found himself on the verge of relenting.
Then he remembered Mary Rothwell, living in a haze of tranquillizers; Alison, burying her head deep in her books and fast losing touch with the real world; and Tom, flailing around in his own private mire of guilt and confusion. Rothwell could have helped these people. Then he thought of Pamela Jeffreys, just out of hospital, physically okay, but still afraid of every knock at her door and unsure whether she would get back the confidence to play her viola again.
For this man’s gamble on paradise, Daniel Clegg lay in his grave with his head blown off, Barry Miller had died on a wet road at midnight and Grant Everett might have to spend the next few years of his life relearning how to walk and talk. Even Arthur Jameson and Donald Pembroke were Rothwell’s victims, in a way.
And, much farther away but no less implicated, was a dictator who got fat while his people starved, a man who liked to watch people eat glass, a man who, now, if Banks could help it, would never enjoy a peaceful retirement in the English countryside, no matter what he had on some powerful members of the establishment.
And the more Banks thought about these people, victims and predators alike, the less able he was to feel sorry for the fallen lovers.
“Try me,” he said.
Rothwell glared at him, then all the life seemed to drain out of him until he resembled nothing more than a tired, middle-aged accountant. Banks still felt dirty and miserable, and despite his resolve, he wasn’t certain he could go through with his threat. But Rothwell believed him now, and that was all that mattered. This bastard had caused enough trouble already. There was no more room for pity. Banks felt his pulse race, his jaw clench. Then the door opened and Julia drifted in, all blonde and yellow, with a big smile for Rothwell.
“Hello, darling! Oh,” she said, noticing Banks. “We’ve got company. How nice.”
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM PENGUIN CANADA
In a Dry Season
Peter Robinson
In the blistering, dry summer, the waters of Thornfield Reservoir have been depleted, revealing the ruins of a small Yorkshire village that lay at its bottom, bringing with it the unidentified bones of a brutally murdered young woman. Banks faces a daunting challenge: he must unmask a killer who has escaped detection for half a century.
“A wonderful novel.”
Michael Connelly
“Once again, Robinson’s work stands out for its psychological and moral complexity, its startling evocation of pastoral England and its gritty, compassionate portrayal of modern sleuthing.”
Publishers Weekly
Find out more about Peter Robinson mysteries at www.penguin.ca/mystery
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM PENGUIN CANADA
Dead Right
Peter Robinson
On a rainy night in Eastvale, a teenager is found brutally beaten to death after what appears to be a pub brawl gone wrong. As Banks investigates, the case becomes more complex and more sinister, and solving the mystery becomes imperative as escalating racial tensions threaten more violence to come.
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p; “This novel is Robinson at his best.”
The Gazette (Montreal)
“Robinson continues to be one of the finest mystery novelists writing today.”
The Daily News (Halifax)
Find out more about Peter Robinson
mysteries at www.penguin.ca/mystery
Final Account Page 31