Blood at the Root (18 page)

With his hair still damp, Banks stepped out into the late-afternoon warmth. Sandra hadn’t been home when he called, hadn’t changed her mind. It was what he had expected, really, though he felt a tremendous sense of disappointment when all he got was his own voice on the answering machine.

After an hour or so spent listening to some Mozart wind quintets on the Walkman, though, followed by a long hot shower, he started to feel more optimistic than he had on the plane. Sandra would come back eventually. Give her a few days at her parents’ to get over the tiff, and then things would soon return to normal. Well, almost. They’d have a lot of talking to do, a lot of sorting out, but they’d manage it. They always had.

As he walked onto Keizersgracht, he still had that disconnected feeling he had experienced on arriving, as if all this – canal, bicycles, houseboats – were somehow not quite real, not connected with his life at all. Could he be living some sort of parallel existence, he wondered, another life going on at the same time as he was back in Eastvale talking over the future with Sandra?

Or was he time-traveling? After feeling as if he’d been away for a year, would he suddenly find himself back in Eastvale only seconds after he had left? Or, worse, would he land back right in the middle of that terrible conversation last night, moments before the magic envelope arrived?

He tried to shake off the feeling as he admired the facades of the old buildings along the canal. Rows of bicycles were parked on the stone quay, and a couple of small houseboats were moored nearby. That must be an interesting existence, Banks thought, living on the water. Maybe he’d try it. Now he was a free agent once again, he supposed he could do whatever he wanted, live where he pleased. As long as he had a source of income, of course. Still, there was always Europol or Interpol.

The sun had disappeared behind a gauze of cloud, giving a slightly hazy, misty effect to the light. It was still warm, though, and he slung his jacket over his shoulder as he walked.

Two pretty young girls passed him by, students by the look of them, and the one with long hennaed hair smiled. Definitely a flirtatious smile. Banks felt absurdly flattered and pleased with himself, as well as a bit embarrassed. Here he was, in his early forties, and young girls were still giving him the eye.

He supposed he must look young enough, despite the hint of gray at the temples of his closely cropped black hair, and he knew he was in fairly good shape for his age, still lean in physique, with the suggestion of wiry, compact strength. Casually dressed in jeans, trainers and a light blue denim shirt, he probably seemed younger than he was. And while his rather long, sharply angled face was not handsome in any regular sense of the word, it was the kind of face women seemed to notice. Sandra had always said it was because of his lively, striking dark blue eyes.

He reached a small stone bridge with black iron railings. A flower vendor stood at the corner and the musky scent of roses filled the air. It took him back to a vivid memory, the way smells do, something to do with one of his walks with Sandra many years ago, but he cut it off. He stood for a moment leaning on the railings and looking down into the murky water, with its floating chocolate wrappers and cigarette packets scattered among the rainbows of diesel oil, then took a deep breath and turned back to the street.

There was the pub, De Kuyper’s, right on the corner, as the desk clerk had said. It had an exterior of dark brown wood and smoked plate-glass windows with the name painted in large white letters. A few small round tables stood outside, all empty at the moment. Banks glanced inside the dark wood-paneled bar, saw no one he knew or who took any interest in him, then went out again. He patted his jacket pocket to make sure he had his cigarettes and wallet with him, then slung it over the back of a chair and sat down.

He was early for the meeting, as he had intended. While he didn’t really expect any danger, not here, in the open, on a warm afternoon, he wanted to be able to cover as many angles as possible. His table was perfect for that. From where he sat, he could see all the way along the curving canal past the hotel he had walked from, and a fair distance in the other direction, too. He also had a clear view of the opposite bank. Somewhere, in the distance, he could hear an organ-grinder.

When the white-aproned waiter came by, Banks ordered a bottle of De Koninck, a dark Belgian beer he had tried and enjoyed once at Belgo, a London restaurant. With the beer in front of him, he lit a cigarette and settled back to wait, watching the people walk to and fro, laughing and talking, along the canal. He already had his suspicions about who would turn up.

As it happened, he didn’t have long to wait. He had just lit his second cigarette and worked about halfway through the beer, when he noticed someone out of the corner of his eye coming down the narrow side street.

It was a familiar figure, and Banks congratulated himself for getting it right. None other than Detective Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess in the flesh. A little more flesh than on their previous meeting, by the look of it, most of it on his gut. And his hair was now almost as gray as his cynical eyes. Burgess worked for Special Branch, or something very close to it, and whenever he appeared on the scene Banks knew there would be complications.

“Banks, me old cock sparrow,” said Burgess, putting on the Cockney accent Banks knew he’d lost years ago. Then he clapped Banks on the back and took a chair. “Mind if I join you?”

A steady drizzle had settled in by the time Susan passed the Garforth exit, and she had to switch on her windscreen wipers to clean off all the muck the lorries churned up. Castle-ford wasn’t far, though, and soon the enormous cooling towers of Ferrybridge power station came into sight. She found the road to Ferry Fryston without much trouble and, pulling over into the car park of a large pub to consult her map, pinpointed the street she was looking for.

Mark Wood lived in a “prefab” on one of the early-postwar council estates. These were houses – mostly semis or short terrace blocks – built of concrete prefabricated in the factory, then assembled on the site. In this area, they were built originally to house colliery workers, but since all the local pits had been closed during the Thatcher years, they were up for grabs, a source of cheap housing.

The houses themselves weren’t up to much. They had no central heating, and the walls were damp. In the rain, Susan thought, the concrete looked like porridge.

Susan negotiated her way through the maze of “avenues,” “rises,” “terraces” and “drives” which curved and looped in great profusion, then she spotted Hatchley’s dark-green Astra, just around the corner from Wood’s house, as they had arranged over the phone.

Susan pulled up behind him, turned off her engine, then dashed over and jumped in beside him.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting, Sarge,” she said. “Three-car accident near the York junction.”

“That’s all right,” said Hatchley, stubbing out a cigarette in the already overstuffed ashtray. “Just got here myself. Bugger of a place to find. Bugger of a place to live, too, if you ask me.”

“How shall we play it?”

Hatchley squirmed in his seat and ran his pudgy fingers under the back of his collar, as if to loosen it. “Why don’t you start the questioning?” he said. “It’ll be good experience now you’re going to be a sergeant. I’ll jump in if I think it’s necessary.”

“Fine,” said Susan, smiling to herself. She knew that Hatchley hated carrying out formal interviews unless he was talking either to an informant or a habitual criminal. With Wood, they just didn’t know yet, so Hatchley would let her lead, then he would follow if she got somewhere interesting or fill in the gaps if she missed something.

As it turned out, Hatchley had even more reason for assigning the interview to Susan. When they knocked on the door, a young woman opened it, and Hatchley was useless at interviewing women. Susan finessed their way inside easily enough, showing her warrant card, after learning that Mark had just “nipped out” to the shop for some cigarettes and would be back in a few minutes, Good, she thought; it gave her a chance to talk to the girlfriend alone first.

Inside, the house was clean and tidy enough, but Susan’s sense of smell, always sensitive, reacted at once to the mingled baby odors – warm milk, mushy food and, of course, the whole mess when it all comes out transformed at the other end – plus the kitty litter. Sure enough, a black-and-white cat prowled the room and a baby slept in its cot in the corner, occasionally emitting a tiny sniffle or cry, as if disturbed by dreams. One of the walls was damp, and the wallpaper was peeling off near the ceiling.

“What’s it all about?” the woman asked. “I’m Shirelle. Mark’s wife.”

That was Susan’s first shock. Shirelle was Afro-Caribbean. And she didn’t look a day older than fourteen. She was small in stature, with a flat chest and slim hips, and her pale brown face was framed by long braided black hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Looking at her sitting there in the worn old armchair, it was hard to believe she was old enough to be a mother.

“We’ve just a few questions to ask your Mark, love,” said Susan, in as reassuring a tone as she could manage. When Shirelle didn’t answer, she went on, “Maybe you can help. Do you know Jason Fox?”

She frowned. “No. I’ve never met him. Mark mentioned him once or twice. They work together. But he’s never brought him here.”

I’m not surprised, Susan thought. “Did Mark ever tell you anything about him?”

“Like what?”

“What he’s like, how they get on, that sort of thing.”

“Well, I don’t think Mark likes him all that much. They haven’t been working together for long, and I think Mark’s going to break with him. Apparently, this Jason has some peculiar ideas about immigrants and stuff.”

You could say that again. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I’m not an immigrant. I was born here.”

“How long have they been working together?”

“A few months.”

“How did they meet?”

“They were both doing a computer course in Leeds at the same time, and neither of them could get a job after. I think this Jason had a bit of money to put into starting a business. Mark was top of the class, so Jason asked if he wanted to join him. Like I say, I don’t think Mark’s going to stick with him. It’s just a start, that’s all. It’s hard to get started when you don’t have the experience.”

“How’s the business doing?” Susan asked.

Shirelle looked around her and snorted. “What do
you
think? Hardly made enough to pay for this place and you can see what a dump it is.” Now she neither looked nor sounded like a fourteen-year-old.

The cat tried to climb on Susan’s knee, but she pushed it away. “It’s not that I don’t like cats, Shirelle,” she said, “but I’m allergic to them.”

Shirelle nodded. “Tina, come here!” she said.

But the cat, as cats do, gave her a you-must-be-joking look and ignored her. Finally, Shirelle shot forward, scooped up Tina and deposited her in the next room, closing the door.

“Thanks,” said Susan. “Have you heard of the Albion League?”

Shirelle shook her head. “What’s that when it’s at home?”

“Do you know where Mark was last Saturday night?”

Shirelle glanced away for just long enough that Susan knew she was going to tell a lie. Why? Had her husband told her to? Or did she want to avoid trouble with the police? With some people, it was habitual. Whatever the reason, as soon as she said, “He was here. At home,” Susan asked her to think carefully about her answer.

“What time do you mean?” Shirelle asked, after a few moments’ hesitation. “Because he might, you know, have nipped down the pub for a jar or two with his mates.”

“Which pub would that be?”

“Hare and Hounds. At the corner. That’s his local.” Shirelle seemed distracted by Sergeant Hatchley, who had said nothing so far, but just sat next to Susan on the sofa watching the whole proceedings, still as a statue, occasionally nodding encouragement and making a note in his black book. She kept looking at him, then turned her large, frightened eyes away, back to Susan.

“And if we were to ask there, at this Hare and Hounds,” Susan said, “then they’d remember Mark from last Saturday night, would they?”

“I… I don’t-”

At that moment the front door opened and a male voice called out, “Sheri? Sheri?”

Then Mark Wood entered the room: stocky build, muscular, short hair, loop earring and all. Early twenties. The man in the picture.

“Hello, Mark,” said Susan. “We’ve been wanting a word with you ever since last Saturday.”

When Mark saw Susan and Hatchley he stopped in his tracks and his jaw went slack. “Who…?” But it was obvious he knew who they were, even if he hadn’t been expecting them. He put the packet of cigarettes on the table and sat in the other armchair. “What about?” he asked.

“Jason. We’d have thought you might have got in touch with us, you know, since Jason died.”

“Jason what?” Shirelle burst in. She looked at Mark. “Jason’s
dead
? You never told me that.”

Mark shrugged.

“Well?” Susan asked.

“Well, what?”

“What do you have to say? Even if your wife didn’t know,
you
knew Jason was dead, didn’t you?”

“Read about it in the paper. But it’s nothing to do with me, is it?”

“Isn’t it? You were there, Mark. You were in Eastvale drinking with Jason. You left the Jubilee with him shortly after closing time. What we want to know is what happened next.”

“I was never there,” Mark said. “I was here. At home. Now we’ve got little Connor, I don’t get out as much as I used to. I can’t just leave Sheri alone with him all the time, can I? Besides, as you can probably tell, we’re a bit short of the readies, too.”

“I’ll bet you own a car, though, don’t you?”

“Just an old banger. A van. I need it for the business.”

“Designing Web pages?”

“That’s not all we do. We do a bit of retail, refurbish systems, set up networks, troubleshoot, that sort of thing.”

“So you haven’t been out dealing drugs for a while?”

“You know about that, do you?”

“We do our research. What do you expect?”

Mark shifted in his chair and shot a quick glance at Shirelle. “Yeah, well, it was years ago now. It’s behind me. I’ve been clean ever since.”

“Were you selling drugs at the Jubilee last Saturday night?”

“No. I told you. I wasn’t even there. Besides, I served my time.”

“You’re right,” said Susan. “Nine months, if I read the record right. It’s nice to know there really is such a thing as rehabilitation. That’s not what we’re interested in anyway. All we care about is what happened to Jason Fox. What about the Albion League, Mark? Are you a member?”

Mark scoffed. “That bunch of wankers? That was Jason’s thing. Not mine.” He looked at Shirelle. “Or isn’t that obvious enough to you already?”

“Did Jason ever introduce you to their leader, Neville Motcombe, or any of the other members?”

“No. He kept asking me to go to meetings, but that’s all. I think he picked up that I wasn’t really interested.”

“But the two of you produced the Web page for them.”

“Jason did that in his spare time. By himself. Thought it was a good idea to put the company’s logo at the bottom. Said it could bring us more business.” He shrugged. “Business is business, even if some of it does come from crackpots.”

“And did it?”

“Did it what?”

“Bring in more business?”

“Nah. Not much. To be honest, I think hardly anyone even looked at it. I mean, would you?”

“But you were friends with Jason, too, weren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t really say that.”

“I understand he provided the capital to start the business?”

Mark looked at Shirelle. Susan guessed he was probably trying to work out exactly what his wife had told them already.

“Yes,” he said. “I didn’t have any money, but Jason put in a few hundred quid, just to get us going. Only a loan, mind you.”

“So you wouldn’t say you were friends?”

“No. It’s not as if we actually socialized together.”

“But you
were
socializing last Saturday night in East-vale.”

“I told you, I wasn’t there. I was here all evening.”

“Didn’t you even nip out for a jar?” Susan asked. “Shirelle here said she thought you might have done.”

Mark looked to his wife for guidance. “I… I don’t…” she said. “They’ve been confusing me, Mark.
Was
it Saturday? I don’t remember. I only said he might have gone out for a few minutes.”

“
Did
you go out, Mark?” Susan repeated.

“No,” said Mark. Then he turned to Shirelle. “Don’t you remember, love, when we went in town shopping in the afternoon, we picked up a couple of bottles at the offie, then we rented that Steven Seagal video and we just stayed in and watched it. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” said Shirelle. “Yes, I remember now. We stayed in and watched a video together.”

Susan ignored Shirelle; she was lying again. And she thought it interesting that no matter how poor people seemed, how short of the “readies” they were, they always had enough money for booze, cigarettes, videos and pets. Cars, even. “So you weren’t in Eastvale at all last Saturday night, then, Mark?”

Mark shook his head. “No.”

“I suppose the video rental shop will have a record?”

“I suppose so. They’re computerized, all the latest gear, so they ought to. I never asked. I mean, I didn’t think anyone would be interested.”

“But you could still be lying, couldn’t you?” Susan went on. “In fact, it doesn’t matter at all whether you rented a video on Saturday afternoon or not, does it? You could have gone to Eastvale on Saturday evening, met Jason in the Jubilee and booted him to death. You could have watched the video after you got home.”

“I told you. I didn’t do anything of the sort. I wasn’t anywhere near there. Besides, why would I do a thing like that? I already told you, Jason was my business partner. Why would I kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”

“You tell me. I understand you were going to dump him?”

Again, Mark looked at Shirelle, who stared into her lap.

“Look,” he said, “I’m telling you, I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t anywhere near Eastvale. I’ve never even been there in my life.”

Suddenly, Hatchley lurched to his feet, making even Susan jump. “Let’s cut the bollocks, lad,” he said, putting his notebook back in his inside pocket. “We know you were there. People
saw
you in the pub. And we’ve got a clear set of your fingerprints on the murder weapon. What have you got to say about that?”

Mark looked from side to side, as if seeking an escape route. Shirelle started to cry. “Oh, Mark…” she wailed. “What can we do?”

“Shut up blubbering,” he said, then turned back to Susan and Hatchley. “I want a lawyer.”

“Later,” said Hatchley. “First, we’re going to fill a plastic bag with your shoes and clothes, then we’re going to go back to Eastvale for a nice long chat in a proper police interview room. How do you feel about that?”

Mark said nothing.

Connor stirred in his cot and started to cry.