Blood at the Root (19 page)

“Tell me one thing,” Banks said. “Why the hell have you dragged me all the way to Amsterdam?”

Burgess smiled, flipped open his tin of Tom Thumb cigars and selected one. “Everything will be made clear in time. Shit, it’s good to see you again, Banks,” he said. “I knew I could rely on your curiosity to get you here. I can’t think of a better man for a case like this.” He lit the small cigar and blew out a plume of smoke.

“What case would that be?” asked Banks, who had learned, over the years, to trust Burgess about as much as he would trust a politician in an election year.

“Oh, don’t be coy. The Jason Fox case, of course.”

The waiter came out. Burgess asked Banks what he was drinking. Banks told him he’d have another De Koninck.

“Filthy stuff,” said Burgess. Then he turned to the waiter. “Still, bring him another one, will you, mate, if that’s what he wants. I’ll have a lager. Whatever you’ve got on tap.”

Banks noticed for the first time that Burgess had his graying hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail. Bloody typical. The aging-stud look.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Burgess said when the waiter came back with their drinks. “Aren’t you glad I got you the ticket, Banks?”

“I’m overwhelmed with delight and gratitude,” said Banks, “but I wouldn’t mind knowing what it’s all about. Just a hint, maybe, to start with.”

“That’s my Banks.” Burgess jerked forward – all his motions seemed jerky – and clapped him on the shoulder. “Always anxious to get down to business. You know, you could have made super by now. Who knows, even chief super. If only you weren’t such a Bolshie bastard. You never did learn to be nice to the right people, did you?”

Banks smiled. “And
you
did?”

Burgess winked. “I must’ve done something right, mustn’t I? Anyway, enough about me. Sometime earlier this week you – or someone in your division – set off an alarm bell I’d placed on a certain file.”

“The Albion League?”

“Who’s a clever boy, then? Yes, the Albion League. I got a bloke called Crawley – good chap – to answer and instructed him to give away as little as possible. See, I wanted to know why
you
were so interested in the league. It’s not as if they’ve got a big operation in North Yorkshire, after all. Then I found out about the Jason Fox killing, and things sort of fell into place.”

“You knew Jason was a member?”

“Of course I bloody did. He was Neville Motcombe’s right-hand man. Hotly tipped for future Führerdom himself. Now Jason getting himself killed like that was a very bad thing, because it set off all kinds of warning bells all over the place. Which is why I’m here. You, too.”

A couple of young blond girls walked by. One of them was wearing a tight T-shirt and high-cut turquoise shorts. She was pushing her bicycle as she chatted with her friend. “Jesus Christ, would you look at that ass,” said Burgess, lapsing into his habitual American slang. “Gives me such a hard-on I don’t have enough skin left to close my eyes.” He gave a mock shudder. “Anyway, where was I?”

“Warning bells.”

“Yes. I don’t know how much you know about him, Banks, but Motcombe is a nasty piece of work. Just because he’s a fucking fruitcake it doesn’t mean you should under-estimate him.”

“I’d have thought that
you
would have had every sympathy with him,” Banks said. “In fact, I’m surprised you’re not a member of the Albion League yourself.”

Burgess laughed. “Oh, what a cheap shot. You know what, Banks, you’re so very predictable. Do you know that? That’s one of the reasons I like you. I’ve been waiting for a remark like that ever since I sat down.” He settled back in his chair and puffed on his Tom Thumb. “Do I think we’re letting too many foreigners in? Yes. Do I think we’ve got a problem with our immigration policy? Damn right I do. But do I think a gang of goose-stepping football hooligans are the answer? No, I don’t. Look at this lot.” He waved his arm around, as if to indicate the Dutch in general. “Look at the problems they’ve had with their darkies. And they’ve only got Dutch Guiana to worry about.”

“Suriname,” said Banks.

“Whatever.”

“And I think you’ll find they also colonized a lot more of the world than just that.”

“Listen, Banks, stop being a bloody smart-arse. That’s not the point, and you know it. You can’t convince me that England wouldn’t be a damn sight more civilized and law-abiding if we hadn’t let so many of the buggers in to start with.”

“Civilized and law-abiding as in football hooligans?”

“Oh, it’s no fucking use arguing with you, is it? Got an answer for everything, haven’t you? Let me put it in a nutshell. While I think this Albion League might have some pretty good ideas, I don’t like getting dressed up like an idiot and hanging around with skinheads and leather-fetishists without two brain cells to rub together between them. Credit me with a bit more sense than that, Banks. Whatever I am,” Burgess concluded, thrusting his thumb toward his chest, “I am not a fucking loony.”

Burgess was actually wearing his trademark scuffed-up black leather jacket, but Banks let that one go by.

“Anyway,” Burgess went on after a long swig of generic lager, “back to Neville Motcombe. We know he’s got connections with other right-wing groups in Europe and America. Over the past four years, he’s traveled extensively in Germany, France, Spain, Italy and Holland. He’s also been to Greece and Turkey.”

“I wouldn’t have thought a neo-Nazi would find much to interest him in Turkey,” Banks said.

“You’d be surprised. There are plenty of right-wing Turkish groups with access to arms. Get them cheap off the Russians in Azerbaijan or Armenia. Very strategically located for lots of nasty things, is Turkey. And don’t forget, Johnny Turk’s a slimy bastard. Anyway, Motcombe has also visited a number of militia training camps in the south-western United States, and he’s been spotted entering the Nazi party headquarters in Lincoln, Nebraska. That, for your information, is where most of the instructions on bombs and explosives come from. So this guy has talked to the sort of people who blew up that government building in Oklahoma City.” Burgess pointed his cigar at Banks. “Whatever you do, Banks, don’t underestimate Neville Motcombe. Besides, when you get right down to it, this isn’t really about politics at all. There’s something else.”

“What?”

“Money. One of the Turkish right-wingers Motcombe has been communicating with frequently of late, via the Internet, is a suspected international drug dealer. Heroin, mostly. And we happen to know he’s looking for new outlets in England. They met when Motcombe was in Turkey during the summer, and electronic traffic between them has increased dramatically over the past three weeks. The wires are hot, you might say.”

“What do these messages say?”

“Ah, well, there’s the problem. Our computer whizzes have been keeping an eye on these cyber-Nazis, as they’re called. We know some of their passwords, so we can read a fair bit of the traffic. Until they get on to us and change the passwords, that is. Problem is, some of the really hot stuff is encrypted. They use PGP and even more advanced encryption programs. I kid you not, Banks, these things make Enigma look like a fucking doddle.”

“So you can’t decipher the messages?”

“Well, maybe they’re just chatting away about Holocaust denial or some such rubbish – we can’t exactly decipher their messages – but knowing the Turk, I doubt it. I’d say he’s found the pipeline he was looking for.”

Banks shook his head. “And Jason Fox?” he said. “Do you think this could have something to do with his death?”

Burgess shrugged. “Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? And I know you don’t like coincidences. I thought you should be filled in, that’s all.”

“What a load of bollocks,” said Banks. “And don’t give me all this cloak-and-dagger shit. Encrypted E-mail. Vague suspicions. Is this what you dragged me all this way for?”

Burgess looked offended. “No,” he said. “Well, not entirely. As it happens, I don’t know much about it yet myself.”

“So why
am
I here?”

“Because a very important person is here,
has
to be here for at least a week. Because it’s essential you talk to this person before you go any further in your investigation. And because it wouldn’t do for you to be seen together back home. Believe me, he’ll be able to tell you a lot more than I can. Good enough?”

“What about the telephone?”

“Oh, give me a break, Banks. If they can eavesdrop on Charlie and Di, they can bloody well eavesdrop on you. Telephones aren’t secure. Quit bellyaching and enjoy yourself. It won’t be all work. I mean, what are you complaining about? You’ve got yourself a free weekend in one of the most exciting cities in the world. Okay?”

Banks thought for a moment, watching the bicycles and cars passing by on the canal side. He lit a cigarette. “So what happens next?” he said.

“Tomorrow afternoon,
I
get up-to-date on what’s going on, then I’m off on my holidays, believe it or not. I think I’ll just go out to Schiphol and take the first flight somewhere tropical. In the evening,
you
have a very important meeting.” Burgess told him to be at a bar near Sarphatipark at eight o’clock, but not whom he would find when he got there. “And make sure you’re not followed,” he added.

Banks shook his head at the melodrama. Burgess just loved this cloak-and-dagger crap.

Then Burgess clapped his hands, showering ash on the table. “But until then, we’re free agents. Two happy bachelors – and notice I didn’t say ‘gay’ – with the whole night ahead of us.” He lowered his voice. “Now, what I suggest is that we find a nice little Indonesian restaurant, shovel down a plate or two of rijsttafel and swill that down with a few pints of lager. Then we’ll see if we can find one of those little coffee shops where you can smoke hash.” He rested his arm over Banks’s shoulder. “And after that, I suggest we take a stroll to the red-light district and get us some nice, tight Dutch pussy. It’s all perfectly legal and aboveboard here, you know, and the girls have regular checkups. Tried and tested, stamped prime grade A.” He turned to Banks and squinted. “Now, I know you’ve got that lovely wife of yours waiting at home – Sandra, isn’t it? – but there really is nothing quite like a little strange pussy once in a while. Take my word. And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. My lips will be eternally sealed, I can promise you that. How about it?”

As usual, Banks thought, the bastard showed his unerring instinct for finding the spot that hurt, like a dentist prodding at an exposed nerve. There was no way Burgess could know what had happened between Banks and Sandra the previous evening. Nobody knew but the two of them. Yet here he was, right on the mark. Well, to hell with him.

“Fine,” said Banks. “You’re on.” Then he raised his glass and finished his beer. “But first, I think I’ll have another one of these.”

“I’m sorry we had to take you away from your wife and child, Mark,” said Gristhorpe. “Let’s hope it won’t be for long.”

Wood said nothing; he just looked sullen and defiant.

“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “I’d like to thank you for sparing us the time.” He balanced a pair of reading glasses on his hooked nose and flipped through some sheets of paper in front of him, glancing up over the top of his glasses from time to time. “There’s just a few points we’d like to get cleared up, and we think you can help us.”

“I’ve already told you,” Wood said. “I don’t know anything.”

Susan sat next to Gristhorpe in the interview room: faded institutional green walls, high barred window, metal table and chairs bolted to the floor, pervading odor of smoke, sweat and urine. Susan was convinced they sprayed it in fresh every day. Two tape recorders were running, making a soft hissing sound in the background. It was dark outside by the time they actually got around to the interview. Gristhorpe had already given the caution. Wood had also phoned a solicitor in Leeds, Giles Varney, and got his answering machine. You’d be lucky to find a lawyer at home on a Friday evening, in Susan’s experience. Still, he had left a message and steadfastly refused the duty solicitor. Hardly surprising, Susan thought, given that Giles Varney was one of the best-known solicitors in the county. She would have thought he was way out of Mark’s league.

“Yes,” said Gristhorpe, taking off his glasses and fingering the papers in front of him. “I know that. Thing is, though, that sometimes when people come into contact with the police, they lie.” He shrugged and held his hands out, palms up. “Now, I can understand that, Mark. Maybe they do it to protect themselves, or maybe just because they’re afraid. But they lie. And it makes our job just that little bit more difficult.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” said Wood.

Good sign, Susan noted. Gristhorpe had the lad apologizing already.

“Now,” Gristhorpe went on, “the last time you got into trouble, you told the police that you had no idea the van you were driving was used for carrying drugs, or that some of the people you were involved with were dealing drugs. Is that true?”

“Do you mean is that what I said?”

“Yes.”

Mark nodded. “Yes.”

“And is the
statement
true?”

Mark grinned. “Well, of course it is. It’s what I told the court, isn’t it? A matter of public record. It’s hardly my fault if the magistrate didn’t believe me.”

“Course not, Mark. Innocent people get convicted all the time. It’s one of the problems with the system. Nothing’s perfect. But with so many lies going around, you can understand why we might be just a bit wary, a little bit overcautious, and perhaps not quite as trusting as you’d like, can’t you?”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

Gristhorpe nodded. “Good.”

The superintendent’s interview technique, Susan noticed, was in direct contrast to Banks’s, with whom she had more experience of questioning subjects. Banks would sometimes needle his interviewees, and when he’d got them confused and vulnerable, he would subtly suggest possible scenarios of how they had committed the crime, and why. He sometimes even went so far as to explain to them their feelings and state of mind while they were doing it. Then, if they were new to the world of crime, he would sometimes describe in graphic detail what kind of life they could expect in jail and after. Banks worked on his subjects’
imaginations
; he used words to paint images unbearable to the hearer.

Gristhorpe seemed to concentrate more on logic and reasoned argument; he was polite, soft-spoken and unrelenting. He seemed slower than Banks, too. As if he had all the time in the world. But Susan was keen to get it over with. She had already pulled a couple favors to get the lab working overtime on Mark Wood’s shoes and clothing, and if they came up with some solid forensic evidence, or if Gristhorpe got a confession, there was a good chance they could wrap things up before tonight. Jimmy Riddle would be pleased about that.

As a bonus, she would have the weekend free, for once, and she might get her Saturday night out with Gavin. She had considered phoning him earlier – even picked up the phone – but no, she told herself, it wouldn’t do to seem
too
keen,
too
easily available. Let him cajole her. Seduce her.
Win
her.

“You see,” Gristhorpe went on, “that’s one of our main problems, sorting out the lies from the truth. That’s why we have science to help us. Do you know what ‘forensic’ means?”

Wood frowned and tugged on his earring. “It means science, doesn’t it? Like blood types, footprints, DNA and fingerprints?”

“That’s a common error,” Gristhorpe said, toying with his glasses on the table. “Actually, it means ‘for use in a court of law.’ It’s from the Latin, related to the word
forum
. So one of the best systems we have to help us tell the lies from the truth is a complex and broad-ranging branch of science dedicated solely to presenting scientific evidence
in court
. Now, of course, before we get to court, we use this forensic evidence to help us identify the people who should be on trial. And in your case, I’m afraid the evidence tells us that you should be in court for the murder of Jason Fox. What do you have to say about that, Mark?”

“Nothing. What can I say? I’ve done nothing.”

Wood was taken aback by Gristhorpe’s gentle and erudite logic, Susan could tell. But he was cool. She noticed that Gristhorpe let the silence stretch until Wood started squirming in his chair.

“Well, you must have something to say, lad,” Gristhorpe went on, putting on his glasses again and slipping a photograph from the file in front of him. “This is an image of a fingerprint found on the label of a beer bottle,” he said, turning it around so Wood could see it clearly. “It was developed by a very painstaking process. Forensic science doesn’t produce miracles, Mark, but sometimes it seems to come close. Now, I’m sure you’re an intelligent-enough lad to know that fingerprints are unique. So far, no two fingers have been found to possess the same ridge characteristics. Isn’t that amazing?”

Wood said nothing; his eyes were glued to the photo.

“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “what’s particularly interesting about
that
fingerprint is that it came from a fragment of a broken bottle found at the scene of Jason Fox’s murder. But perhaps I’m being precipitous in referring to it as a
murder
so soon, because that hasn’t been proven yet. You do know that there’s a big difference between homicide and manslaughter, don’t you, Mark?”

Wood nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. And there’s also a big difference in jail sentences. But we won’t let that detain us for the moment. Anyway, the point is that it is a close match for
your
fingerprint – one we already have on file – and that it was found in the ginnel by the rec, on a fragment of a broken beer bottle under Jason Fox’s body. I’d like you to tell me how it got there.”

Wood licked his lips and glanced at Susan. She said nothing. He looked back into Gristhorpe’s guileless blue eyes.

“Well, er… I suppose I must have touched it, mustn’t I, if it’s got my prints on it?” He smiled.

Gristhorpe nodded. “Aye. I suppose so. When might that have happened, Mark?”

“I gave it to Jason,” Wood said finally.

“When?”

“When we came out of the pub. You see, I thought I wanted another beer, so I bought a bottle from out-sales as we were leaving, but then I remembered I had to drive back down the A1, so I just gave it to Jason. He said he was walking home.”

“Ah,” said Gristhorpe. “So you
gave
the bottle of beer to Jason when you parted outside the Jubilee?”

“That’s right. I was parked just down the street the pub was on. Market Street. Is that right?”

“That’s the one.” Gristhorpe looked at Susan, who raised her eyebrows.

“What’s wrong?” Wood asked.

Susan scratched the cleft of her chin. “Nothing, really, Mark,” she said. “It’s just that you’ve confused me a bit. When I talked to you earlier you denied being in Eastvale at all last Saturday night. Don’t you remember?” She pretended to read from the paper in front of her. “You bought a couple of bottles of beer at the off-license and rented a Steven Seagal video, which you and your wife watched that evening. You didn’t even nip out to the Hare and Hounds for a quick one. That’s what you said, Mark.”

“Yeah, well… It’s like he said earlier, isn’t it?” He looked at Gristhorpe.

“What would that be, Mark?” Gristhorpe asked.

“About people ly – - About people not telling the exact truth sometimes when the police come after them.”

“So you didn’t tell the truth?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why not?”

“I was scared, wasn’t I?”

“What of?”

“That you’d fit me up for it because I’ve been in trouble before.”

“Ah, yes,” said Gristhorpe, shaking his head. “The classic fit-up. That’s another one of the problems we constantly have to fight against: the public’s perception of the police, mostly formed by the media. Especially television. Well, I won’t deny it, Mark, there
are
police officers who wouldn’t stop at forging a notebook entry or altering a statement in order to convict someone. We’re all embarrassed about the Birmingham Six, you know. That’s why there are so many laws now to help people in your position. We can’t beat you up. We can’t force a confession out of you. We have to treat you well while you’re in custody – feed you, allow you exercise, give you access to a solicitor. That sort of thing. It’s all covered in the PACE guidelines.” Gristhorpe spread his hands. “You see, Mark, we’re just humble public servants, really, gentle custodians here to see that your rights aren’t abused in any way. By the way, you must be a bit hungry by now, aren’t you? I know I am. How about I send out for some coffee and sandwiches?”

“Fine with me. Long as they’re not salmon. I’m allergic to salmon.”

“No problem. Susan, would you ask one of the uniformed officers to nip over to the Queen’s Arms and ask Cyril to do us two or three ham-and-cheese sandwiches? And have one of the lads up front bring us a pot of fresh coffee, please.”

“Of course, sir.”

Susan popped her head out of the door and made the request, then she went back to her chair.

“While we’re waiting, though,” said Gristhorpe, “and if you don’t mind, Mark, let’s get back to what happened last Saturday night, shall we? As I understand it, you’ve changed your original story – which, quite understandably, you now admit was a lie.”

“Because I was scared you’d fit me up.”

“Right. Because you were scared we’d fit you up. Well, I hope I’ve put your mind at rest about that.”

Wood leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You’re a lot nicer than those bastards from West Yorkshire who nabbed me on that drugs charge.”

Bloody hell, thought Susan, the old man’s even getting compliments out of his suspects now, let alone mere apologies.

“Well,” said Gristhorpe, inclining his head modestly. “West Yorkshire have a lot more problems than we do, being a lot more urban and all. They sometimes have to cut corners a bit roughly.”

“You’re telling me.”

“But that’s all behind you now, Mark, isn’t it? I see you’ve been a good lad since then. You took a course and then you went into business. Admirable. But now there’s just this little spot of bother, and the sooner we get it cleared up, the sooner you can get back to leading a normal and productive life with your family. Did Jason ever try to interest you in the Albion League?”

“Sometimes. He’d spout a load of garbage about how the Holocaust didn’t really happen – how most of the Jews died of typhoid and the showers were just ways of disinfecting them, like, not really death camps at all. I must admit, it made me a bit sick. Then I lost interest and didn’t pay much attention after that. Half the time I thought he couldn’t even be serious.”

“I understand your wife is Afro-Caribbean?”

“Her family’s from Jamaica, yes.”

“How did you manage to reconcile this with doing business with a racist like Jason?”

“I never thought much about it, really, not at first. Like I said, I thought Jason spouted a load of silly rubbish. I figured he’d probably grow out of it.”

“You said ‘at first.’ What about after that?”

“Yeah, well, it started getting to me, Sheri being Jamaican and all. We had a couple of arguments. I was on the verge of ditching him when-”

“When what, Mark?”

“Well, you know, he died.”

“Ah, yes. Did you tell him you were married to a Jamaican woman?”

“Are you joking? And listen to him prattle on about that? He really had a bee in his bonnet about mixed marriages. No, I kept my private life and my business activities completely separate.”

Gristhorpe adjusted his glasses again and took a moment or two to look over some sheets of paper. Then he looked back at Wood, held his glasses in his hand and frowned. “But you knew that Jason was doing this computer work for the league?”

The food came, and they took a moment’s break to pass around sandwiches and pour coffee.

“Yes, I knew,” Wood answered. “But what he did in his own time was up to him.”

“Even if you didn’t agree? It bore the trademark of the business you ran together, didn’t it?”

“We could use all the business we could get.”

“Right. So you let your name be used for neo-Nazi propaganda even though you found the idea loathsome. Your wife is black, for crying out loud, Mark. What do you think Jason Fox and his ilk would do with her if they got half a chance? What does that make you, Mark? Are you ashamed of her?”

“Now hold on a minute-”

Gristhorpe leaned forward. He didn’t raise his voice at all, but he fixed Mark with his eyes. “No, Mark,
you
hold on a minute. You were drinking with Jason Fox on the night he got killed. Now, you’ve already lied to us once or twice, but we’ll let that go by for the moment. Your latest story is that you
were
with Jason, but the two of you parted outside the Jubilee, at which time you gave him the bottle of beer you’d bought from out-sales because you remembered you had to drive home. Is that right?”