Blood at the Root (21 page)

Susan nodded. “I know, sir.”

“And give the lab another call. Ask them to get their fingers out. If all they can tell us is there’s human blood on the clothes, I’d be satisfied for the time being. Because if we don’t get something positive soon, Mark Wood is going to walk out of here in less than an hour and I’m still not happy with a word he’s told us.”

Banks made it down to breakfast with just minutes to spare before the nine-o’clock deadline, getting a frosty look from the stout waitress in the hotel lounge for his trouble. First, he helped himself to coffee from a table by the window, then he sat down and looked around. A large NO SMOKING symbol hung over the lace-curtained window.

He doodled away at yesterday’s
Yorkshire Post
crossword while he sipped the rich black coffee and waited. Eventually, the waitress returned and, with a dour glance, she deposited a glass of orange juice and a plate in front of him. On the plate lay a few slices of cold ham, a chunk of Edam cheese, a hard-boiled egg, a couple of rolls and some butter. The Dutch breakfast. Banks tucked in.

He felt fortunate in having only the mildest of hangovers. The slight ache behind his eyes had been easily vanquished with the aid of two extra-strength paracetamols from his traveler’s emergency kit, and he suspected that the minor sense of disorientation he felt was still more due to being in a foreign city than to the residual effects of alcohol. Whatever the reason, he felt fine. At least physically.

Only as he sipped the last of his coffee did he realize he hadn’t thought of his domestic problems at all last night. Even now, in the morning’s light, everything felt so distant, so disembodied. He could hardly believe that Sandra had really gone. Was it a question of not being there to see the tree fall in the woods, or was it what the psychologists of grief called denial? Maybe he would ask his psychologist friend Jenny Fuller when she got back from America. Jenny. Now, if Sandra really
had
gone, did that make him a free agent? What were the rules? Best not think about it too much. Maybe he would ring home again before going out, just to see if she had come back.

He was the only person sitting in the spotless lounge, with its dark wood smelling of polish, its lace doilies, ticking clock and knickknacks stuffed in alcoves. As he had hoped, Burgess had either breakfasted earlier or hadn’t even got out of bed yet. Banks suspected the latter.

Thank the Lord a passer-by had stopped to help him haul Burgess out of the canal last night. Dirty Dick had stood there dripping the foul water and complaining loudly about the canal-building Dutch engineers – most of whom, according to him, had only one parent, a mother, with whom they had indulged in unspeakable sexual relations.

Banks finally managed to persuade him to calm down and walk back to the hotel before the police arrived and arrested them.

That they succeeded in doing, and their arrival attracted only a puzzled frown from the man at the desk as they traipsed through the lobby. Burgess still trailed dirty canal water as he went, his shoes squelching with every step. He held his head high, like W. C. Fields trying to pretend he was sober, and walked with as much dignity as he could muster. After that, he went straight up to his room on the second floor, and that was the last Banks had seen or heard of him.

After breakfast, Banks went all the way back up to his room and phoned home again. Still nothing. Not that he had expected Sandra to get the
first
train back home, but one lives in hope. He didn’t leave a message for himself.

As he trod carefully back down the steep, narrow stairs, tiptoeing over the landing near Burgess’s room, he reflected on how he had enjoyed himself last night, how, against all expectations, he had enjoyed his night of freedom. He hadn’t done anything he wouldn’t normally have done, except perhaps drink too much and get silly, but he had
felt
differently about it.

For the first time, he found himself wondering if Sandra wasn’t, perhaps, right. Maybe they both did need a little time to maneuver and regroup after all the changes of the past few years, especially Sandra’s new and more demanding job at the gallery, and the loss of the children.

Not children now, Banks reminded himself. Grown-ups. He thought back to that evening in the Pack Horse only a few days ago, when he had watched Tracy with her friends and realized he couldn’t cross the lounge to be with her; then he remembered a telephone call he had once made from Weymouth to his son in Portsmouth, realizing then for the first time how distant and independent Brian had become.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Any of it. Except to make damn sure he kept in touch with them, helped them the best he could, became a friend and not a meddlesome irritation to them. He wondered how they would take the news of their parents’ separation. For that matter, who would tell them? Would Sandra? Should he?

He walked out onto Keizersgracht. The sun glinted on the parked bicycles on the quay and on the canal, making a rainbow out of a pool of oil. Reflections of trees shimmered gently in the ripples of a passing boat.

His mysterious meeting was set for eight o’clock tonight. Well, he thought, in the meantime, on a day like this, tourist map in hand, he could walk the city to his heart’s content.

“You’ve got to admit, Superintendent, that your evidence is pretty thin.”

Giles Varney, Mark Wood’s solicitor, sat in Gristhorpe’s office later that Saturday morning, staring out over the market square as he talked.

Outside, a sunny morning had brought plenty of tourists to the bustling open market, but now it was clouding over and, to Susan’s well-trained nose, getting ready to pour down before the day was out. She had already seen the gusts of wind, which would later bring the rain clouds, billowing the canvas covers of the market stalls.

Varney wasn’t a pinstripe lawyer like the one they’d had to deal with last year in the Deborah Harrison murder. He was casually dressed in jeans and a sports shirt, and his very expensive light wool jacket hung on a stand in the corner. He was young, probably not much older than Susan’s own twenty-seven, in good shape, and handsome in a craggy, outdoorsy kind of way. He looked as if he were on his way to go hang-gliding.

There was something Susan didn’t like about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. An arrogance, perhaps, or overconfidence. Whatever it was, it put her on her guard.

“I realize that, Mr. Varney,” said Gristhorpe, “but I’m sure you can see our predicament.”

Varney smiled. “With all due respect, it’s not my job to see your predicament. It’s my job to get my client out of jail.”

Supercilious prat, Susan thought.

“And it’s our job,” countered Gristhorpe, “to get to the bottom of Jason Fox’s death. Your client admits he was at the scene.”

“Only
prior
to the crime. He couldn’t have had any knowledge of what was going to happen.”

“Oh, come off it, Mr. Varney. If three kids came at you in a dark alley, I think you’d have a pretty good idea what was about to take place, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s beside the point. And since when has saving your own skin been regarded as a criminal act? Technically, my client is not guilty of any crime. I expect you to release him immediately. I trust you have the real criminals in custody?”

“On their way. Again,” muttered Gristhorpe.

Varney raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I understand you had these same chaps in custody once before and let them go?”

“Had to,” Gristhorpe said. “No evidence. You’d have approved.”

Varney smiled again. “Not having much luck with evidence these days, are you, Superintendent?”

“There
is
one other small matter,” said Gristhorpe.

Varney glanced at his Rolex with irritation. “Yes?”

“Your client has now become an important witness. I trust you’d have no objection to his remaining here in order to identify the suspects when we’ve brought them in?”

Varney narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Superintendent. But something smells. Still, how could I have any objection? And I’m sure my client will be more than willing to help sort out this mess for you. As long as he’s released from his cell this very minute and treated as a witness rather than as a criminal. He also has to know that he’s free to go home whenever he wants.”

Susan breathed a sigh of relief. She knew that Gristhorpe was playing for time, trying to find some reason to keep Mark Wood in Eastvale until the lab came up with something – or with nothing. This way, at least, they might get another hour or so out of him, especially if they had him write another formal statement
after
the identification. Maybe a lot more time than that if they put together an identification parade, which would mean importing a few more Asians of similar build to George, Kobir and Asim.

As it turned out, they hardly had to wait at all. Just as Gristhorpe was about to leave the office and take Varney down to release Mark Wood, the phone rang. Gristhorpe excused himself, picked up the receiver, grunted a few times, then beamed at Susan. “That’s the lab,” he said. “They’ve found traces of blood between the uppers and the soles of Mark Wood’s Doc Martens, and it matches Jason Fox’s blood group. I’m afraid, Mr. Varney, we’ve got a few more questions for your client.”

Varney sniffed and sat down again. Gristhorpe picked up his phone and called downstairs. “Bert? Have young Mark Wood brought up from the cells, would you? Yes, the interview room.”

Giles Varney insisted on having a private talk with Mark Wood before the interview. Susan waited with Gristhorpe in his office, where they went over all Wood’s previous statements, planning their strategy. The rags of cloud had drifted in from Scotland now and the air that blew in through the partially open window was beginning to smell like a wet dog. Susan walked over and watched some of the tourists looking at the sky, then heading for the pubs or for their cars.

“Hungry?” Gristhorpe asked.

“I can wait, sir,” said Susan. “A few less calories won’t do me any harm.”

“Me neither,” grinned Gristhorpe. “But at my age you don’t worry about it so much.”

There was a brisk tap at the door and Giles Varney walked in.

“Finished?” Gristhorpe asked.

Varney nodded. “For the moment. My client wishes to make a statement.”

“Another one?”

“Look,” said Varney with a thin smile, “the blood evidence isn’t much to write home about so far, you have to admit, and the fingerprint rubbish is even less. You should be grateful for what you can get.”

“In a few days,” Gristhorpe countered, “we’ll have DNA on the blood. And I suspect your client knows that will prove it’s Jason Fox’s. At the moment, I think we’ve got enough to hold him.”

Varney smiled. “That’s what I thought you’d say. What you hear might change your mind.”

“How?”

“After a certain amount of reflection, on the advice of his solicitor, my client is now willing to explain exactly what happened last Saturday night.”

“Right,” said Gristhorpe, getting up and glancing over at Susan. “Let’s get to it then.”

They went into the interview room, where Mark Wood sat chewing his fingernails, went through the preliminaries and turned on the tape recorders.

“Right, lad,” said Gristhorpe. “Mr. Varney here says you wish to make a statement. I hope it’s the truth this time. Now what have you got to say?”

Wood looked at Varney before opening his mouth. Varney nodded. “I did it,” Wood said. “I killed Jason. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

“Why don’t you tell us what happened, Mark?” Gristhorpe coaxed him. “Slowly. Take your time.”

Wood looked at Varney, who nodded. “We were going back to his place, like I said before. Jason was going on about those Pakis back in the Jubilee, what he thought should be done with them. We started arguing. I told him I didn’t like that racist crap. Jason was going on about how I was really a racist deep down, just like him, and why didn’t I admit it, join the group. I laughed and told him I’d never join that band of wankers in a million years. I was pretty mad by then, so I told him that my wife was from Jamaica. Then he started insulting her, calling her a black bitch and a whore and calling little Connor a half-breed mutant. We were getting near the ginnel now and Jason was really laying into me. Really crude stuff. Like I’d betrayed the white race by marrying a nigger, and shit like that.” Mark paused and rubbed his temples. “I’d had a few drinks, more than I admitted, and more than Jason, at any rate, and sometimes I… well, I’ve got a bit of a temper when I’m pissed. I just lost it, that’s all. He came at me. I had the bottle in my hand and I just lashed out with it and hit him.”

“What happened next?”

“He didn’t go down. Just put his hand to the side of his head and swore, then he came at me again. He was strong, was Jason, but I reckon I’m probably stronger. Anyway, we started fighting, but I think the head wound had sort of weakened him and I managed to knock him down. I thought about what he’d said about Sheri and Connor and I just saw red. The next thing I knew, he wasn’t moving, and I ran off.”

“And left him there?”

“Yes. I didn’t know he was fucking dead. How could I? I thought I’d just put him out of action for a while.”

“Why did you empty his pockets?”

“I didn’t. Why would I do that?”

“Because the whole thing was a lot more deliberate than you’re saying? Because you wanted to make it look like a mugging? You tell me, Mark.”

“Superintendent,” Varney chipped in. “My client is offering a voluntary statement. If he says he didn’t empty the victim’s pockets, then I suggest you believe him. He has no reason to lie at this point.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Varney,” said Gristhorpe. He looked at Mark again.

Mark shook his head. “I don’t remember doing that. Honest.”

Gristhorpe sniffed and riffled through some sheets of paper in front of him. “Mark,” he said finally, “Jason Fox’s injuries included a fractured skull and a ruptured spleen. Yet you say you only knocked him down?”

“That’s how it happened. I admit I lost it, I was in a rage, but I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“All right, Mark,” said Gristhorpe. “Is this the statement you want to make?”

“Yes.”

“My client will be pleading to the charge of manslaughter, Superintendent,” Varney said. “And I think there might be some room for mitigating circumstances.”

“Plenty of time for charges later,” said Gristhorpe. “Let’s just go through the story again first.” Gristhorpe turned to Susan and sighed. “Susan, go and make sure George Mahmood and his friends are released immediately. The poor sods won’t know whether they’re coming or going.”

Susan nodded and got up. As she left the interview room, she heard Gristhorpe say wearily, “Right then, Mark, once more from the top.”