Blood at the Root (27 page)

What the hell am I doing here? Susan wondered, as Banks stood aside and held the door of the Duck and Drake open for her. Why did I agree to this?
I must be insane
.

The Duck and Drake was a small hideaway in Skinner’s Yard, one of the many alleys off King Street. Wedged between an antiquarian bookshop and the Victoria wineshop, it had a narrow frontage and not much more room inside. One advantage was that it was one of the few pubs that still had a snug, a tiny room handy for private conversations. The doorway was so low that even Banks had to stoop. Inside, the snug was all dark wood beams and whitewashed stone walls hung with brass ornaments. An old black-leaded fireplace took up almost one entire wall. Above it ran a long wooden mantelpiece with a few tattered leather-bound books.

They had the snug to themselves. Banks bought the drinks and sat against the wall, opposite her, a small table between them.

Sipping her St. Clement’s, Susan could hear the occasional
kerchunk
of the fruit machine and chink of the cash register coming from the other rooms. If they wanted the barman’s attention, they had to ring a little bell on the bar. It was an altogether too intimate and cozy setup for Susan, but there was nothing she could do about it. Banks had been right in that the Queen’s Arms was far too public a place for them to meet. And he was clearly oblivious to her discomfort, drinking his Sam Smith’s Old Brewery Bitter and chewing on a cheese-and-onion sandwich. Susan had no appetite at all. Between mouthfuls, he told her about what he had discovered in Amsterdam.

Susan listened, frowning and biting her lower lip in concentration. When Banks had finished, she said, “It makes sense, sir, but how does it change things? We already know Mark Wood killed Jason. He admitted it.”

Banks finished his sandwich, sipped some Sam Smith’s and reached for his cigarettes.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve just read through his statements. The kid’s a pathological liar. He’s confessed to manslaughter, but if I’m right, it was murder. Premeditated murder.”

“I don’t see how you can prove that.”

“There’s the rub. According to the postmortem report, Jason Fox was hit
on the back of the head
with the beer bottle, right?”

Susan nodded. “That’s where Dr. Glendenning found the most damage to the skull, and the glass fragments.”

“But in his statement, Mark Wood said he hit Jason
on the side of the head
.”

“I noticed that,” said Susan, “but, quite honestly, sir, I didn’t think much of it. He was confused, under pressure. Basically, he was saying he just lashed out.”

“Yes, I understand that. The point is, that doesn’t happen in a fight.”

“Sir?”

“Stand up.”

Banks edged out from the bench. The room itself was just about high enough for him to stand up in. There was no one else around. Susan got to her feet and stood facing him, almost close enough to feel the warmth of his body.

She concentrated on the demonstration, focusing on little details. He didn’t look well, she noticed. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his face was pale. There was also a deep sadness in him that she had never noticed before.

“Pretend to hit me on the back of the head with an imaginary beer bottle,” he said.

“I can’t, sir,” Susan said. “Not from this angle. Jason must have had his back to Wood, walking either in front of or beside him. Or he must at least have been partly turned sideways.”

“Like this?” Banks turned sideways.

“Yes, sir.”

Banks went back to his seat and lit a cigarette. “Been in many fights?” he asked.

“No, sir. But that-”

“Let me finish. I have. At school. And, believe me, you would never get your opponent to stand in that position. Not willingly. Not unless you’d hit him with your fist first and knocked him sideways.”

“Maybe that’s what happened?”

Banks shook his head again. “Listen to what you’re saying, Susan. To do that, he’d have to have been holding the beer bottle in the same hand he punched Fox with and then swung back very quickly and hit him before he moved. Even if he had the beer bottle in the other hand and switched after he’d hit him, it still doesn’t make sense. And remember, Jason was no slouch when it came to physical strength. You’d need every advantage to get the better of him. Let me ask you a question.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Mark Wood bruised in any way? Did he have a black eye or a cauliflower ear?”

“No.”

“You’d expect something like that, wouldn’t you, if he’d been in an actual fight? Especially with as tough a customer as Jason Fox. Are you telling me Jason didn’t even get one punch in?”

“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps he hit Wood in the body, where it wouldn’t show, and not in the face? I mean, we didn’t do a strip search or anything.”

Banks shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s just not on. I had another good look at the crime-scene photographs as well, and I reread Dr. Glendenning’s postmortem report. It just couldn’t have happened the way Mark Wood said it did.”

“Well,” Susan said slowly, “Superintendent Gristhorpe wasn’t entirely convinced, either. But Mark said Jason Fox was goading him about his wife and kid. They needn’t have faced off to start fighting. Mark probably just lashed out when he’d had enough. I suppose you saw it for yourself in the statement, but when we pushed Wood on exactly how and when it happened, he said it was all a blur, he couldn’t remember.”

“How very convenient. He also denied emptying Jason Fox’s pockets. Two loose ends.”

“That’s the thing that bothered me most, sir. But we just assumed that either he lied because it would look bad for him, too deliberate, stopping to empty Jason’s pockets instead of running off in a panic. Or maybe someone else came along later and robbed Fox while he was lying there.”

“I’d go for the first explanation, myself. It just didn’t fit with the scenario he was painting for you. But why take his keys as well, unless they might have led to easier identification? I think whoever did this wanted to keep the victim’s identity from us until they had a chance to clear out the Rawdon house of any dodgy files or notes he might have kept there, and they weren’t taking any chances.”

“We just thought that if some opportunist came along and did it, he simply took everything. You know, just sort of scooped it all up quickly without pausing to separate the keys from the loose change.” Susan shrugged. “Chief Constable Riddle didn’t seem to be worried by any of this. And by then we had him breathing right down our necks.”

“It’s still two loose ends too many for me.”

“Then I don’t know where that leaves us, sir. What about motive?”

Banks told her about Mark’s connection with Mot-combe’s drug deal, and Jason’s disapproval.

“So you think Motcombe’s behind it?” she said.

“I do. But proving it is another matter. Officially the case is closed. You got an easy conviction. That pleased Jimmy Riddle. That and the opportunity to suspend me. I made a mistake there. I didn’t expect you’d solve the case so quickly that he’d be buzzing round the station all weekend. To be honest, I didn’t expect he’d find out where I’d gone.”

“Sir,” Susan blurted out, feeling her heart lurch into her throat. “Can I tell you something?”

Banks frowned and lit another cigarette. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

Susan chewed on her lip for a while, just looking at him, unsure now whether she dare speak out or not. Then she took a deep breath and told him all about Gavin’s betrayal.

When she had finished, Banks just sat quietly staring down at the table. She was afraid of what he might say, especially as she could no longer deny to herself the way she felt about him. Please God, she prayed, let him never find out about
that
.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said.

Banks looked at her, a sad, crooked smile on his face. “Never mind. It wasn’t your fault. How were you to know your boyfriend would run off and tell tales to Jimmy Riddle?”

“Whichever way you look at it, sir, I still betrayed a confidence.”

“Forget it.”

“How can I do that? Look how it’s turned out.”

“It isn’t over yet, Susan. I’m far from finished. It must have hurt you, this betrayal. I’m sorry.”

Susan looked down, into her empty glass.

“Fancy another drink?” Banks asked.

“No, sir. I’m fine. Really.”

“Well, I fancy another pint.”

Banks went to the bar and rang the bell. While he was waiting to get served, Susan sat hunched in on herself, feeling miserable. No matter how bloody kind and forgiving Banks might be, she could never forgive herself for what she had done. It wasn’t so much the betrayal itself, as the humiliation of letting herself be fooled and used by a bastard like Gavin.

“So what do you want to do?” she asked when he came back. “I mean about Mark Wood.”

“I see from the paperwork that Wood’s solicitor was called Giles Varney?”

“That’s right. A real arrogant bastard. Expensive, too. It seemed a bit odd at the time, that he would get Varney to come all the way from Leeds.”

“Yes.”

“Wood also said something about him being Jason’s solicitor, too – the one who helped them get the business set up. He didn’t want a duty solicitor. He was adamant about that.”

“Interesting.” Banks sipped his pint, wiped his lips and said, “And fishy. You know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Varney is Motcombe’s solicitor, too, or at least works for the same firm. I’ll have to give Ken Blackstone a call and check. Now, according to the reports, it was only when the blood evidence came back that Wood confessed, right?”

“Yes, sir. It would have been pretty difficult to lie his way out of that one.”

“Did he have a private conference with Varney? Make phone calls?”

“Yes, sir. We did it all strictly according to PACE.”

Banks nodded. “So Wood talked to Varney, then he made a telephone call, then he confessed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who did he call?”

“I don’t know. It was made in private.”

“We should be able to find a record of the number. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny it was Neville Motcombe. I’ll bet he told Motcombe he was well and truly up shit creek, and Motcombe talked to Varney, who then told him to plead manslaughter.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You had him against the ropes. I mean, fine, early blood evidence doesn’t necessarily mean a hell of a lot, but Wood
knew
he’d done it, and both he and Varney probably knew it was just a matter of time before we got results from DNA testing. And that they’d be positive. In the meantime, if Mark Wood admits to a lesser charge of manslaughter, denying that he’s ever even met Motcombe, then the heat’s off. It was just a fight that went wrong.

“And you can also bet that Varney will milk as much sympathy from the jury as he can from the fact that the fight started over Jason Fox making racist remarks about Mark Wood’s wife and child. All Motcombe has to promise is that Wood will get a short sentence
and
that his family will be financially taken care of while he’s inside. That and a nice bonus when he gets out. I think it’s an offer I’d probably take if my balls were in the wringer like Wood’s are.”

“
If
he pays a penny.”

“Yes. I suppose he could renege. And arrange for an accident in jail. I’m assuming he’s not doing all this out of the kindness of his heart. He’s doing it because Wood has something on him. Like the truth about what happened.”

“What can we do about it, if you’re right?”

“
We
can’t do anything, Susan. Remember, you’re still on the force, but you’re off the case. I, on the other hand, can do whatever I want.”

“But-”

Banks held his hand up. “Susan, I appreciate what you’ve done so far, but I don’t want to risk getting you into trouble again. Even Superintendent Gristhorpe wouldn’t approve if he knew what I was up to.”

“He would if you told him, sir. I told you he had his doubts, too. But Jimmy Riddle just barged in and steam-rollered everything.”

“I know. But the super’s not here. It’s better this way for the time being. Believe me.”

“What next, then?”

Banks looked at his watch. “Next, I think I’ll get right back to basics and pay George Mahmood another visit. There’s something missing from those statements. Some connection I’m missing, and it’s starting to irritate me. It might be worth eating a mouthful or two of humble pie to find out what it is.”

Banks walked down King Street toward the Mahmoods’ shop. As he passed School Lane, he could hear kids shouting on the rugby pitch and was almost tempted to go and watch. He had enjoyed rugby at school, and when he first joined the Met. He’d been a pretty good winger, if he said so himself. Strong, slippery and fast.

Is this what private eyes feel like? he wondered as he cut down along Tulip Street, on the northern edge of the Leaview Estate. Walking the mean streets of Eastvale? He didn’t even have a license to validate what he was doing. How did you go about getting a private-eye license in York-shire? Did you even need a license?

He did, however, still have his warrant card. Riddle hadn’t had the chance to ask for it, and Banks hadn’t managed the cliché of slapping it down on the table. He supposed it would be an offense to use it while under suspension, but that was the least of his worries.

The builders were busy at work in the fields around Gallows View, mixing concrete, climbing ladders with hods resting on their shoulders, or just idling around chatting and smoking cigarettes. Soon, the row of old cottages would be swallowed up. Banks wondered if they’d change the name of the street and the fields when the new estate was finished.
Gallows Estate
probably wouldn’t sit too well with the local council.

For Banks, approaching the Mahmoods’ shop felt like coming full circle. Not only had the Jason Fox case led him there, but his first case in Eastvale had involved the previous owner. And the way things looked, this might be his last case.

George stood behind the counter, wearing his white shirt with its Nehru collar, serving a young woman with a baby strapped to her breast. When he saw Banks, he scowled. His mother, Shazia, came over from the freezer area, where she’d been stamping prices on packages of frozen pizza.

Though she only came up to Banks’s shoulders, her eyes challenged him. “What do you want this time, Mr. Banks? Haven’t you caused enough trouble around here?”

“As far as I know, I haven’t caused any trouble, Mrs. Mahmood. Not intentionally, at any rate. I have a job to do.” A small lie, he realized.
Had
a job would be more like it. “I have a job to do, and it’s sometimes difficult. I’m sorry it has caused you pain.”

“Oh, are you? Such as throwing my son in a cell overnight, worrying his poor parents to death?”

“Mrs. Mahmood, George wasn’t
thrown
anywhere, and he exercised his right to make a telephone call. If he didn’t ring you-”

She waved her hand impatiently. “Oh, yes, he rang us, all right. But we still worried. A young boy being put in jail with all those criminals.”

“He was in a cell by himself. Look, I don’t know where you’ve got this from-”

“And only because of his color. Don’t think we don’t know that’s why you pick on us.”

Banks took a deep breath. “Look, Mrs. Mahmood, I’m getting sick of this. We took your son in because he and his friends had an altercation with the victim’s party on the night of the killing, because they live in pretty much the same area of town, because they refused to cooperate with us and because we found something suspicious on George’s trainer.”

“Suspicious? Animal blood?”

“We didn’t know that at the time. It
could
have been human blood.”

She shook her head. “My son would never hurt anyone.”

“I’m sorry, but my business isn’t always as trusting as it might be.”

“And what about the second time? Wasn’t that persecution?”

“My colleagues turned up a witness who said he
saw
George and his two friends beat up Jason Fox. What could they do?”

“But he was lying.”

“Yes. But again, we didn’t know that at the time.”

“So why have you come here pestering us all over again?”

“It’s all right, Mother,” George said, walking over. The woman with the baby seemed torn between leaving and staying to eavesdrop on the conversation. She took a long time putting her change back in her purse, then Banks gave her a sharp glance and she scurried out murmuring comforting sounds to the baby, who had started to cry.

“Can we go somewhere and talk, Mohammed?” Banks asked.

George nodded toward the stockroom in the back of the shop.

“I’m going to call a solicitor,” Mrs. Mahmood said.

“No need to, Mum,” said George. “I can handle this.”

Banks followed him into the back. The stockroom was full of boxes and smelled of cumin and shoe polish. There were no windows, or if there were, they were covered by the stacks of boxes. A bare bulb shone in the center of the room. Banks fancied it looked rather like a filmmaker’s idea of one of those interrogation rooms from the old days. He’d seen a film not too long ago in which two detectives had actually sat a woman in a chair with two bright desk lights pointed at her. He’d never tried that in interrogations himself; he wondered if it worked.

“What do you want?” George said. There wasn’t a trace of friendliness in his voice. Whatever friendship there had ever been, through Brian, was gone now.

“I need your help.”

George snorted and leaned against a stack of crates, arms crossed. “That’s a laugh. Why should I help you?”

“To find out who really killed Jason Fox.”

“Who cares? From what I’ve heard, the racist bastard deserved everything he got. Besides, I read in the paper that his mate confessed. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Will you just answer a few straightforward questions, please?”

He shrugged. “All right. No skin off my nose. But hurry up.”

“Cast your mind back to that Saturday night at the Jubilee. Why were you there?”

George frowned. “Why? To listen to the band. Why else? Kobir was up visiting from Bradford, like I said, so Asim and me thought he’d enjoy it.”

“I understand the Jubilee has a good reputation for music?”

“Yeah.”

“Girls?”

“Yeah, it’s a good place to meet girls.”

“And drugs?”

“If you’re interested in that sort of thing. I’m not.”

“People come from miles around.”

“So?”

“And it was really busy that night?”

“Yeah. Well, Scattered Dreams are really popular. They’re pretty new on the scene and they haven’t got to the really expensive venues yet. But they’re already recording for an independent label. Pretty soon you’ll be paying through the nose to go see them at Wembley or somewhere.”

“Okay. Now, apart from that little contretemps you had with Jason, did you notice anything else about him and his pal?”

“Never paid any attention, really. Except that they seemed to be talking pretty intensely a lot of the time.”

“Arguing?”

“Not loudly, not so’s you’d notice. But they didn’t look too happy with one another.”

“Did they try to chat up any girls?”

“Not that I saw.”

“They weren’t listening to the music?”

“Not really. Some of the time. But they were sitting toward the back, closer to the bar. We were near the front, but the way the chairs were angled around the table, they were pretty much in my line of vision. When they weren’t talking, the other one, the one that killed him, would seem to be listening, but the one that got killed even put his fingers in his ears every now and then.”

“What kind of music was it?”

George shifted position and put his hands in his pockets. “Hard to describe, really. Sort of a mix between rap, reggae and acid rock. That’s about the best I can do.”

No wonder Jason had put his fingers in his ears, Banks thought. He obviously hadn’t known what kind of music to expect. But Mark Wood probably had.

“Did you see either of them talk to anyone else?”

George frowned. “No. I was far more interested in the music than in those two pillocks.” The shop bell pinged. “I’d better get back and help my mum. My dad’s down at the cash-and-carry.”

“Just a couple more questions. Please.”

“Okay. But hurry up.”

“What about those Jamaicans selling drugs you mentioned when I first talked to you?”

“What about them?”

“Was that true?”

“Yes, of course it was. I suppose I should admit I don’t know for certain they were from Jamaica, but they looked like Rastas, and one of them had dreadlocks.”

“And the drugs?”

“I saw a bit of money change hands now and then, then one of them would talk on his mobile. A while later he’d nip outside and bring back the Ecstasy or crack or hash or whatever from the person who was carrying it. They don’t carry it on them. That’s how they usually do it.”

“And you saw them doing that?”

“Sure. You think I should have reported it? You think the police don’t know what’s going on? You told me yourself the Jube has a reputation for drugs.”

“I’m sure the Drugs Squad are quite well aware of what’s going on. It doesn’t sound as if these lads are major dealers, though. Were they regulars?”

“I’d never seen them before.”

“Doing good business?”

“By the looks of it.” George sneered. “Some of the white kids think it’s cool to buy from spades.”

“Were they with anyone?”

“They were with the band as far as I could tell.”

A few connections started to form in Banks’s mind. This was the link that had been eluding him. “Were they actually playing with the band?”

George shrugged. “No, maybe roadies or something. Hangers-on.” The bell pinged again. “Look, I’d better get back. Really.”

“Right. Just one more thing. Did you see any contact at all between the Jamaicans and Jason, or Mark?”

“What? That would have been hardly likely, would it? I mean… wait a minute…”

“What?”

“Once, when I was going for a piss, I saw them pass one another in the corridor. Anyway, now I think of it, they sort of nodded at each other. Very quick, like, and expressionless. I thought it was a bit weird at the time, then I forgot about it.”

“Who nodded at whom?”

“The kid who confessed. He nodded at one of the Jamaicans. Like I said, I thought it was odd because he was with the bloke who called me a ‘Paki bastard’ and there he was, on nodding terms with a Rasta.”

“So this was
after
your little conflict with Jason Fox?”

“Yes.”

“That makes sense,” Banks muttered, mostly to himself. “You were very nicely set up.”

“Come again?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud.” Banks followed George back into the shop. “Thanks for your time, Mohammed.” He became aware of Shazia Mahmood glaring at him as he walked out onto the street.

For a moment, Banks just stood there on Gallows View as the chaotic thoughts settled into some sort of pattern, like iron filings when you hold a magnet under them. Motcombe’s drug deal with the Turk and Devon, using Mark Wood as a go-between. Mark Wood’s Jamaican wife, Mark’s connection with a reggae band and with drug dealing. Scattered Dreams. That signal between Wood and the drug dealer. Jason’s death warrant. There was a pattern all right, but now he had to come up with a way of
proving
it.

Banks set off toward King Street. A pneumatic drill from the building site broke the silence and sent a pack of scavenging sparrows spiraling off into the sky.