Dead Right (36 page)

“Is that a good idea?”

“It’s pretty quiet here right now. The super’s going to be away for a couple of weeks.”

“Well, if you’re certain. I don’t want to get you into trouble.” Banks heard a sound like a harsh cough or bark at the other end. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Frog in my throat. That’s all. It’s okay, sir. Really it is.”

“Are you sure? If Jimmy Riddle turns up—”

“If Jimmy Riddle turns up, I’m buggered. I know that. But there’s far too much stuff to photocopy. And that would look suspicious, especially the way you have to account for every penny you spend around here these days. I’ll take the risk if you will, sir.”

“All right.”

“But I’d still like to know why you’re not satisfied.”

“I’ll tell you about it when I know more myself. At the moment it’s mostly just a feeling. That and a few bits of information about Mark Wood I picked up in Amsterdam.”

“Why don’t you just come to the station as soon as you can, then. I’ll be waiting.” And she hung up hurriedly.

Banks grabbed his coat and left the house. It was another sunny day, with a little high cloud and a slight chilly edge. The leaves had turned a little more than last week, and some were beginning to fall already.

He needed the exercise, so he decided to walk. When he plugged in his earphones and turned the Walkman on, the Roy Harper tape he’d been listening to on the plane home came on in the middle of “McGoohan’s Blues.” Protest with a mystical edge; pretentiousness with a wink. Well, that would do nicely.

He walked along Market Street past the roundabout, the zebra crossing, garage and school, the local shopping centre with its Safeway supermarket and collection of smaller shops and banks. There was a lot of traffic on Market Street today and the acrid smell of petrol and diesel fumes mingled with dry dusty air.

He paused across from The Jubilee, whose large stone and red-brick frontage curved around the junction of Market Street and Sebastopol Terrace. That was where Jason Fox had spent his last evening on earth before being dispatched to whatever circle of hell was reserved for racists. Why on earth did it matter who had killed him, or why? Banks wondered as he walked on. Wasn’t it good enough that he was dead? Was it only Banks’s insatiable bloody curiosity that made it so important, or was there some absolute standard of justice and truth to be served?

Banks had no answer. All he knew was that if he didn’t get to spin it out until he thought it was all over, then it would stay with him like a sore that wouldn’t heal. And he knew that, in some way, it was the murder of Frank Hepplethwaite he was out to avenge, not Jason Fox’s.

One or two pairs of curious eyes followed him up the stairs at the station, but nobody said anything. Susan was in her office waiting for him with a thick pile of papers in front of her.

“I feel like a schoolboy sneaking a look at naughty pictures,” Banks said. “Can I take them to my office?”

“Of course,” said Susan. “You don’t have to ask
my
permission.” She stood up.

“Look, I appreciate this.”

“No problem.”

“Susan, is—”

“Sorry, sir. I’ve got to go.”

She dashed out and left him standing in her office. Well, he thought, it didn’t take long to become a pariah around here, did it?
But he could hardly blame Susan for wanting to put a bit of distance between them. Not after all that had happened. And she
had
put herself out to help him.

Checking to see that the coast was clear, he tiptoed across the corridor to his own office with the papers and shut the door behind him. Nothing had changed. Even the desk was still at the same odd angle after Riddle had fallen back on it. Embarrassed at the memory of what he’d done, Banks straightened it, sat down with the pile of paper, packet of cigarettes and ashtray beside him, window a couple of inches open, and settled down to read.

II

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 wine shop, 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 cosy set-up 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 post-mortem 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 close, 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 post-mortem 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 Motcombe’s drug deal, and Jason’s disapproval.

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

“I do. But proving it’s another matter. Officially the case is closed. You got a confession. 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 the creek without a paddle and Motcombe talked to Varney, who then told him to plead manslaughter.”