Final Account (21 page)

“Could they have any involvement?”

“I've thought about it,” Banks said, “and I've discussed it with Susan. In the final analysis, I don't really think so. Mary Rothwell might well hit out at anything that threatens her comfortable world, and if she thought her husband were profiting from porn, for
example, I can't just see her sitting still and accepting it.” He shook his head. “But not this way. This brings her exactly the kind of attention she
doesn't
want. I don't know how she'd deal with him—Susan guessed poison, maybe, or an accident—but it wouldn't be like this.”

“Hmm. Try this for size,” said Gristhorpe. “One: let's assume that Rothwell and Clegg are in the money-laundering business together, for Martin Churchill or whoever.”

Banks nodded. “It makes sense, Clegg being a tax specialist and all.”

“And we'll leave Robert Calvert out of it, as, say, just a personal aberration on Rothwell's part, at least for the moment. A red herring, right?”

“Okay.”

“Something goes wrong. Rothwell finds out something that makes him want to get out of it, so he writes to Clegg ending their association.”

“And,” said Banks, “Churchill, or whoever it is they're working for, doesn't like this at all.”

“Makes sense, doesn't it?”

“So far. Keep going.”

“Rothwell gets scared. Either he's been cheating on his masters, and they've found out, or they're afraid he's getting nervous and is going to blow the whistle. So what do they do?”

“Take out a contract.”

“Right. And that's the end of Rothwell.”

Gristhorpe paused as a couple of office-workers on a lunch break brushed past them and sat down at the next table. Cyril's cash register rang up another sale.

“He could have been cheating on them to finance his life as Calvert,” said Banks. “I know we were going to leave him out of the equation, but it fits. He had twenty grand in the bank, you say, and he liked to gamble, according to Pamela Jeffreys.”

“True, but let's stick to the simple line. What's important is that Rothwell has become a liability, or a threat, and his masters want him dead. They've got enough money to be able to pay for the privilege without getting their own hands dirty. Which brings us to Mr Daniel Clegg. The killers had a fair bit of information about Rothwell. They seemed to know that he and his wife would be out celebrating their wedding anniversary, for example. Clegg could probably have told them that. They knew Rothwell had a daughter, too, and that she would be at home. She wasn't ‘part of the deal,' remember? And they knew where he lived, the layout, everything.”

“Clegg?”

Gristhorpe nodded. “Let's put it this way. If Rothwell were laundering money for someone, there'd be as little, if any, contact between him and his masters, wouldn't there?”

“That would seem to be one point of a laundering operation,” Banks agreed. “Certainly Tom Rothwell seemed genuinely puzzled when I brought up Martin Churchill.”

“Right. And Clegg was the only other person we suspect was involved, and he had information about Rothwell's personal life.”

“So you reckon Clegg was behind it?”

“It's a theory, isn't it? They weren't exactly friends, Alan. Not according to what you've told me. They were business colleagues. Different thing. It was a matter of you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Strange bedfellows, maybe. And crooked too. It's an odd thing is a professional gone bad. They talk about bent coppers, but what about bent lawyers, bent accountants, bent doctors? If push came to shove, would you expect one crooked businessman to stick up for another?”

“So you think Clegg was not just involved in the laundering business but in Rothwell's murder, too?”

“Aye. He could be our link.”

“And his disappearance?”

“Scarpered. He knew what was coming, knew when. Maybe they paid him well. It doesn't matter whether he was scared of us or them, the result was the same. He took his money and ran, collected two hundred pounds when he passed go, didn't go to jail. Then his bosses couldn't get in touch with him, so they sent their two goons to find him. The timing's right.”

“What about this scenario,” Banks offered. “Maybe Churchill had Clegg killed, too. With Rothwell gone, Clegg might just be a nuisance who knew too much, a loose cannon on the deck. If
Churchill is planning on coming here, maybe he wanted a clean break.”

Gristhorpe took a sip of his beer. “Possible, I'll grant you.”

“You know, it's just struck me,” said Banks, “but do we know if Clegg ever practised criminal law?”

“Seems to be the only kind he practised,” replied Gristhorpe, then held up his hand and grinned as Banks groaned. “All right, all right, Alan. I promise. No more bad lawyer jokes. As far as we know he didn't. He's a solicitor, not a barrister, so he didn't represent clients in court. But people might have come to him, and he could have referred them. Why?”

“I was just wondering where a man like Clegg might meet a killer for hire.”

“Local Conservative Club, probably,” said Gristhorpe. “But I see what you mean. It's a loose end we've got to pursue. If we assume Clegg was involved in arranging for Rothwell's murder, then we can look through his contacts and his activities to find a link with a couple of likely assassins. We've got that and the wadding. Not very much is it?”

“No,” said Banks. “What if Clegg's dead?”

“Nothing changes. West Yorkshire police keep looking for a body and we keep nosing around asking questions. We could get in touch with Interpol, see if he's holed up somewhere in Spain.” He looked at his watch. “Look, Alan, I'd better get finished and be off. I've got another meeting with the Chief Constable this afternoon.”

“Okay. I'll be over in a minute.”

Gristhorpe nodded and left, but no sooner had Banks started to let his imagination work on Clegg meeting two hired guns in a smoky saloon than the superintendent poked his head around the door again. “They think they've found the killers' car,” he said. “Abandoned near Leeds city centre. Ken Blackstone asks if you want to go and have a look.”

Banks nodded. “All roads lead to Leeds,” he sighed. “I might as well bloody move there.” And he followed Gristhorpe out.

NINE

I

A tape of Satie's piano music, especially the “Trois Gymnopédies,” kept Banks calm on his way to Leeds, even though the A1 was busy with juggernauts and commercial travellers driving too fast. He found the car park without too much difficulty; it was an old school playground surrounded by the rubble of demolished buildings just north of the city centre.

“Cheers, Alan,” said Detective Inspector Ken Blackstone. “You look like a bloody villain with those sunglasses on. How's it going?”

“Can't complain.” Banks shook his hand and took off the dark glasses. He had met Blackstone at a number of courses and functions, and the two of them had always got along well enough. “And how's West Yorkshire CID?”

“Overworked, as usual. Bit of a bugger, isn't it?” said Blackstone. “The weather, I mean.”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. Sometimes when it itched, it was trying to tell him something; other times, like this, it was just the heat. “I remember an American once told me that all we English do is complain about the weather,” he said. “It's either too hot or too cold for us, too wet or too dry.”

Blackstone laughed. “True. Still, the station could do with a few of those air-conditioner thingies the Yanks use. It's hotter indoors than out. Sends the crime figures up, you know, a heat wave. Natives get restless.”

A light breeze had sprung up from the west, but it did nothing to quell the warmth of the sun. Banks took off his sports jacket and slung it over his shoulder as they walked across the soft tarmac to the abandoned car. His tie hung askew, as usual, and his top shirt button was open so he could breathe easily. He could feel the sweat sticking his white cotton shirt to his back. This weather was following a pattern he recognized; it would get hotter and hazier until it ended in a storm.

“What have you got?” he asked.

“You'll see in a minute.” Despite the weather, Ken Blackstone looked cool as usual. He wore a lightweight navy-blue suit with a grey herringbone pattern, a crisp white shirt with a stiff collar and a garish silk tie, secured by a gold tie-clip in the shape of a pair of handcuffs. Banks was willing to bet that his top button was fastened.

Blackstone was tall and slim with light brown hair, thin on top but curly over the ears, and a pale complexion, definitely not the sun-worshipping kind. His Cupid's bow lips and wire-rimmed glasses made him look about thirty, when he was, in fact, closer to Banks's age. He had a long, dour sort of face and spoke with a local accent tempered by three years at Bath University, where he had studied art history.

Blackstone had, in fact, become something of an expert on art fraud after his degree, and he often found himself called in to help out when something of that nature happened. In addition, he was a fair landscape artist himself, and his work had been exhibited several times. Banks remembered Blackstone and Sandra getting into a long conversation about the Pre-Raphaelites at a colleague's wedding once, and remembered the stirrings of jealousy he had felt. Though he was eager to learn, read, look and listen as much as his time allowed, Banks was always aware of his working-class background and his lack of a true formal education.

They arrived at a car guarded by two hot-looking uniformed constables and Banks stood back to survey it. Ancient, but not old enough to attract attention as an antique, the light blue Ford Escort was rusted around the bottom of the chassis and had spider-leg cracks on the passenger side of the windscreen. It matched the description, as far as that went.

“How long's it been here?” Banks asked.

“Don't know,” said Blackstone. “Our lads didn't notice it until last night. When they ran the number they found it was stolen.”

Banks knelt by the front tire. Flat. There was plenty of soil and gravel lodged in the grooves. They could have it analyzed and at least discover if it came from around Arkbeck Farm. He looked through the grimy window. The beige upholstery was dirty, cracked and split. A McDonald's coffee cup lay crushed on the floor at the driver's side, but apart from that he could see nothing else inside.

“We've looked in the boot,” said Blackstone. “Nothing. Not even a jack or a spare tire. I've arranged for it to be taken to our police garage for a thorough forensic examination, but I thought you'd like a look at it
in situ
first.”

“Thanks,” said Banks. “I don't expect we'll get any prints, if they were pros, but you never know. Who's the lucky owner?”

“Bloke called Ronald Hamilton.”

“When did he report it missing?”

Blackstone paused before answering. “Friday morning. Said he left it in the street as usual after he got in about five or six in the evening and it was gone when he went out at ten the next morning. Thought it was maybe kids joy-riding. There's been a lot of it on the estate lately. It's not the safest place in the city. He lives on the Raynville estate in Bramley. Ring any bells?”

Banks shook his head. Pamela Jeffreys lived in Armley, which wasn't far away, and Daniel Clegg lived in Chapel Allerton, a fair distance in both miles and manners. Most likely the killers had picked it at random a good distance from where they lived. “That's four days ago, Ken,” said Banks. “And nobody spotted it before last night?”

Again, Blackstone hesitated. “Hamilton's an unemployed labourer,” he said finally. “He's got at least one wife and three kids that we know of, and lately he's been having a few problems with the social. He's also got a record. Dealing. Aggravated assault.”

“You thought he'd arranged to have it nicked for the insurance?”

Blackstone smiled. “Something like that. I wasn't involved personally. I don't know what you lot do, but here in the big city we don't send Detective Inspectors out on routine traffic incidents.”

Banks ignored the sarcasm. It was just Blackstone's manner. “So your lads didn't exactly put a rush on it?”

“That's right.” Blackstone glanced towards the horizon and sighed. “Any idea, Alan, how many car crimes we've got in the city now? You yokels wouldn't believe it. So when some scurvy knave comes on with a story about a beat-up old Escort, you think he'd have to pay somebody to steal that piece of shit. So let the fucking insurance company pay. They can afford it. In the meantime we've got joy-riding kids, real villains and organized gangs of car thieves to deal with. I'm not making excuses, Alan.”

“Yeah, I know.” Banks leaned against a red Orion. The metal burned through his shirt, so he stood up straight again.

“Didn't you once tell me you came up from the Met for a peaceful time in rural Yorkshire?” Blackstone asked.

Banks smiled. “I did.”

“Getting it?”

“I can only suppose it's got proportionately worse down there.”

Blackstone laughed. “Indeed. Business is booming.”

“Have you talked to Hamilton?”

“Yes. This morning. He knows nothing. Believe me, he's so scared of the police he'd sell his own mother down the tubes if he thought we were after her.” Blackstone made an expression of distaste. “You know the type, Alan, belligerent one minute, yelling that you're picking on him because he's black, then arse-licking the next. Makes you want to puke.”

“Where's he from?”

“Jamaica. He's legit; we checked. Been here ten years.”

“What's his story?”

“Saw nothing, heard nothing, knows nothing. To tell you the truth, I got the impression he'd driven back from the pub after a skinful then settled in front of the telly with a few cans of lager while his wife fed the kiddies and put them to bed. After that he probably passed out. Whole bloody place smelled of shitty nappies and roll-ups and worse. We could probably do him for possession if it was worth our while. At ten the next morning he staggers out to go and sign on, finds his car missing and, bob's your uncle, does the outraged citizen routine on the local bobby, who's got more sense, thank the lord.”