Final Account (28 page)

III

After Banks had gone for a swim in the hotel pool, taken a long sauna, and put away three cups of freshly brewed coffee and a plateful of bacon and eggs, courtesy of room service, he was feeling much better.

As he made a few phone calls, he tried to remember something that had been nagging away at him since the early hours, something he should do, but he failed miserably. At about the same time that Susan Gay was talking to Tom Rothwell, he went out for his first appointment, with Melissa Clegg.

The morning sun had burned off most of the rain, and the pavements had absorbed the rest, leaving them the colour of sandstone, with small puddles catching the light here and there. As wind ruffled the water's surface, golden light danced inside the puddles.

It wasn't as warm as it had been, Banks noticed. He had left his torn sports jacket at the hotel. All he wore on top was a light blue, open-neck shirt. He carried his notebook, wallet, keys and cigarettes in his briefcase.

A cool wind whispered through the streets, and there were plenty of dark, heavy clouds now lurking on the northern horizon behind the Town Hall. It looked like the region was in for some “changeable” weather, as the forecasters called it: sunny with cloudy periods, or cloudy with sunny periods.

He could drive to his appointment, he knew, but the one-way system was a nightmare. Besides, the city centre wasn't all that big, and the fresh air would help blow away the cobwebs that still clung to his brain.

Banks had grown quite fond of Leeds since he had been living in Yorkshire. It had an honest, slightly shabby charm about it that appealed to him, despite the new “Leeds-look” architecture— redbrick revival with royal blue trim—that had sprouted up everywhere, and despite the modern shopping centres and the yuppie developments down by the River Aire. Leeds was a scruff by nature; it wouldn't look comfortable in fancy dress, no matter what the price. And then there was Opera North, of course.

Avoiding City Square and the scene of the previous evening's debacle, he cut up King Street instead, walked past the recently restored Metropole Hotel, all redbrick and gold sandstone masonry, and along East Parade through the business section of banks and insurance buildings in all their jumbled glory. Here, Victorian Gothic rubbed shoulders with Georgian classicism and sixties concrete and glass. As in many cities, you had to look up, above eye level, to see the interesting details on the tops of the buildings: surprising gables where pigeons nested, gargoyles, balconies, caryatids.

As he walked along The Headrow past Stumps and the art gallery, he became aware again of the sharp pain in his knee, with which he had probably chipped a cheekbone or broken a jaw the previous evening.

He arrived at the Merrion Centre a couple of minutes early. Melissa Clegg had told him on the phone that she had a very busy day planned. She was expecting a number of important deliveries and had appointments with her suppliers. She could, however, allow him half an hour. There was a quiet coffee bar with outside tables, she told him, on the second level, up the steps over the entrance to Le Phonographique. She would meet him there at half past ten.

Banks found the coffee bar, and an empty table, with no trouble. At that time on a Wednesday morning, the Merrion Centre was practically deserted: especially the upper level, which seemed to have nothing but small offices and hairdressers.

Melissa Clegg arrived on time with all the flurry of the busy executive. When she sat down, she tucked her hair behind her ears. Today, she wore a pink dress cut square at her throat and shoulders.

The last thing on earth Banks felt he needed was another cup of coffee, but he took an espresso just to have something in front of him. Also, by the feel of his chest, he didn't need a cigarette, either, but he lit one nonetheless. The first few drags made him a bit dizzy, then it tasted fine.

“You look a bit the worse for wear,” Melissa observed.

“You should have seen the other two,” Banks said. He could tell by the way she laughed that she didn't believe him, just as he had expected. But he had also noticed the angry contusion high on his left cheek, just to the side of his eye, when he shaved that morning. Another result of his crash into the alley wall. He tried to keep his skinned knuckles out of sight, which made drinking coffee difficult.

“What can I do for you this time, Inspector, or Chief Inspector, is it?”

“Chief Inspector. I don't suppose you've heard anything from your husband?”

“Ex. Well, near as. No, I haven't. But he's hardly likely to get in touch with me. I still don't know why you're so worried. I'm sure he'll turn up.”

“I don't think so, Mrs Clegg. Remember last time we met I asked you if you knew a Robert Calvert?”

“Yes. I said I didn't and I still don't.”

“I'd appreciate it if you would keep this quiet for the moment, but we believe that Robert Calvert was also Keith Rothwell.”

“I don't understand. Do you mean he had a false name, an alias?”

“Something like that. More, actually. He lived in Leeds, had a flat in the name of Robert Calvert. A whole other life. Mary Rothwell doesn't know, so—”

“Don't worry, I won't say anything. You've got me puzzled.”

“We were, too. But the reason I'm telling you this is that your husband acted as a reference for Robert Calvert in the matter of his bank account and credit card. Also, ironically enough, Calvert listed his employer as Keith Rothwell.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Melissa. “Daniel must have known about this double life, then?”

“It looks that way.”

“Well, I certainly knew nothing about it. As I told you before, I haven't seen Keith Rothwell since Danny and I split up two years ago.” She frowned. “I must say it surprises me that Daniel would risk doing something so obviously dishonest as that. Not that dishonesty is beneath him, but it seems too much of a risk for no return.”

“We don't know what the returns were,” Banks said. “How close are you and Daniel?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he ever mention a woman called Marci Lapwing to you?”

“God, what a name. No. Who is she? His girlfriend?”

“Someone he's been seeing lately.”

“Well, he wouldn't tell me about her, would he?”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “He never does. Maybe he thinks I'd be jealous.”

“Would you?”

“Look, I don't see what it has to do with anything, but no. It's over. O. V. E. R. We made our choices.”

“Is there someone else?”

She blushed a little but met his gaze with steady eyes as she fingered the top of her dress over her freckled collarbone. “As a matter of fact there is. But I won't tell you anything more. I don't want him dragged into this. It's none of your business, anyway. Danny's probably run off with his bimbo.”

“No. Marci Lapwing is still around. Never mind. Let's move on. How do you explain the two men who visited you?”

“I don't know. Perhaps her husband sent them?”

“Whose husband?”

“The bimbo's. Marci whatever-her-name-is.”

“She's not married. Since we last talked,” Banks said, lowering his voice, “things have taken several turns for the worse. We're talking about very serious matters indeed. It looks as if your husband might be implicated in murder, money-laundering, theft and fraud, and that he may be partly responsible for the savage beating of a young woman.”

“My God … I …”

“I know. You didn't take all this seriously. Nor did you want to. Now will you?”

She began to fidget with her coffee-spoon. “Yes. Yes, of course. I assume you're talking about Keith Rothwell's murder?”

“Yes.”

“And who has been beaten?”

“A friend of Mr Rothwell's. The way it looks, both Keith Rothwell and your husband were laundering money for a Mr X. We think we know his identity, but I'm afraid I can't reveal it to you. Rothwell was either stealing or threatening to talk, or both, and Mr X asked your husband to get rid of him.”

She shook her head. “Danny? No. I don't believe it. He couldn't kill anyone.”

“Hear me out, Mrs Clegg. He did as he was asked. Maybe his own life was threatened, we don't know. Immediately after he arranged to get rid of Keith Rothwell, he either became a threat himself, or he made off with a lot of illegal money, so Mr X sent two goons to track him down. Maybe he'd seen it coming and anticipated what they would do. At this point, there's a lot we can only speculate about.”

“And that explains the two men?”

“Yes.” Banks leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “They visited your ex-husband's office, they visited you, then they visited a girl they saw me talking to. She was the one they beat up. Now tell me again, Mrs Clegg, have you ever seen or heard of a woman called Pamela Jeffreys? She was born here in Yorkshire, but her family came originally from Pakistan. She's about five foot four,
slender figure, with almond eyes and long black hair that she sometimes wears tied back. She has a smooth, dark gold complexion and a gold stud through her left nostril. She's a classical musician, a violist with the Northern Philharmonia.”

Banks watched Melissa's face as he described Pamela Jeffreys. When he had finished, she shook her head. “Honestly,” she said, “I've never seen her, and Danny never mentioned anyone like that. She sounds impressive, but he doesn't go for that type.”

“What type?”

“Bright women. Career women. It scared him to death when I started to make a success of the wine business. At first he could just look down on it as my little hobby. You said she was a classical musician?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn't like classical music. All he likes is that bloody awful trad jazz. A woman like the one you describe would bore Danny to death. Besides, she sounds so gorgeous, I'm sure I'd remember her.”

A gentle gust of wind blew through the centre, carrying the smells of espresso and fried bacon from the café. “Two more things,” Banks said. “First, in the time you lived with your husband, did you ever come across any acquaintances, say, or clients of his whom you'd describe as shady?”

She laughed. “Oh, a tax lawyer has plenty of shady clients, Chief Inspector. That's what keeps him in business. But I assume you mean something other than that?”

“Yes. If Daniel did have anything to do with Keith Rothwell's death, he certainly didn't commit the murder himself, as you pointed out.”

“That's true. The Daniel I know wouldn't have had the stomach for it.”

“So he must have hired someone. You don't usually just walk into your local and say, ‘Look chaps, I need a couple of killers. Do you think you could help me out?'”

Melissa smiled. “You might try it at a Law Society banquet. I'm sure you'd get a few takers. But I see what you mean.”

“So he might have known someone who would consider the task, and it might have been someone he met through his practice. I doubt very much that the two of you socialized with hit-men, but there might be someone who struck you as dangerous, perhaps?”

“Who knows who we socialized with?” Melissa said. “Who knows anything about anyone, when it comes right down to it? No-one immediately springs to mind, but I'll think about it, if I may.”

“Okay.” Banks passed on Alison Rothwell's vague description of the two men, especially the one with the puppy-dog eyes, the only distinguishing feature. “I'll be at the Holiday Inn here for the next day or so, or you can leave a message with Detective Inspector Blackstone at Millgarth.”

“Is he the one who came over last night with my bodyguard?”

“No, that's Detective Sergeant Waltham. I don't honestly believe you're in any danger, Mrs Clegg—I think they're probably miles from here by now—but it's best to be on the safe side. Are you happy with the arrangement?”

“I didn't really understand all the fuss at first, but after what you've just told me I'll sleep easier tonight for knowing there's someone out there watching over me.” She looked at her watch. “Sorry, Mr Banks. Time's pressing. You said you had two things to ask.”

“Yes. The other is a bit more personal.”

Melissa raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I mean personal in the true sense, not necessarily embarrassing.”

She frowned, still looking at him. It was a strong, attractive face with its reddish tan and freckles over the nose and upper cheeks; every little wrinkle around her grey-blue eyes looked as if it had been earned.

“We think Daniel Clegg has probably done a bunk with a lot of money,” Banks began. “Enough to set him up for life, otherwise these goons wouldn't be so keen on finding him. But it's a bloody big world if you don't know where to look. The two of you shared your dreams at one stage, I suppose, like most married couples. Where do you think he would go? Where did he dream of living?”

Melissa continued to frown. “I see what you mean,” she murmured. “That's an interesting question. Where's Danny's Shangri-la, his Eldorado?”

“Yes. We all have one, don't we?”

“Well, Danny wasn't much of a dreamer, to tell you the truth. He didn't have a lot of imagination. But whenever he talked of winning the pools and packing it all in, it was always Tahiti.”

“Tahiti?”

“Yes. He was a big fan of
Mutiny on the Bounty
. Had every version on video. I think he liked the idea of those bare-breasted native girls serving him long, cool drinks in coconut shells.” She laughed and looked at her watch again. “Look, Mr Banks, I'm sorry, but I really
do
have to go now. I've got a hell of a day ahead.” She pushed her chair back and stood up.

Banks stood with her. “Of course,” he said, shaking her hand.

“But if I can be any more help, I'll get in touch. I mean it. I never thought Danny was capable of real evil, but if what you say is true …” She shrugged. “Anyway, I'll give what you said some thought. I … just a minute.”