Blood At The Root Page 10
Maureen raised her eyes and sat rigidly, arms folded over her breast, staring at a spot high on the wall, as if she were both embarrassed and disgusted by her mother’s display of emotion.
Where did we go wrong? It was a question Susan had heard many times, both in the course of her work and from her own parents when they complained about her chosen career. She knew better than to try to answer it.
A lot of prejudices were inherited. Her father, for example: to all outside appearances, he was a decent and intelligent man, a regular churchgoer, a respected member of the community, yet he would never eat in an Indian restaurant because he thought he was being served horse meat, dog or cat, and that the hot spices were used to mask the taste of decay.
Susan had inherited some of his attitudes, she knew, but she also knew she could fight against them; she didn’t have to be stuck with them forever. So she went to lots of Indian restaurants and got to love the food. That was why Superintendent Gristhorpe’s crack about having lunch at the Himalaya had made her blush. It was exactly what she had been thinking at the time: onion bhaji and vegetable samosas. Mmmm.
Whatever she did, though, it was always there, at the back of her mind: that feeling, inherited from her father, that these people weren’t quite like us; that their customs and religious beliefs were barbaric and primitive, not Christian.
Where did we go wrong? Who knew the answer to that one? Giving up on the Foxes for now, Susan closed her notebook and walked back out onto Daffodil Rise. It had started to rain again.
III
The traffic on the Leeds ring road wasn’t too bad, and Banks made it to Rawdon by eleven o’clock. Number Seven Rudmore Terrace was an uninspiring stone-clad semi just off the main road to Leeds and Bradford Airport. It had a small bay window, frosted-glass panes in the door and an overgrown garden.
First, Banks headed for number nine, where he noticed the lace curtains twitch as he walked up the path. Of course, when he knocked and a woman answered, she made a great pretense of being surprised to receive a caller, and left the chain on as she checked his warrant card before inviting him in.
“You can’t be too careful these days,” she said cheerfully as she put the kettle on. “A woman in the next street was attacked just two weeks ago. Raped.” She mouthed the word rather than speaking it out loud, as if that somehow lessened its power. “In the middle of the day, no less. I’m Liza Williams, by the way.”
Liza was an attractive woman in her early thirties, with short black hair, a smooth olive complexion and light blue eyes. She led Banks through to the living room, the carpet of which was covered with children’s toys. The room smelled vaguely of Plasticine and warm milk.
“Jamie’s taken the twins over to their grannie’s for the morning,” she said, surveying the mess. “To give me a breather, like. Two two-and-a-half-year-olds can be a bit of a handful, Mr. Banks, in case you didn’t know that already.”
Banks smiled. “I didn’t know. There’s a couple of years between my boy and girl. But believe me, one two-and-a-half-year-old was bad enough. I can’t imagine two.”
Liza Williams smiled. “Oh, it’s not so bad really. I complain but… I wouldn’t want to be without them. Now, I don’t suppose you came here to talk about children. Is it about that woman in the next street?”
“No. I’m North Yorkshire CID,” said Banks. “That’d be West Yorkshire.”
“Yes, of course. I should have noticed the card.” She frowned. “That just makes me even more puzzled.”
“It’s about next door, Mrs. Williams.”
She paused, then her eyes widened. “Oh, I see. Yes, that’s so sad, isn’t it? And him so young.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You mean about the boy who was killed, don’t you? Jason. In Eastvale. That’s North Yorkshire, isn’t it?”
“You knew?”
“Well, we were neighbors, even if we weren’t especially close ones. They say good fences make good neighbors, Mr. Banks, and you need a big one to keep that ugly garden of his out of view. But fair’s fair. He was quiet and considerate and he never complained about the twins.”
“Look, do you think we could just back up for a minute and get a few things straight?”
“Of course.”
“Jason Fox lived next door, at number seven, right?”
“Yes. That’s what I was telling you.”
“Okay. And you read in the paper that Jason was killed in Eastvale on Saturday night?”
“Saw it on telly, actually. How else would I know? Soon as I heard it was him you could have knocked me over with a feather.”
“How did you know it wasn’t some other Jason Fox?”
“Well, it’s not that common a name, is it, and even if the sketch they showed on the news wasn’t very good, I could still recognize him from it.”
The kettle boiled and Liza Williams excused herself to make tea. She came back with a tray, a pot and two mugs.
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Banks asked.
She frowned. “Police? But why should I? Did I do something wrong?”
“No. I’m not accusing you of anything. Just curious.”
“Well, I never thought. Why would I? I didn’t really know anything about Jason. Anyway, I was really very sorry to hear about what happened, but it didn’t have anything to do with me, did it? It’s none of my business. I mean, I’ve never even been to Eastvale.”
“But didn’t you think the police might want to have a look around the house where Jason lived, maybe ask you a few questions about him?”
“Well… I… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I just assumed if the police wanted to ask me anything, they’d have asked me when they were round earlier. I thought you’d done what you had to do. I don’t know what happens to people’s houses after-”
“Just a minute,” said Banks, sitting on the edge of his seat. “Did you say the police have already been around?”
“Yes. Plainclothes. Didn’t you know?”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be asking you all these questions.” Liza Williams didn’t look or sound like a stupid woman. What could she be thinking of? “When was this?”
“Sunday morning. Before I’d even heard what happened. Why? Is something wrong?”
“No. No. It’s all right.” Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. Liza poured the tea, meeting his eyes as she did so and splashing a little tea on the tray. She handed Banks a steaming mugful. “Did they talk to you?” he asked.
“No. They just went into Jason’s house. Two of them. They seemed to have a key, seemed to know what they were doing.”
“How did you know they were police?”
“I didn’t. I just assumed, the way they seemed so purposeful. Then, later that night, when I saw about Jason on the telly… It seemed to make sense.”
“What time was this, when they came?”
“Must have been about ten o’clock. Jamie had just come back from the newsagent’s with the papers. We don’t have them delivered bec-”
Banks tuned her out. At first he had considered the possibility, however remote, that West Yorkshire had been playing left hand to North Yorkshire’s right. But Susan Gay hadn’t even discovered Jason Fox’s identity until lunchtime on Sunday, and the Foxes hadn’t officially identified him until after that. So who had known who the victim was before the police did? And how had they found out?
Banks blew on his tea, took a sip, then leaned forward again. “This is very important, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “Can you tell me anything about these men?”
IV
Steven Fox clearly wasn’t expecting Susan, and his face showed surprise and suspicion when she turned up in his office at the building society.
“Time for a word?” she asked, smiling.
He looked at his watch. “I suppose so. It’s almost lunchtime anyway.”
“My treat,” said Susan. She sighed inwardly, realizing she’d have to forgo the Himalaya.
Once they had taken a bite or two and sipped some coffee, Susan began: “Would you be surprised to hear that Jason was no longer working where you told us he was?”
Steven Fox paused and rubbed his glasses, steamed up by the coffee. “To be honest,” he said, “nothing much would surprise me about Jason. He was a law unto himself.”
“His mother was surprised.”
“Maybe she had more illusions.”
That might explain, Susan thought, why Steven Fox had seemed quicker to accept that Jason might have met a violent end than Josie had been.
“And you?” she asked.
“Jason was a peculiar lad. We never had a very close relationship. I don’t know why.”
“Did you know anything about his affiliation with the Albion League?”
“Not until yesterday, no.” Steven Fox shook his head slowly. “When Jason left home,” he said, “that was it. We never really knew what he was up to after then. Still, I don’t suppose it’s the kind of thing you do tell your parents, is it? I mean, can you imagine your son sitting down at the dinner table one night and saying, ‘Guess what, Mum, Dad. I joined a neo-Nazi party today’?”
“Not unless he thought you shared his views.”
Steven banged his coffee cup down on the saucer, spilling some. “Now, hold on a minute, that’s quite an allegation. I resent that. I’m not a racist.”
Susan held her hand up. “I’m not alleging anything, Mr. Fox. I simply want to know.”
“Well, he didn’t get it from me or his mother.”
“Do you have any ideas as to where he did get it from?”
“Well, that kind of thing… Do you really think it’s as simple as… you know, just picking up or imitating someone’s mannerisms or figures of speech?”
“No, I don’t. But he had to start somewhere. What about this promotion business?”
“Josie told you about that?”
“Maureen, actually.”
Steven Fox shrugged. “Back in Halifax, I lost out on a promotion to a fellow from Bengal. Nice chap, but… It was that, what do you call it…?”
“Positive discrimination?”
“Aye, only giving jobs to immigrants and women. Sorry. But I had more experience. And I’d put in more years. Anyway, it gave us some hard times, not enough money coming in, that sort of thing. I think Jason took it more to heart than I did, maybe because he already had some problems of his own at school. There were a lot of Asians there, recent immigrants for the most part, some of them with poor language skills, and Jason got into trouble once for suggesting to a teacher that they were holding back the rest and ought to be put together in a special class.”
“How long ago was that?”
“In his last year there. Just before we moved.”
“Didn’t that concern you?”
“Well, it… I mean, in a way, I suppose, he was right, wasn’t he? Maybe he should have put it more diplomatically. Lord knows, as I said, I’m no racist, but it seems to me that if you keep on catering to the demands of foreign cultures and other religions over your own, then you do sort of… weaken… your own, don’t you? For crying out loud, they don’t even sing a hymn and say the Lord’s Prayer at morning assembly anymore.”
Susan moved on quickly. “Do you know the people who run the shop on Gallows View? The Mahmoods?”
“I know who you mean – I’ve nipped in there for a tin of soup from time to time – but I can’t say I know them.”
“Remember about a month ago when someone chucked a brick though their window?”
“I read about it in the local paper. Why?”
“Was Jason up that weekend?”
“Oh, come on,” said Steven. “Surely you can’t imagine he’d do something like that?”
“Why not?”
“He wasn’t a hooligan.”
“But he was a racist.”
“Still… anyway, I don’t remember if he was here or not. And aren’t you supposed to be looking for his killers?”
“Every little bit helps, Mr. Fox. He wasn’t living at the address you gave us in Leeds. Did you know that?”
“Not living there?” Steven Fox shook his head. “Bloody hell, no. I just assumed… I mean, why would he lie about that?”
“I don’t think he lied. He just omitted to let you know. Maybe he thought you weren’t interested.”
Steven Fox frowned. “You must think us terribly neglectful parents.”
Susan said nothing.
“But Jason was over eighteen,” he went on. “He led his own life.”
“So you said. He still visited home, though.”
“He came home on weekends to get his washing done and get a free meal, like lots of kids do.”
“You said earlier that you and Jason were never close. Why was that?”
“I don’t know really. When he was younger, he was always more of a mother’s boy. Then, in his teens, he got involved in football. I’ve never been much interested in sports myself. I was never very good at games at school. Always the last one to be picked, that sort of thing. I suppose I should have gone to watch him play, you know, shown more support… enthusiasm. It’s not that I wasn’t proud of him.” He shook his head. “Maybe I was selfish. I had my record collection to catalog. Jason had his football. We just didn’t seem to have anything in common. But I couldn’t see where any of it was leading. How could I know?” He looked at his watch. “Look, I really do have to get back. I can’t tell you anything more, honestly. If those boys really did kill Jason, you know, those immigrants you had to let go, I hope you find some evidence against them. If there’s anything else I can do…?”
And he got up to leave. Susan nodded, more than happy to see the back of him. For the second time that day she’d had to restrain herself from screaming that George, Asim and Kobir weren’t immigrants, that they’d been bloody well born here, and their fathers before them. But she didn’t. What was the point?
And now she had to go to the Himalaya and talk to Asim Nazur and his parents. They would certainly be thrilled to see her. Still, wicked though it sounded, maybe she still had room for a small samosa, after all. Just the one. For a simple pub fight gone wrong, she thought, this case was turning into a hell of a confusing affair.
V
The little pane of glass in the front door smashed easily enough when Banks applied his elbow. He stuck his hand through carefully and turned the lock. He had a warrant to search the place and, as Jason’s pockets had been emptied of everything, including his house keys, this seemed the easiest way to get in.
Inside, the house was so quiet that all he could hear was the hissing of blood in his ears. There wasn’t even a clock ticking. He imagined it wasn’t always like that, not with the twins next door.
He started in the living room, to his right. Three-piece suite, upholstered in tan corduroy, wallpaper with thin green and brown stripes, mirror over the mantelpiece, fake-coal electric fire. Television and video. Selection of tapes, mostly science fiction and horror by the look of them. A few paperbacks: Ayn Rand, Tom Clancy, Michael Crichton. And that was it. There was a sideboard against one wall and in one of the drawers Banks found a couple of bills addressed to Jason Fox. Nothing else.
The kitchen was spotless, dishes all in cupboards, mugs hanging from hooks over the counter. Very little in the fridge: a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter; cheddar cheese turning blue at the edges, sliced white bread, boiled ham, limp celery, lettuce, tomatoes. More the kind of stuff for sandwiches than hot meals. Maybe Jason did most of his eating out.
There were three bedrooms,
one no bigger than a cupboard really. That one was completely empty, the other two showed some signs of occupation. Just as at the house in Eastvale, Jason’s bed was tightly made, and a similar selection of clothes hung in the wardrobe. The dresser drawers were full of socks, underwear and T-shirts, along with an unopened box of condoms and a bottle of aspirin. The third bedroom looked like a guest room, with single bed, empty drawers and not much else.
Except the computer.
But Banks didn’t trust himself not to screw something up if he started messing around with that, so he made a note to get someone else in to give it the once-over.
Back in the hall, Banks could only marvel at the sheer emptiness of the place. There was no personality. You’d expect, if Jason was a member of a white power organization, at least a few Skrewdriver CDs and maybe one or two copies of The Order strewn around the place. But it was as if someone had been there and stripped away all signs of character, if there had been any. And maybe someone had.
Two men, Liza Williams had said, and they had left with some cardboard boxes. Unfortunately, it had been raining in Leeds that Sunday morning, and they had both been wearing flat caps. Black or navy blue. One of them wore a black leather jacket and jeans, the other a donkey jacket. The one in the leather jacket was taller than the other.
No, Liza admitted, they weren’t particularly well dressed, but then she watched a lot of police programs on telly, so she didn’t expect real policemen to be any better dressed than their fictional counterparts. No, she couldn’t say how old they were, hadn’t seen their faces, but she got the impression by the way they moved that they were probably fairly young and fit.
And that was about all she could say, she was sorry. She had, after all, only glimpsed them, and as she noticed they used a key to get in, she didn’t worry about them being burglars or rapists. She first thought they were friends of Jason’s – he sometimes had friends to stay – and then, after she heard of his death, she just assumed they’d been policemen come to return his belongings to his family or something. No, her husband hadn’t seen them; he had already settled down with the Sunday papers, and once he did that…