Blood At The Root Page 11

  The only thing she had noticed was a blue car parked outside, which she thought belonged to the men. But she didn’t know what make it was, let alone the number. She did say it was clean, though.

  Banks sighed as he closed the door behind him. He would have to get someone from West Yorkshire to fix the pane of glass he’d broken, and perhaps to question some of the other people in the street. Whatever they’d noticed, it had to be more than Liza Williams had.

  VI

  By mid-afternoon, Susan was wet, tired and no further ahead than she had been in the morning. The Nazurs and the Mahmoods had been sullen and uncommunicative, as expected, and she had flinched at the clear accusations of racism in their eyes. No, Jason Fox had never been in the Mahmoods’ shop, as far as they knew, and the Nazurs had never seen him in their restaurant. And they knew nothing about any Albion League.

  Sergeant Hatchley was still out pounding the streets, so at least she got the opportunity to warm herself up with a cup of coffee and take a little quiet time for herself.

  She had just put her cold wet feet on the radiator to warm them when one of the staff from the murder room came in bearing a fax. “Just arrived,” he said.

  Susan thanked him and looked at the single sheet. All it said was:

  THE ALBION LEAGUE

  along with a telephone number. A London number.

  Curious, Susan picked up the phone and dialed. She remembered that Banks had faxed a request for information about the Albion League to Scotland Yard, so she wasn’t surprised when someone there answered. After a bit of shuttling around and a lot of waiting, she finally got to someone who knew what she was talking about when she mentioned the Albion League. His name, he said, was Crawley.

  “Is your boss there, love?” he asked.

  Susan bristled, gripping the receiver tightly, but she said nothing.

  “Well?” Crawley repeated.

  “I’m afraid Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe is out of the office at the moment,” Susan finally managed between gritted teeth.

  “And you’re DC Gay?”

  “Yes.” At least he didn’t make any cracks about her name.

  “I suppose you’ll have to do then.”

  Not her day. “Thanks a lot,” she said.

  “Don’t take offense, love.”

  “I’ll try not to, sweetie pie. Now how about the Albion League?”

  She heard Crawley laugh at the end of the line, then he cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, it’s a neo-Nazi organization, white power. That’s why we’re interested, see, in why you want to know.”

  “I’d have thought it was a simple enough inquiry,” Susan said.

  “True enough, love, but nothing to do with those bastards is simple. They’re flagged.”

  “Flagged?”

  “Any time their name comes up, certain people have to be informed.”

  “That sounds very mysterious.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes. Anyway, don’t worry. I’m sure DCI Banks will send you a full report – he’s heading the field investigation – but would you mind, just for the moment, humoring a poor DC? Could you give me some general idea of what this particular neo-Nazi organization is all about, what they want?”

  She heard another brief chuckle down the line, then Crawley said, “Want? That’s easy. Same as all the rest of them, really. The usual things. Racial purity. Repatriation of immigrants and all ethnics. Keep Britain white. Oh, and they want the trains to run on time, too.”

  “Some hope of that.”

  “Tell me about it. Seriously, though, love, it’s not so much what these people want – that’s usually predictable enough – but what they’re willing to do to get it – what means they’ll use, how they’re organized, what connections they have with other groups, whether they’re armed, what international links they have, if any. That sort of thing. See what I mean?”

  “Yes,” said Susan. “And the Albion League, how do they fit into all that?”

  There was a pause. Then Crawley said, “I’m sorry, but I’m really not authorized to tell you any more than that. Have your boss give me a bell when he comes in, will you, love?”

  And the line went dead.

  VII

  By the time Banks had finished coordinating with West Yorkshire police, it was late afternoon. He decided to drop by Tracy’s residence and see what she was up to. She had only been at the University of Leeds for a little over two weeks, but already he missed her. Maybe he could take her for a spot of dinner or something. That way he would also avoid the rush-hour traffic on the way home.

  And spending time with Tracy might also make him forget about his problems with Sandra for a short while.

  When he got to the student residence building beside Woodhouse Moor, he was pleased to find that not just anyone could walk in. You had to know whom you wanted to see. Banks found a porter on duty, showed his identification and said he’d like to visit his daughter.

  Impressed with Banks’s credentials, the garrulous porter – who said he had been a policeman himself some years ago, before a leg injury forced him to retire – let him in.

  As Banks walked up the two flights of stairs, he wondered if he should have announced himself first. What if Tracy was with a boy or something? Having sex? But he dismissed the idea. He couldn’t imagine his daughter doing that. Either she’d be out at a lecture, or she’d be studying in her room.

  When he got to her door, he knocked. He could hear music from down the hall, but not a sound from Tracy’s room itself. He knocked again, more loudly this time. Nothing. He felt disappointed. She must be at a lecture.

  Just as he was about to walk away, the adjacent door opened and a young tousle-haired girl stuck her head out. “Oh, sorry,” she said in a husky voice. “I thought you were knocking on my door. Sometimes you can’t tell, if you’ve got some music on or something.” Then her eyes twinkled. “Hey, you weren’t knocking at my door, were you?”

  “No,” said Banks.

  She made a mock pout. “Pity. You looking for Tracy, then?”

  “I’m her father.”

  “The detective. She’s talked a lot about you.” The girl twisted a tendril of red hair around her index finger. “I must say, though, she never told me you were quite so dishy. I’m Fiona, by the way. Pleased to meet you.”

  She held out her hand and Banks shook it. He felt himself blush. “Any idea where Tracy might be?”

  Fiona looked at her watch. “Probably in the Pack Horse with the others, by now,” she said with a sigh. “I’d be there myself, ’cept I’m on antibiotics for my throat, and I’m not supposed to drink. And it’s no fun if you can’t have a real drink.” She wrinkled her nose and smiled. “It’s just up the road. You can’t miss it.”

  Banks thanked her and, leaving the car parked where it was, set off on foot. He found the Pack Horse on Wood-house Lane, close to the junction with Clarendon Road, not more than a couple of hundred yards away. He felt too formally dressed for the place, even though he had taken off his tie and was wearing casual trousers and a zippered suede jacket.

  The pub had the polished wood, brass and glass look of a real Victorian alehouse; it also seemed to be divided into a maze of rooms, most of them occupied by noisy groups of students. It wasn’t until the third room that Banks found his daughter. She was sitting at a cluttered table with about six or seven other students, a pretty even mix of male and female. The jukebox was playing a Beatles oldie: “Ticket to Ride.”

  He could see Tracy in profile, chatting away over the music to a boy beside her. God, she looked so much like Sandra – the blond hair tucked behind her small ears, black eyebrows, tilt of nose and chin, the animated features as she talked. It made his heart ache.

  Banks didn’t like the look of the boy beside her. He had one of those expressions that always seem to be sneering at the world: something to do with the twist of the lip and the cast of the eyes. Either Tracy didn’t notice, or it didn’t bother her. Or, wors
e, she found it attractive.

  As she spoke, she waved her hands about, stopping now and then to listen to his response and sip from a pint glass of pale amber liquid, nodding in agreement from time to time. Her drink could have been lager, but Banks thought it was most likely cider. Tracy had always enjoyed nonalcoholic cider when they’d stopped for pub lunches during family holidays in Dorset or the Cotswolds.

  But this glass of cider was probably alcoholic. And why not? he told himself. She was old enough. At least she wasn’t smoking.

  Then, as he stood there in the doorway, a strange emotion overwhelmed him. As he watched his daughter talk, laugh and drink, oblivious to her father’s proximity, a lump came to his throat, and he realized he had lost her. He couldn’t go over to the table and join the crowd – simply couldn’t do it. He didn’t belong; his presence would only embarrass her. A line had been reached and crossed. Tracy was beyond him now, and things would never be the same. And he wondered if that was the only line that had been crossed lately.

  Banks turned away and walked outside. The wind made his eyes water as he went in search of somewhere else to enjoy a quiet smoke and a drink before setting off back home.

  VIII

  That Tuesday night, the Albion League was holding one of its regular bashes in a small rented warehouse near Shipley. Dim and cavernous, it was the same kind of place people went to for raves, but without the Ecstasy. Here, Craig guessed, the only drugs were the lager that flowed from the kegs like water from a hosepipe, nicotine and, maybe, the odd tab of amphetamine.

  But one way or another everyone was pumped up. Guitars, drums and bass crashed at breakneck pace, simple three-chord sequences, interrupted occasionally by a howl of unplanned feedback from the amps. The Albion League themselves were playing tonight, a makeshift white power band consisting of whoever felt like picking up the instruments at the time. At the moment the lead singer was growling,

  White is white.

  Black is black.

  We don’t want ’em.

  Send ’em back.

  Subtle. Craig wished he could wear earplugs.

  From his table, Craig watched Motcombe work the room. He was good, no doubt about it. Slick. There must be at least a couple of hundred people in the place, Craig guessed, and Nev was walking around the tables patting a back here, leaning over for a smile and a word of encouragement there.

  It was a miracle he managed to make himself heard with the band making so much bloody noise. Some of the older members, chronically unemployed factory workers and aging skins, had settled into a far corner, as far away from the source of the racket as possible. What did they expect, Craig wondered, the Black Dyke Mills Band playing “Deutschland Über Alles” or Wagner’s Ring cycle? It was the rock bands that got the kids in, and got the message across through sheer volume and repetition.

  The real trouble with this gig, Craig thought as he looked around, was that there was no chance of a bit of nooky. For some reason, girls didn’t have much to do with white power freaks, and most of the kids, in turn, seemed content enough with a celibate existence, fueled by sheer race hatred alone.

  The only females Craig could see tonight were a few peroxide scrubbers, like superannuated biker girls, hanging out with the older crowd, and a table of skinny birds with shaved heads and rings through their noses. He sighed and drank some lager. Can’t have everything. A job’s a job.

  The music stopped and the singer said they were going to take a short break. Thank God for that, thought Craig. Trying to keep one eye on Motcombe, he turned to the three skins at the table with him.

  Christ, he thought, they couldn’t be more than sixteen. One of the Leeds cell leaders had spotted them causing a bit of aggro to a telephone box on their way home from a football match. He had joined in with them, then invited them to the show. Thick as two short planks, all three of them.

  “What did you think of that, then?” Craig asked, lighting up.

  “Not bad,” said the spotty one, who went by the name of Billy. “I’ve heard better guitar players, mind you.”

  “Yeah, well,” Craig said with a shrug, “they’re pretty new, need a bit more practice, I’ll admit. See, with this lot, though, it’s the words that count most. Trouble is, most rock bands don’t really pay any attention to what they’re saying, know what I mean? I’m talking about the message.”

  “What message?” the slack-jawed one asked.

  “Well, see, if you were listening,” Craig went on, “you’d have heard what they were saying about that we should send all the Pakis and niggers back home and get this country on its feet again.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Billy. “‘White’s white, black’s black, we don’t want ’em, send ’em back.’”

  “That’s right.” Craig smiled. “So you were listening. Great. That’s what I mean, Billy. Most rock music is self-indulgent crap, but this is real music, music with a purpose. It’s truth-telling music, this is. It tells it like it is.”

  “Yeah,” said slack-jaw. “I think I see what you mean.”

  In your fucking dreams, thought Craig. From the corner of his eye, he saw Motcombe about five tables away whispering in someone’s ear. He couldn’t make out who it was. How many irons did this one have in the fire? Even though the band had stopped playing, music still blared out of a sound system and the level of conversation was loud.

  “So what do you think?” he asked. “The message?”

  “Well, yeah,” said pointy-head, speaking up for the first time. “It sounds all right. Send ’em all back, like. I mean, it sounds good to me.” He grinned, showing bad teeth and looked around at his friends. “I mean, kick the fuckers out, right? Eh? Send the black bastards back to the jungle. Kick the fuckers out.”

  “Right,” said Craig. “You’ve got it. Thing is, there’s not much a person can do by himself, all alone, if you see what I mean.”

  “Except wank.” Slack-jaw grinned.

  Ah, a true wit. Craig laughed. “Yeah, except wank. And you don’t want to be wankers, do you? Anyway, see, if you get organized, like with others who feel the same way, then there’s a lot more you can achieve? Right?”

  “Right,” said Billy. “Stands to reason, don’t it?”

  “Okay,” Craig went on, noticing the band picking up their instruments again. “Think about it, then.”

  “About what?” Billy asked.

  “What I’ve just been saying. About joining the league. Where you get a chance to act on your beliefs. We have a lot of fun, too.”

  A screech of feedback came from the amp. Billy put his hands over his ears. “Yeah, I can see,” he said.

  He was clearly the leader of the three, Craig thought, the Alex of the group, the others were just his droogs. If Billy decided it was a good idea, they’d go along with him. Craig noticed Motcombe glance around the room, then walk out of the fire exit at the back with one of the Leeds cell leaders. He stood up and leaned over the three skins. “Keep in touch, then,” he said, as the music started again. He pointed. “See that bloke at the table there, over by the door?”

  Billy nodded.

  “If you decide you want to sign up tonight, he’s the man to talk to.”

  “Right.”

  He patted Billy on the back. “Got to go for a piss. See you later.”

  Casually, he walked toward the toilets near the front door. The band had started their tribute to Ian Stuart, late leader of Skrewdriver who, Blood and Honour claimed, had been murdered by the secret service. And now the Albion League had a martyr on their hands. He wondered how quickly someone would write a song about Jason Fox.

  Anyway, the toilets were empty, and most people were either talking loudly or listening to the band, so no one saw Craig nip out the front door. Not that it mattered, anyway; the room was so hot and smoky that no one could be suspect for going out for a breath of fresh air.

  Instead of just standing there and enjoying the smell of the cool, damp night, he walked around the back of the buildi
ng toward the big car park. Glancing around the corner, he saw Motcombe and the Leeds skin standing by Mot-combe’s black van talking. The car park was badly lit, so Craig found it easy enough to crouch down and scoot closer, hiding behind a rusty old Metro, watching them through the windows.

  It didn’t take long to figure out that they were talking about money. As Craig watched, the Leeds skin handed Motcombe a fistful of notes. Motcombe took a box out of his van and opened it. Then he placed the bills inside. The skin said something Craig couldn’t catch, then they shook hands and he went back inside.

  Motcombe stood for a moment glancing around, sniffing the air. Craig felt a twinge of fear, as if Motcombe had twitched his antenna, sensed a presence.

  But it passed. Motcombe opened the box, took out a handful of notes and stuffed them in his inside pocket. Then he squared his shoulders and strutted back in to work the crowd again.

  FIVE

  I

  “The Albion League,” said Gristhorpe in the Boardroom on Wednesday morning, his game leg resting on the polished oval table, thatch of gray hair uncombed. Banks, Hatchley and Susan Gay sat listening, cups of coffee steaming in front of them. “I’ve been on the phone to this bugger Crawley for about half an hour, but somehow I feel I know less than when I started. Know what I mean?”

  Banks nodded. He’d spoken to people like that. Still, some had said the same thing about him, too.

  “Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “they’re exactly what they sound like in their pamphlet – a neo-Nazi fringe group. Albion’s an old poetic name for the British Isles. You find it in Chaucer, Shakespeare, Spenser and lots of other poets. Anyway, according to Crawley, this lot took it from William Blake, who elevated Albion into some sort of mythical spirit of the race.”