Blood At The Root Page 7

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’s DCI Banks?”

  “ Leeds, sir. Pursuing inquiries.”

  “‘Pursuing inquiries,’ is he? Shopping, more bloody like. That Classical Record Shop of his. Anyone else here?”

  “No, sir. Just me.”

  Riddle jerked his head. “Right, you. Upstairs.”

  Susan turned and started walking up the stairs, feeling, she imagined, somewhat like a prisoner being sent down by the judge.

  It could hardly be a worse time to piss off Jimmy Riddle.

  Susan had passed the first parts of her sergeant’s exam, the written, almost a year ago. But police promotion is a long-drawn-out process. The last stage consisted of an appearance before the promotion board – presided over by an assistant chief constable and a chief superintendent from Regional HQ.

  That was six months ago now, but Susan still broke into a cold sweat every time she remembered the day of her board.

  She had spent weeks reading up on policy, national guidelines and equal opportunities, but none of it prepared her for what lay behind the door. Of course, they kept her waiting in the corridor for about half an hour, just to make her extra nervous, then the chief superintendent came out, shook her hand and led her in. She could have sworn there was a smirk on his face.

  First they asked her a few personal questions to get some idea of her overall bearing, confidence and articulateness. She thought she managed to answer clearly, without mumbling or stuttering, except when they asked what her parents thought of her choice of career. She was sure that she flushed, but rather than flounder around trying to explain, she simply paused to collect herself and said, “They didn’t approve, sir.”

  Next came the scenarios. And her interviewers added complications, changed circumstances and generally did everything they could to confuse her or get her to change her mind.

  “One of the men on your shift is regularly late in the morning,” the ACC began, “putting extra pressure on his mates. What do you do?”

  “Have a private word with him, sir, ask him why he’s being late all the time.”

  The ACC nodded. “His mother’s dying and she needs expensive care. He can’t afford it on a copper’s salary, so he’s playing in a jazz band until the wee hours to make a bit extra.”

  “Then I’d tell him he needs permission to work outside the force and advise him to get help and support from our Welfare Department, sir.”

  “He thanks you for your concern, but he keeps on playing with the band and turning up late.”

  “Then I’d think some disciplinary action would be in order, sir.”

  The ACC raised his eyebrows. “Really? But his mother is dying of cancer. He needs the extra income. Surely this is a reasonable way of earning it? After all, it’s not as if he’s taking bribes or engaging in other criminal acts.”

  Susan stuck to her guns. “He’s causing problems for his fellow officers on the shift, sir, and he’s disobeying police regulations. I think disciplinary action is called for if all other avenues have been exhausted.”

  And she passed. Now she was due to go up before the chief next week for her official promotion. And that chief, of course, was Chief Constable Riddle.

  Still, she reminded herself as she walked into the small office she shared with Sergeant Hatchley, there was nothing Riddle could do now to block her promotion. She had already earned it, and the next step was purely a formality, a bit of pomp and circumstance. Unless, of course, she really screwed up. Then, she supposed, he could do whatever he wanted. He was, after all, the chief constable. And, if nothing else, he could certainly make her life uncomfortable.

  The office seemed crowded with Riddle in it. The man’s restless, pent-up energy consumed space and burned up the oxygen like a blazing fire. Susan sat in her chair and Riddle perched on the edge of Hatchley’s desk. He was a tall man, and he seemed to tower over her.

  “Who authorized the arrest?” he asked.

  “They’re not exactly under arrest, sir,” Susan said. “Just detained for questioning.”

  “Very well. Who authorized their detention?”

  Susan paused, then said softly, “I think it was DCI Banks, sir.”

  “Banks. I knew it.” Riddle got up and started to pace, until he found out there was not enough room to do so, then he sat down again, his pate a little redder. Banks always said you could tell how angry Riddle was by the shade of his bald head, and Susan found herself stifling a giggle as she thought she could see it glow. It was like one of those mood rings that were a fad when she was a child, only Riddle’s mood never softened to a peaceful green or calm, cool blue.

  “On what evidence?” Riddle continued.

  “There’d been some trouble earlier in the pub, sir, the Jubilee. It involved the Mahmood boy and the victim, Jason Fox. When DCI Banks questioned George Mahmood about it, he refused to cooperate. So did his friends. They asked for a lawyer.”

  “And did they get one?”

  “No, sir. Well, not until this morning. It was Sunday.”

  “Any rough stuff?”

  “No, sir.”

  Riddle slid his hand across his head. “Well, let’s at least be thankful for small mercies. Have you any idea who Ibrahim Nazur is?”

  “Owner of the Himalaya, sir.”

  “More than that. He owns a whole bloody chain of restaurants, all over Yorkshire, and the Himalaya ’s just the latest. He’s also a highly respected member of the Muslim community and one of the prime movers in that new mosque project down Bradford way.”

  “Ah,” said Susan.

  “‘Ah,’ indeed. Anything from forensics?”

  “Nothing conclusive, sir. Not yet.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “None, sir. Not so far. We’re still looking.”

  Riddle stood up. “Right. I want the three of them out of here. Now. Do you understand?”

  Susan stood too. “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “And tell Banks I’ll be seeing him very soon.”

  Susan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  And with that, Jimmy Riddle straightened his uniform and marched downstairs to face his public.

  V

  Late that afternoon, Banks walked up to the bar of the Black Bull in Lyndgarth and ordered a double Bell ’s for Frank Hepplethwaite and a half of Theakston’s XB for himself.

  According to Susan, who had phoned Banks earlier, Hepplethwaite was Jason Fox’s granddad, and he said he had some information about Jason. He insisted on talking to the “man in charge.” Banks had phoned Frank and, finding out that he didn’t own a car, agreed to meet him in the Black Bull.

  Before setting off back for Swainsdale, though, Banks had called at the Leeds address Jason Fox’s parents had given him and found that Jason hadn’t lived there for at least eighteen months. The flat was now occupied by a student called Jackie Kitson, and she had never heard of Jason Fox. There the trail ended.

  The barman of the Black Bull was a skinny, hunched, crooked-shouldered fellow in a moth-eaten, ill-fitting pull-over. His greasy black hair and beard obscured most of his face, except the eyes, which stared out in a way reminiscent of photos of Charles Manson. He served the drinks without a word, then took down Banks’s order for one chicken-and-mushroom pie and one Old Peculier casserole. The Black Bull was one of those rare exceptions to the no-food-after-two-o’clock rule that blights most pubs.

  Banks took the drinks and joined Frank at a round table by the door. At the bar, one man started telling the barman how much more cozy it was now most of the tourists had gone. He had a whiny, southern accent, and actually lowered his voice when he said “tourists.” The barman, who clearly knew it was the tourist business that kept the place going, grunted “Aye” without looking up from the glass he was drying.

  Two other barstool regulars working at a crossword puzzle seemed overjoyed to discover that “episcopal” was an anagram of “Pepsi Cola.” To the left, down the far end where the billiard tables were, two
American couples were stuffing coins in the fruit machine, shifting occasionally to the video trivia game opposite.

  “You must know Mr. Gristhorpe, young lad?” said Hepplethwaite after thanking Banks for the drink.

  Banks nodded. “He’s my boss.”

  “Lives here in Lyndgarth, he does. Well, I suppose you know that. Can’t say I know him well, mind you. I’m a fair bit older myself, and he’s been away a lot. Good family, though, the Gristhorpes. Got a good reputation around these parts, anyroad.” He nodded to himself and sipped his Bell ’s.

  Frank Hepplethwaite had a thin, lined face, all the lines running vertically, and a fine head of gray hair. His skin was pale and his eyes a dull bottle-green. He looked as if he had once had quite a bit more flesh on his bones but had recently lost weight due to illness.

  “Anyway,” he said, “thank you for coming all the way out here. I don’t get around so well these days.” He tapped his chest. “Angina.”

  Banks nodded. “I’m sorry. No problem, Mr. Hepplethwaite.”

  “Call me Frank. Of course,” he went on, tapping his glass, “I shouldn’t be indulging in this.” He pulled a face. “But there’s limits to what a sick man will put up with.” He glanced at the table, where Banks had unconsciously rested his cigarettes and lighter. “Smoke if you like, lad. I like the smell of tobacco. And secondhand smoke be buggered.”

  Banks smiled and lit up.

  “Nice state of affairs, isn’t it,” said Hepplethwaite, “when a man has to indulge his vices by proxy.”

  Banks raised his eyebrows. The words sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place them.

  “Raymond Chandler,” said Hepplethwaite with a sly grin. “General Sternwood at the beginning of The Big Sleep. One of my favorite films. Bogey as Philip Marlowe. Must have seen it about twenty times. Know it by heart.”

  So that was it. Banks had seen the film on television just a few months ago, but he had never read the book. Ah well, another one for the lengthening list. As a rule, he didn’t read detective fiction, apart from Sherlock Holmes, but he’d heard that Chandler was good. “I’m sorry about what happened to your grandson,” he said.

  The old man’s eyes misted over. “Aye, well… nobody deserves to die like that. He must have suffered like hell.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and passed it to Banks. “This is why I asked you to come.”

  Banks nodded. He took the sheet, opened it and spread it on the table in front of him. It looked professionally printed, but most things did these days, with all the laser printers and desktop publishing packages around. Banks could remember the time – not so long ago – when all the copying in a police station was done from “spirit masters” on one of those old machines that made your fingers all purple. Even now, as he remembered it, he fancied he could smell the acrid spirit again.

  The masthead, in very large, bold capitals, read THE ALBION LEAGUE and underneath that, it said in italics, “Fighting the good fight for you and your country.”

  Banks drew on his Silk Cut and started to read.

  Friends, have you ever looked around you at the state of our once-great nation today and wondered just how such terrible degradation could have come about? Can you believe this nation was once called Great Britain ? And what are we now? Our weak politicians have allowed this once-great land to be overrun by parasites. You see them everywhere – in the schools, in the factories and even in the government, sapping our strength, undermining the fabric of our society. How could this be allowed to happen? Many years ago, Enoch Powell foresaw the signs, saw the rivers of blood in our future. But did anyone listen? No…

  And so it went on, column-inch after column-inch of racist drivel. It ended:

  And so we ask you, the true English people, heirs to King Arthur and Saint George, to join us in our struggle, to help us rid this great land of the parasite immigrant who crawls and breeds his filth in the bellies of our cities, of the vile and traitorous Jew who uses our economy for his own purposes, of the homosexual deviants who seek to corrupt our children, and of the deformed and the insane who have no place in the new order of the Strong and the Righteous. To purify our race and reestablish the new Albion in the land that is rightfully ours and make it truly our “homeland” once again.

  Banks put it down. Even a long draft of Theakston’s couldn’t get the vile taste out of his mouth. Reluctantly, he turned back to the pamphlet, but he could find no sign of an address, no mention of a meeting place. Obviously, whoever wanted to join the Albion League would first have to find it. At the bottom of the pamphlet, however, in tiny print in the far right-hand corner, he could make out the letters http://www.alblgue.com/index.html. A web-site address. Everyone had them these days. Next, he examined the envelope and saw that it had been posted in Bradford last Thursday.

  Their food arrived and they continued to speak between mouthfuls.

  “What makes you think Jason sent you this?” Banks asked, tapping the sheet.

  Frank Hepplethwaite turned away to face the dark wood partition between their table and the door. One of the Americans complained loudly that too many of the trivia questions dealt with English sports. “I mean, how the hell am I supposed to know which player transferred from Tottenham Hotspurs to Sheffield Wednesday in 1976? What game do they play, anyway? And what kinda name is that for a sports team? Sheffield Wednesday.” He shook his head. “These Brits.”

  Frank turned back to Banks and said, “Because it arrived only a couple of days after I let something slip. For which may God forgive me.”

  “What did you let slip?”

  “First you have to understand,” Frank went on, “that when Jason was just a wee lad, we were very close. They used to come up here for summer holidays sometimes, him, Maureen and my daughter Josie. Jason and I would go for long walks, looking for wildflowers on the riverbanks, listening for curlews over Fremlington Edge. Sometimes we’d go fishing up the reservoir, or visit one of the nearby farmers and help out around the yard for an afternoon, collecting eggs or feeding the pigs. We always used to go and watch the sheep-shearing. He used to love his times up here, did little Jason.”

  “You mentioned his mother and sister. What about his father?”

  Frank took a mouthful of casserole, chewed, swallowed and scowled. “That long streak of piss? To be honest, lad, I never had much time for him, and he never had much time for Jason. Do you know he never listens to those records he collects? Never listens to them! Still wrapped in plastic. I bloody ask you, what are you supposed to think of a bloke who buys records and doesn’t even listen to them?”

  Not much, Banks thought, chewing on a particularly stringy piece of chicken. Frank was obviously going to tell his story in his own time, his own way. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “What happened?”

  Frank paused for breath before continuing. “Time, mostly. That’s all. I got old. Too old to walk very far. And Jason got interested in other things, stopped visiting.”

  “Did he still come and see you occasionally?”

  “Oh aye. Now and then. But it were only in passing, like, more of a duty.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He drove out here the weekend before last. It’d be just a week before he died.”

  “Did he ever talk about his life in Leeds? His job? Friends?”

  “Not really, no. Once said he was learning about computers or something. Of course, I know nowt about that, so we soon changed the subject.”

  “Did he say where he was learning about computers?”

  “No.”

  “His parents told me he worked in an office.”

  Frank shrugged. “Could be. All I remember is him once saying he was learning about computers.”

  “And in all his visits,” Banks went on, “didn’t he ever talk about this sort of thing?” He tapped the pamphlet with his knuckle.

  Frank closed his eyes and shook his head. “Never. That was why it came as such a shock.”

&
nbsp; “Why do you think he never spoke to you about it?”

  “I can’t answer that one. Perhaps he thought I’d be against it, until I said what I did and gave him his opening? Perhaps he thought I was an old man and not worth converting? I am his granddad, after all, and we had a relationship of a kind. We didn’t say much to each other when we did meet up these past few years. I’d no idea what he was up to. Mostly he’d just have time to drop by and buy me a drink and ask if I was doing all right before he was off to his football or whatever.”

  Banks finished his pie. “What makes you think you gave Jason an opening to send you this pamphlet?” he asked. “What was it you said?”

  “Aye, well… We were sitting in here one day, just like you and me are now.” Frank lowered his voice. “The landlord here’s called Jacob Bernstein. Not that fellow there. Jacob’s not in right now. Anyway, I made a remark about Jacob being a bit of a tight-fisted old Jew.”

  “What did Jason say?”

  “Nowt. Not right away. He just had this funny sort of smile on his face. Partly a smile, partly a sort of sneer. As soon as I said it, I felt I’d done wrong, but these things slip out, don’t they, like saying Jews and Scotsmen have short arms and deep pockets. You don’t think about it being offensive, do you? You don’t really mean any harm by it. Anyways, after a minute or so, Jason says he thinks he might have something to interest me, and a few days later, this piece of filth turns up in the post. Who else could have sent it?”

  “Who else, indeed?” said Banks, remembering what David Wayne had told him that morning in Leeds. “Did you ever meet any of Jason’s circle?”

  “No.”

  “So there’s no way you can help us try and find out who killed him?”

  “I thought you already had the lads who did it?”

  Banks shook his head. “We don’t know if it was them. Not for sure. At the moment, I’d say we’re keeping our options open.”

  “Sorry, lad,” said Frank. “It doesn’t look like I can help, then, does it?” He paused and looked down into his glass. “It was a real shock,” he said, “when I read that thing and knew our Jason were responsible. I fought in the war, you know. I never made a fuss about it, and I don’t want to now. It were my duty, and I did it. I’d do it again.”