Dead Right (13 page)

Tears welled in Josie Fox’s eyes. “How could he? I mean, where did it come from, him joining such a group, not telling us anything? We used to be such a close family. We always tried to bring him up properly, decently. Where did we go wrong?”

Maureen raised her eyes and sat rigidly, arms folded over her chest, 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 pretence of being surprised to receive a caller, and left the chain on as she checked his warrant card and invited him in.

“You can’t be too careful, these days,” she said 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 aloud, 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
neighbours, even if we weren’t especially close ones. They say good fences make good neighbours, 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 lunch-time 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 lunch-time anyway.”

“My treat,” said Susan. She sighed inwardly, realizing she’d have to forego the Himalaya.

Steven Fox put on his raincoat, and they walked along York Road to the El Toro coffee bar on the opposite side of the market square from the police station. The El Toro, with its dim lighting, castanet-clicking muzak, bullfight posters and smell of espresso, wasn’t renowned for its food, but the sandwiches were decent enough: Susan treated herself to prawn and tomato and Steven Fox settled for ham and cheese.

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 for 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 any more.”

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 catalogue. 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?