Dead Right (17 page)

“I’ll bet you don’t.”

“Not everyone understands.”

“I’m sure they don’t. How does a person join, then?”

“Why? You interested?”

“Just answer the fucking question.”

“All right. All right. No need to get shirty. Just my little joke. We recruit people.”

“Where?”

Ray shrugged. “Wherever we can find them. It’s no secret. Schools, youth clubs, football matches, rock concerts, the Internet. We vet them pretty thoroughly, too, of course, if they express any interest.”

“Tell me, Ray, what are
your
duties?” Banks asked, pacing around the small room as he talked. “How high up the totem pole are
you
?”

Ray grinned. “Me? Not very high. Mostly, I hand out pamphlets. And I’ll be doing some of the writing now Jason’s dead.”

“Propaganda? Was that his job?”

“One of them.”

“The Goebbels of the group, eh?”

“Come again?”

“Never mind, Ray. Before your time. Anything else?”

“I do some training.”

“What sort of training?”

“Country weekends. You know, survival skills, camping, hiking, physical fitness, that sort of thing.”

“Real Duke of Edinburgh’s Award stuff?”

“If you like.”

“Weapons?”

Ray folded his arms. “Now, you
know
that would be illegal.”

“Right. How silly of me to ask. Anyway, Ray, back to Jason Fox. How well did you know him?”

“Not very.”

“You mean the two of you didn’t share your ideas on immigration policy and sing the occasional verse of the Horst Wessel song together after a couple of jars?”

“No,” said Ray. “And you can sneer all you like. I’m getting fed up of this. Look, why don’t you go get your search warrant and call in your bully boys. Either that or get the fuck off our property.”

Banks said nothing.

“I mean it,” Ray went on. “I’m calling your bluff. Either bring in the bluebottles or bugger off.”

Banks thought for a moment as he engaged Ray in a staring match. He decided that there was nothing more to be learned here. Besides, he was getting hungry. “All right, Ray,” he said. “We’ve finished with you for the time being. Jim?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Sergeant Hatchley managed to knock over a half-f mug of tea on the counter. Banks turned and watched as the dark stain spread around the bottom few pamphlets and began to rise up as the paper absorbed it. Then, with Hatchley behind him, he opened the door and they headed out to the car. The drizzle had stopped now and a brisk wind had sprung up, allowing the occasional shaft of sunlight to slant through puffy grey clouds.

“We didn’t
have
to leave, sir,” Hatchley said as they got in the car. “We could have leaned on them a bit more.”

“I know that. We can always go back if we need to, but I don’t think we’ll find any answers there.”

“Think they had anything to do with Jason’s death?”

“I don’t know yet. I can’t honestly see why he would.”

“Me neither. What next?”

Banks lit a cigarette and slid the window down a couple of inches. “We’ll have a word with Neville Motcombe this afternoon,” he said, “but before that, how do you fancy lunch with Ken
Blackstone? There was something young Adolf said back there gave me an idea.”

IV

When Susan got to The Hope and Anchor, just around the corner on York Road, Gavin was already looking over the menu, a full pint beside him. Susan waved, stopped at the bar for her usual St Clement’s and went over to join him. She put the copy of
Classic CD
that she’d bought at the newsagent’s on the bench beside her.

“What brings you to town, then?” she asked.

“I had a couple of boxes of stuff to deliver to your records officer. It’s not all computers, you know.”

The place was fairly quiet, and soon they had both ordered the lasagna-and-chips special. Gavin raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Susan smiled at him. A little over six foot, and only a couple of years older than her, Gavin was a good-looking fellow with a strong chin, soulful eyes and a mop of shaggy chestnut hair. He played fullback for the police rugby team.

“So,” Gavin said, “you are the sergeant when a call is received that there is a small nuclear device in the Swainsdale Centre. A validated code word has been given, it is a busy time of day, and you have twenty minutes to hand over every packet of Rice Crispies in Eastvale at a designated spot. What do you do?”

Susan laughed. “Get in my car and drive like hell out of there.”

“Sorry, DC Gay, you fail.”

It was a running joke between them. They had met just after doing their boards, and since then they had been coming up with progressively more absurd versions of the scenarios they had been given to solve.

“What’s that?” Gavin asked, pointing at the magazine.

“Just a music magazine.”

“I can see that. Bring it along in case the conversation gets boring, did you?”

“Idiot.” Susan grinned. “I picked it up on the way. I thought I might have to wait for you.”

Gavin picked up the magazine. “Classical music? With a free compact disc? Cecilia Bartoli. Sir Simon Rattle. I say. Alan Bennett plays are one thing, but I didn’t know you were such a culture vulture.”

Susan snatched the magazine back. “It’s something I picked up from DCI Banks,” she said. “I get to hear a lot of classical stuff travelling in the car with him and I thought … well, some of it’s really interesting. This is just an easy way of finding out more about it, that’s all. You get snippets of things on the disc, and if I like them, sometimes I’ll go and buy the whole thing.”

“Ah, the ubiquitous DCI Banks. I should have known his hand would be in this somewhere. And where might golden boy be today?”

“He’s gone to Leeds. And I told you not to call him that.”

“Leeds? Again? Know what I think?” Gavin leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “I think he’s got a fancy woman down there. That’s what I think.”

“Don’t be absurd. He’s married.”

Gavin laughed. “Well I’ve never known that to stop a bloke before. What about this violinist you told me about? Is Banks bonking her?”

“You’re disgusting. Her name’s Pamela Jeffreys, and she’s a violist not a violinist. For your information, DCI Banks is a decent bloke. He’s got an absolutely gorgeous wife. She runs the art gallery at the community centre. I’m certain he’s faithful to her. He wouldn’t do anything like that.”

Gavin held his hand up. “All right, all right. I know when I’m beaten. If you say so. He’s a saint.”

“I didn’t say that, either,” Susan said through gritted teeth. Then she glared at him.

Their food came, and they both tucked in. Susan concentrated on her lasagna and tried to ignore the chips. Not entirely successfully.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Gavin said, “your Banks is definitely not a saint in Chief Constable Riddle’s books.”

“Jimmy Riddle’s a pillock.”

“That’s as may be. But he’s also Chief Constable Pillock, and your golden boy has been pissing him off mightily of late. Just a friendly word of warning, that’s all.”

“Are you talking about those Asian kids we brought in?”

Gavin nodded. “Could be something to do with them, yes. That and near causing a race riot.”

“A race riot? In Eastvale?” She laughed. “It was a storm in a teacup, Gavin. I was there. And we’d good reason to detain those three kids. They’re still not off the hook, you know. The lab found something suspicious on George Mahmood’s shoe. They’re still working on it.”

“Probably dog shit. I think you’ll need a lot more than that to convince the CC.”

“They think it might be blood. Anyway, you know as well as I do that Jimmy Riddle only ordered their release because of political pressure.”

“Don’t underestimate political pressure, Susan. It can be a powerful motivator. Especially in a person’s career. Even so, you’re probably right about his reasons.” Gavin pushed his empty plate aside. “To be honest, I can’t say I’ve ever heard the CC have a good word to say for darkies in private. But the public face is another matter. Sure they only got off because they’re coloured. This time. And because Mustapha Camel, or whatever his name is, is some big wallah in the Muslim community. But there’s a large section of the public—especially some of the more liberal members of the press—who say that they were only arrested in the first place because they were coloured. Take your pick. You can’t win. Anyway, you might just want to warn DCI Banks that the CC is on the warpath.”

Susan laughed. “What’s new? I think he already knows that.” She glanced at her watch.

“Maybe
that’s
why he’s gone to Leeds?”

“DCI Banks isn’t scared of Jimmy Riddle.”

“Well, maybe he should be.”

Susan wasn’t certain from his expression whether Gavin was being serious or not. It was often difficult to tell with him. “I’ve got to go,” she said, standing up.

“You can’t. You haven’t finished your chips.”

“They’re fattening.”

“But I’ve not had my full half-hour yet.”

“Isn’t life unfair,” Susan said, smiling as she pecked him on the cheek and turned to leave.

“Saturday?” he called out after her.

“Maybe,” she said.

SIX

I

DI Ken Blackstone, West Yorkshire CID, was already waiting when Banks and Hatchley arrived at the pub he’d suggested over the telephone, a seedy-looking dive near Kirkgate Market, at the back of the Millgarth police headquarters.

Most days there was an open-air market near the bus station, behind the huge Edwardian market hall, and today in the drizzle a few lost souls in macs wandered around the covered stalls, fingering samples of fabric and fruit, thumbing through tattered paperback romances and considering the virtues of buying that “genuine antique” brass door-knocker.

But no-one showed much enthusiasm, not even the vendors, who were usually keen to sing out the praises of their wares and draw customers to their stalls. Today most of them stood to the side, wearing flat caps and waxed jackets, drawing on cigarettes and shuffling from foot to foot.

The pub wasn’t very busy inside, either. Blackstone had assured them the cook did a decent Yorkshire pudding and gravy, and luckily it turned out to be true. In deference to duty, Banks and Blackstone drank halves. Hatchley, unwilling to miss what was a rare opportunity these days, had a full pint of Tetley’s bitter. A giant jukebox stood in one corner of the lounge bar, but it was silent at the moment, so they didn’t have to shout.

“Well, Alan,” said Blackstone, echoing Gavin Richards’s sentiments, “you’ve been spending so much time down here this past year or two I’m surprised you’re not thinking of moving.”

Banks smiled. “I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind. Oh, not seriously. Well, maybe just a little bit seriously. With both Brian and
Tracy gone, the house just seems too big, and much as I love Eastvale … I think Sandra misses big city life. And I wouldn’t mind being a bit nearer Opera North.” When he mentioned Sandra, he felt a pang. They hadn’t talked since their argument the other night, and Opera North had certainly played its part in that.

Blackstone smiled. “It’s not such a bad place. You could do a lot worse.”

Banks looked at Hatchley, who had done a stint on the West Yorkshire force several years ago. “Jim?”

“He’s right,” Hatchley agreed. “And it might not be a bad career move.” He winked. “It’s a long way from Jimmy Riddle. We’d miss you, of course.”

“Stop it, you’ll make me cry,” Banks said, pretending to reach for a handkerchief.

“All right,” said Hatchley. “We won’t miss you, then.”

“Anyway,” Banks asked, “how’s crime?”

“Much the same as usual,” said Blackstone. “We’ve had a spate of ‘steamings’ lately. Five or six young lads will go into a shop, then, when the shopkeeper’s got his cash register open, they rush into action, create chaos all around while they grab what they want from customers and till alike. Kids for the most part. Fifteen and under, most of them. They’ve also taken to doing building societies and post offices the same way.”

Banks shook his head. “Sounds American to me.”

“You know how it goes, Alan. First America, then London, then the rest of the country. What else … ? We’ve had a few too many muggings at cash dispensers, too. And to cap it all, it looks like we’re heading for another drug war in Chapeltown.”

Banks raised his eyebrows.

Blackstone sighed. “Bloke goes by the name of
Deevaughan
. Spelled like the county: Devon. Anyway, Devon came up from London about a month ago and sussed out the scene pretty quickly. Already it looks like we can put down one murder to him.”

“Can’t prove anything, of course?”

“Course not. He was in a pub with twenty mates when it happened. This one’s bad, Alan. Crack, cocaine, the usual stuff, of course. But word also has it he’s a big heroin fan. He spent the last
few years in New York and Toronto, and there’s rumours of death follow him around wherever he goes. Still want to move here?”

Banks laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

“Anyway, you didn’t come to talk about my problems. How can I help you this time?”

Banks lit a cigarette. “Know anything about Neville Motcombe? Runs a white-power group called the Albion League. Lives out Pudsey way. Offices in Holbeck.”

Blackstone shook his head. “I’ve heard of him, but I can’t really say I know much, not off the cuff. Bit out of my bailiwick, to be honest.”

“What is? Neo-Nazis or Pudsey?”

Blackstone laughed. “Both, I suppose.” With his thinning sandy hair, still enough left to curl around his ears, wire-rimmed glasses, long, pale face and Cupid’s bow lips, Blackstone reminded Banks more of an academic than a copper. Except that he was always well dressed. Today, he wore a dazzling white shirt, its brightness outdone only by his gaudy tie, and a pinstripe suit that looked tailor-made, not off the peg, with a silk handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. Banks didn’t even wear a suit and tie unless he had to, and he always kept the top button of his shirt undone. Today he was wearing his favourite suede jacket again, and his tie hung askew.

“How did you come to hear about him?” Banks asked.