Dead Right (21 page)

Now Jimmy Riddle wanted to tie him to his desk anyway.

What could he do? Was it really time for another move?

But he didn’t have time to think about these matters for very long. Not more than two minutes after Riddle had left, the phone rang.

III

Susan arrived ten minutes late for lunch at the Queen’s Arms, where the object was to discuss leads and feelings about the Jason Fox case over a drink and a pub lunch. An informal brainstorming session.

Banks and Hatchley were already ensconced at a dimpled, copper-topped table between the fireplace and the window when Susan hurried in. They were both looking particularly glum, she noticed.

She stopped at the bar and ordered a St Clement’s and a salad sandwich, then joined the others at the table. Hatchley had an almost-empty pint glass in front of him, while Banks was staring gloomily into a half. They scraped their chairs aside to make room for her.

“Sorry I’m late, sir,” she said.

Banks shrugged. “No problem. We went ahead and ordered without you. If you want something …”

“It’s all right, sir. They’re doing me a sandwich.” Susan glanced from one to the other. “Excuse me if I’m being thick or something, but it can’t be the weather that’s making your faces as long as a wet Sunday afternoon. Is something wrong? I feel as if I’ve walked in on a wake.”

“In a way, you have,” said Banks. He lit a cigarette. “You know Frank Hepplethwaite, Jason’s granddad?”

“Yes. At least I know who he is.”

“Was. I just got a call from the Halifax police. He dropped dead at Jason’s funeral.”

“What of?”

“Heart attack.”

“Oh no,” said Susan. She had never met the old man but she knew Banks had been impressed with him, and that was enough for her. “What happened?”

“Motcombe took nine or ten of his blackshirts to the grave side and Frank took umbrage. Made a run at them. He was dead before his granddaughter could get them to back off.”

“So they killed him?”

“You
could
say that.” Banks glanced sideways at Hatchley, who drained his pint, shook his head slowly and went to the bar for another. Banks declined his offer of a second half. Smoke from his cigarette drifted perilously close to Susan’s nose; she waved her hand in the air to waft it away.

“Sorry,” said Banks.

“It doesn’t matter. Look, sir, I’m having a bit of trouble understanding all this. It sounds like manslaughter to me. Are we pressing charges against Motcombe or not?”

Banks shook his head. “It’s West Yorkshire’s patch. And they’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because Frank Hepplethwaite attacked Motcombe, and his lot were merely defending themselves.”

“Ten of them? Against an old man with a bad heart? That’s not on, sir.”

“I know,” said Banks. “But apparently they didn’t punch or kick him. They just pushed him away. They were protecting themselves from him.”

“It still sounds like manslaughter.”

“West Yorkshire don’t think they can get the CPS to prosecute.”

The Crown Prosecution Service, as Susan knew, were well known for their conservative attitude towards pursuing criminal cases through the courts. “So Motcombe and his bully boys just walk away scot-free? That’s it?”

Hatchley returned from the bar. At almost the same time, Glenys, the landlord’s wife, appeared with the food: Susan’s sandwich, plaice and chips for Hatchley and a thick wedge of game pie for Banks.

“Not exactly,” said Banks, stubbing out his cigarette. “At least not immediately. They were taken in for questioning. Their argument was that they were simply attending the funeral of a fallen comrade when this madman started attacking them and they were forced to push him away to protect themselves. The fact that Frank was an old man didn’t make a lot of difference to the charges, or lack of them. Some old men are pretty tough. And they didn’t know he had a bad heart.”

“Isn’t there
anything
we can do?” Susan turned to Hatchley.

He shook his head, piece of breaded plaice on his fork in mid-air. “It doesn’t look like it.” Then he glanced at Banks, who looked up from his pie and nodded. “It gets worse,” Hatchley went on. “We’re in no position to charge Motcombe, it seems, but Motcombe has brought assault charges against Maureen Fox, Jason’s sister. It seems she attacked him and his mates with a heavy plank she picked up from the grave side and cracked a couple of heads open, including Motcombe’s.”

Susan’s jaw dropped. “And
they’re
charging
her
?”

“Aye,” said Hatchley. “I shouldn’t imagine much will come of it, but it’s exactly the kind of insult Motcombe and his sort like to throw at people.”

“And at the justice system,” Banks added.

There were times, Susan had to admit, when she hadn’t much stomach for the
justice system,
even though she knew it was probably
the best in the world. Justice is always imperfect and it was a lot more imperfect in many other countries. Even so, once in a while something came along to outrage even what she thought was her seasoned copper’s view. All she could do was shake her head and bite on her salad sandwich.

In the background, the cash register chinked and a couple of shop-workers on their lunch-break laughed at a joke. Someone won a few tokens on the fruit machine.

“Any more good news?” Susan asked.

“Aye,” said Hatchley. “The lab finally got back to us on that stuff they found on George Mahmood’s trainers.”

“And?”

“Animal blood. Must have stepped on a dead spuggy or summat while he was crossing the rec.”

“Well,” Susan said, “this is all very depressing, but I think I’ve got at least one piece of good news.”

Banks raised his eyebrows.

Susan explained about the message she had left with the FoxWood Designs page. “That’s why I was late,” she said. “When I first checked, the reply hadn’t come through, so I thought I’d give it just a few minutes more and try again.”

“And?” said Banks.

“And we’re in luck. Well, it’s a start, anyway.”

Susan brought the folded sheet of paper out of her briefcase and laid it on the table. Banks and Hatchley leaned forward to read the black-edged message:

Dear Valued Customer,

Many thanks for your interest in the work of FoxWood Designs. Unfortunately, we have had to suspend business for the time being due to bereavement. We hope you will be patient and bring your business to us in the near future, and we apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.

Yours sincerely,

Mark Wood

“
Mark Wood
. So we’ve got a name,” said Banks.

Susan nodded. “As I said, it’s not much, but it’s a place to start. This
could
be the lad who was with Jason in The Jubilee. At the very least, he’s Jason’s business partner. He ought to know something.”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “But he still might prove to have nothing to do with the case at all.”

“But don’t you think it’s a bit fishy that he hasn’t come forward yet, no matter who he is?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “But Liza Williams didn’t come forward, either. Jason’s neighbour in Rawdon. She didn’t see any reason to. Nor did Motcombe.”

“Well, sir,” Susan went on, “I still think we should try and find him as soon as possible.”

“Oh, I agree.” Banks reached for his briefcase. “Don’t mind me, Susan. I’m just a bit down in the dumps about what happened to Frank Hepplethwaite.”

Susan nodded. “I understand.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, “there’s one thing we can check, for a start. I got a fax from Ken Blackstone listing Motcombe’s properties and tenants. I haven’t had time to have a good look at it yet.” He pulled the sheets of paper out and glanced over them. “Seems Motcombe owns a fair bit of property,” he said after a few moments. “Four houses in addition to his own, two of them divided into flats and bedsits, the semi where Jason Fox lived, and a shop with a flat above it in Bramley. He also owns the old grocer’s shop where the Albion League operates from, as we thought.” Finally, a few seconds later, he shook his head in disappointment. “There’s no Mark Wood listed among the tenants. Maybe that would have been
too
easy.”

“I wonder where Motcombe got his money from,” Susan said.

“Members’ dues?” Hatchley chipped in.

“Hardly likely,” said Banks, with a grim smile. “Maybe he inherited it? I’ll get in touch with Ken again, see if he can work up some more background on Mr Motcombe for us.”

“You don’t really think he did it, do you?” Susan asked.

“Kill Jason? Honestly? No. For a start, he doesn’t seem to have
a motive. And even if he did have something to do with it, he certainly didn’t do it himself. I doubt he’s got the bottle. Or the strength. Remember, Jason was a pretty tough customer. But let’s have a closer look at him anyway. I don’t like the bastard, or what he stands for, so any grief we can give him is fine with me. Even a traffic offence. Besides, I’d look a right prat if we overlooked something obvious, wouldn’t I? And that’s the last thing I need right now.”

“The chief constable?” Susan ventured.

Banks nodded. “Himself. In the flesh. So I’d better get back to my desk and
co-ordinate
.”

IV

Banks felt bone-weary when he arrived home that evening shortly after six o’clock. He was still upset about Frank Hepplethwaite’s senseless death, his run-in with Jimmy Riddle was still niggling him, and the lack of progress in the Jason Fox case was sapping his confidence. Well, he’d done the best he could so far. If only the lab boys or Vic Manson could come through with something.

Sandra wasn’t home. In a way, that made him feel relieved. He didn’t think he could deal with another argument right now. Or the cold shoulder.

He made himself a cheese omelette. There wasn’t any real cheese in the fridge, so he used a processed slice. It tasted fine. Shortly after eight, when Banks was relaxing with
Così Fan Tutte
and a small Laphroaig, Sandra got back. Anxious to avoid another scene, Banks turned the volume on the stereo very low.

But Sandra didn’t seem to notice the opera playing softly in the background. At least she didn’t say anything. She seemed distracted, Banks thought, as he tried to engage her in conversation about the day.

When he offered to take her out for a bite to eat—the omelette not having filled him up nearly as much as he’d hoped—she said she’d already eaten with a couple of friends after the arts committee meeting and she wasn’t hungry. All Banks’s conversational
gambits fell on deaf ears. Even his story of Jimmy Riddle’s bollocking failed to gain an ounce of sympathy. Finally, he turned to her and said, “What’s wrong? Is this because of the other night? Are you still pissed off at me about that?”

Sandra shook her head. The blonde tresses danced over her shoulders. “I’m not pissed off,” she said. “That kind of thing is always happening with us.
That’s
the real problem. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how little we see of one another these days? How we both seem to go our separate ways, have our separate interests? How little we seem to have in common? Especially now Tracy’s gone.”

Banks shrugged. “It’s only been a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’ve been busy. So have you. Give it time.”

“I know. But that’s not it. We’re always busy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Work. Yours. Mine. Oh, that’s not the real problem. We’ve always been able to deal with that before. You’ve never expected a dutiful little wife staying at home all day cooking and cleaning, ironing, sewing buttons on, and I thank you for that. But even that’s not it.” She took one of his cigarettes, something she did so rarely these days that the gesture worried him. “I’ve been thinking a lot since the other night, and I suppose what I’m saying is that I feel alone. I mean in the relationship. I just don’t feel I’m part of your life any more. Or that you’re part of mine.”

“But that’s absurd.”

“Is it? Is it, really?” She looked at him, frowning, black eyebrows crooked in the furrow of her brow. Then she shook her head slowly. “I don’t think it is, Alan. What was Saturday all about, then? And the other night? I think if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll agree. This house feels empty. Cold. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like the kind of place that two people living separate lives use to sleep and eat in, occasionally passing one another on the landing and saying hello. Maybe stopping for a quick fuck if they’ve got time.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it. I think you’re just feeling depressed because both the kids have grown up and flown the coop. It’ll take time to get used to.”

“Next thing, you’ll be saying I’m feeling this way because it’s that time of the month,” said Sandra. “But you’re wrong. It’s not that, either.” She thumped her fist on the arm of the chair. “You’re not listening to me. You never really
listen
to me.”

“I
am
listening, but I’m not sure I understand what I’m hearing. Are you sure this isn’t still about last Saturday?”

“No, it’s not about last bloody Saturday. Yes, all right, I admit I was angry. I thought for once you might just forsake your sacred bloody opera to do something that
I
thought was important. Something for
my
career. But you didn’t. Fine. And then the other night you go and put your opera on the stereo. But you’ve always been selfish. Selfishness I can deal with. This is something else.”

“What?”

“What I’ve been trying to tell you. We’re both independent people. Always. That’s why our marriage worked so well. I wasn’t waiting and fretting at home for you to come back from work. Worrying that your dinner might get cold. Worrying that something might have happened to you. Though, Lord knows, that was something I never could put out of my mind, even though I tried not to let on to you too much. And if I was out and there was no dinner, if your shirt wasn’t ironed, you never complained. You did it yourself. Not very well, maybe, but you did it.”

“I still don’t complain when dinner’s not ready. I made a bloody processed-cheese omel—”

Sandra held her hand up. “Let me finish, Alan. Can’t you see what’s happened? What used to be our strength—our independence—now it’s driving us apart. We’ve led separate lives for so long we take it for granted that’s how a relationship should be. As long as you’ve got your work, your music, your books and the occasional evening with the lads at the Queen’s Arms, then you’re perfectly happy.”