“I suppose so. Yes.”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Good.”
The superintendent’s interview technique, Susan noticed, was in direct contrast to that of Banks, with whose style she was more familiar. Banks would sometimes needle his interviewees, and when he’d got them confused and vulnerable, he would subtly suggest possible scenarios of how they had committed the crime, and why. He sometimes even went so far as to explain to them their feelings and state of mind while they were doing it. Then, if they were new to the world of crime, he would describe in graphic detail what kind of life they could expect in jail and after. Banks worked on his subjects’
imaginations;
he used words to paint images unbearable to the hearer.
Gristhorpe seemed to concentrate more on logic and reasoned argument; he was polite, soft-spoken and unrelenting. He seemed
slower than Banks, too. As if he had all the time in the world. But Susan was keen to get it over with. She had already pulled a couple of favours to get the lab working overtime on Mark Wood’s shoes and clothing, and if they came up with some solid forensic evidence, or if Gristhorpe got a confession, there was a good chance they could wrap things up before tonight. Jimmy Riddle would be pleased about that.
As a bonus, she would have the weekend free, for once, and she might get her Saturday night out with Gavin. She had considered phoning him earlier—even picked up the phone—but no, she told herself, it wouldn’t do to seem
too
keen,
too
easily available. Let him cajole her. Seduce her.
Win
her.
“You see,” Gristhorpe went on, “that’s one of our main problems, sorting out the lies from the truth. That’s why we have science to help us. Do you know what ‘forensic’ means?”
Wood frowned and tugged on his earring. “It means science, doesn’t it? Like blood types, footprints, DNA and fingerprints?”
“That’s a common error,” Gristhorpe said, toying with his glasses on the table. “Actually, it means ‘for use in a court of law.’ It’s from the Latin, related to the word
forum
. So one of the best systems we have to help us tell the lies from the truth is a complex and broad-ranging branch of science dedicated solely to presenting scientific evidence
in court
. Now, of course, before we get to court, we use this forensic evidence to help us identify the people who should be on trial. And in your case, I’m afraid the evidence tells us that you should be in court for the murder of Jason Fox. What do you have to say about that, Mark?”
“Nothing. What can I say? I’ve done nothing.”
Wood was taken aback by Gristhorpe’s gentle and erudite logic, Susan could tell. But he was cool. She noticed that Gristhorpe let the silence stretch until Wood started squirming in his chair.
“Well, you must have something to say, lad,” Gristhorpe went on, putting on his glasses again and slipping a photograph from the file in front of him. “This is an image of a fingerprint found on the label of a beer bottle,” he said, turning it around so Wood could see it clearly. “It was developed by a very painstaking process. Forensic science doesn’t produce miracles, Mark, but
sometimes it seems to come close. Now, I’m sure you’re an intelligent enough lad to know that fingerprints are unique. So far, no two fingers have been found to possess the same ridge characteristics. Isn’t that amazing?”
Wood said nothing; his eyes were glued to the photo.
“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “what’s particularly interesting about
that
fingerprint is that it came from a fragment of a broken bottle found at the scene of Jason Fox’s murder. But perhaps I’m being precipitous in referring to it as a
murder
so soon, because that hasn’t been proven yet. You do know that there’s a big difference between homicide and manslaughter, don’t you, Mark?”
Wood nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. And there’s also a big difference in jail sentences. But we won’t let that detain us for the moment. Anyway, the point is that that is a close match for
your
fingerprint—one we already have on file—and that it was found in the ginnel by the rec, on a fragment of a broken beer bottle under Jason Fox’s body. I’d like you to tell me how it got there.”
Wood licked his lips and glanced at Susan. She said nothing. He looked back into Gristhorpe’s guileless blue eyes.
“Well, er … I suppose I must have touched it, mustn’t I, if it’s got my prints on it?” He smiled.
Gristhorpe nodded. “Aye. I suppose so. When might that have happened, Mark?”
“I gave it to Jason,” Wood said finally.
“When?”
“When we came out of the pub. You see, I thought I wanted another beer, so I bought a bottle from out-sales as we were leaving, but then I remembered I had to drive back down the A1, so I just gave it to Jason. He said he was walking home.”
“Ah,” said Gristhorpe. “So you
gave
the bottle of beer to Jason when you parted outside The Jubilee?”
“That’s right. I was parked just down the street the pub was on. Market Street. Is that right?”
“That’s the one.” Gristhorpe looked at Susan, who raised her eyebrows.
“What’s wrong?” Wood asked.
Susan scratched the cleft of her chin. “Nothing, really, Mark,” she said. “It’s just that you’ve confused me a bit. When I talked to you earlier you denied being in Eastvale at all last Saturday night. Don’t you remember?” She pretended to read from the paper in front of her. “You bought a couple of bottles of beer at the off-licence and rented a Steven Seagal video, which you and your wife watched that evening. You didn’t even nip out to the Hare and Hounds for a quick one. That’s what you said, Mark.”
“Yeah, well … it’s like he said earlier, isn’t it?” He looked at Gristhorpe.
“What would that be, Mark?” Gristhorpe asked.
“About people ly— About people not telling the exact truth sometimes when the police come after them.”
“So you didn’t tell the truth?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“I was scared, wasn’t I?”
“What of?”
“That you’d fit me up for it because I’ve been in trouble before.”
“Ah, yes,” said Gristhorpe, shaking his head. “The classic fit-up. That’s another one of the problems we constantly have to fight against: the public’s perception of the police, mostly formed by the media. Especially television. Well, I won’t deny it, Mark, there
are
police officers who wouldn’t stop at forging a notebook entry or altering a statement in order to convict someone. We’re all embarrassed about the Birmingham Six, you know. That’s why there are so many laws now to help people in your position. We can’t beat you up. We can’t force a confession out of you. We have to treat you well while you’re in custody—feed you, allow you exercise, give you access to a solicitor. That sort of thing. It’s all covered in the PACE guidelines.” Gristhorpe spread his hands. “You see, Mark, we’re just humble public servants, really, gentle custodians here to see that your rights aren’t abused in any way. By the way, you must be a bit hungry by now, aren’t you? I know I am. How about I send out for some coffee and sandwiches?”
“Fine with me. Long as they’re not salmon. I’m allergic to salmon.”
“No problem. Susan, would you ask one of the uniformed officers to nip over to the Queen’s Arms and ask Cyril to do us two or three ham-and-cheese sandwiches? And have one of the lads up front bring us a pot of fresh coffee, please.”
“Of course, sir.”
Susan popped her head out of the door and made the request, then she went back to her chair.
“While we’re waiting, though,” said Gristhorpe, “and if you don’t mind, Mark, let’s get back to what happened last Saturday night, shall we? As I understand it, you’ve changed your original story—which, quite understandably, you now admit was a lie.”
“Because I was scared you’d fit me up.”
“Right. Because you were scared we’d fit you up. Well, I hope I’ve put your mind at rest about that.”
Wood leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You’re a lot nicer than those bastards from West Yorkshire who nabbed me on that drugs charge.”
Bloody hell, thought Susan, the old man’s even getting compliments out of his suspects now, let alone mere apologies.
“Well,” said Gristhorpe, inclining his head modestly. “West Yorkshire have a lot more problems than we do, being more urban and all. They sometimes have to cut corners a bit roughly.”
“You’re telling me.”
“But that’s all behind you now, Mark, isn’t it? I see you’ve been a good lad since then. You took a course and then you went into business. Admirable. But now there’s just this little spot of bother, and the sooner we get it cleared up, the sooner you can get back to leading a normal and productive life with your family. Did Jason ever try to interest you in the Albion League?”
“Sometimes. He’d spout a load of garbage about how the Holocaust didn’t really happen—how most of the Jews died of typhoid and the showers were just ways of disinfecting them, like, not really death camps at all. I must admit, it made me a bit sick. Then I lost interest and didn’t pay much attention after that. Half the time I thought he couldn’t even be serious.”
“I understand your wife is Afro-Caribbean?”
“Her family’s from Jamaica, yes.”
“How did you manage to reconcile this with doing business with a racist like Jason?”
“I never thought much about it, really, not at first. Like I said, I thought Jason spouted a load of silly rubbish. I figured he’d probably grow out of it.”
“You said ‘at first.’ What about after that?”
“Yeah, well, it started getting to me, Sheri being Jamaican and all. We had a couple of arguments. I was on the verge of ditching him when …”
“When what, Mark?”
“Well, you know, he died.”
“Ah, yes. Did you tell him you were married to a Jamaican woman?”
“Are you joking? And listen to him prattle on about that? He really had a bee in his bonnet about mixed marriages. No, I kept my private life and my business activities completely separate.”
Gristhorpe adjusted his glasses again and took a moment or two to look over some sheets of paper. Then he looked back at Wood, held his glasses in his hand and frowned. “But you knew that Jason was doing this computer work for the League?”
The food came, and they took a moment’s break to pass around sandwiches and pour coffee.
“Yes, I knew,” Wood answered. “But what he did in his own time was up to him.”
“Even if you didn’t agree? It bore the trademark of the business you ran together, didn’t it?”
“We could use all the business we could get.”
“Right. So you let your name be used for neo-Nazi propaganda even though you found the idea loathsome. Your wife is black, for crying out loud, Mark. What do you think Jason Fox and his ilk would do with her if they got half a chance? What does that make you, Mark? Are you ashamed of her?”
“Now hold on a minute—”
Gristhorpe leaned forward. He didn’t raise his voice at all, but he fixed Mark with his eyes. “No, Mark,
you
hold on a minute. You were drinking with Jason Fox on the night he got killed. Now, you’ve already lied to us once or twice, but we’ll let that go by for
the moment. Your latest story is that you
were
with Jason, but the two of you parted outside The Jubilee, at which time you gave him the bottle of beer you’d bought from out-sales because you remembered you had to drive home. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And the two of you weren’t close friends?”
“No. I’ve told you. We worked together. That’s all.”
“So what were you doing pubbing with him in The Jubilee? Eastvale’s a long way from your normal stamping ground, isn’t it? Can you explain that?”
“He said he was going up to Eastvale to play football. I felt like a night out, that’s all. Somewhere different. Just for a change. Sheri knew I’d been a bit down lately, like, about the business and all, and she said she didn’t mind staying home with Connor. The Jubilee gets really good bands on a Saturday night, and I like live music.”
“So you drove all the way up from Castleford to spend a social evening with a business associate you didn’t particularly like, someone who believed your wife and all her kind should be packed off in boats back to the Caribbean?”
Mark shrugged. “I went to see the band. Jason said he’d come along, as he’d be in town anyway, that’s all. I thought it might make a change from Razor’s Edge and Celtic Warrior and all that other crap he listens to. Hear some decent music for once. The Jubilee’s got a good reputation all over the north. Just ask anyone. And it’s not that far. Straight up the A1. Doesn’t take more than an hour and a half or so each way.”
“That’s three hours’ driving, Mark.”
“So? I like driving.”
“Where did you go after you left Jason?”
“I drove straight back home. I wasn’t over the limit, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“But you still came all this way knowing you’d be drinking and having to drive back?”
Wood shrugged. “I’m not a big boozer. I can handle three or four pints over the course of an evening.”
“Are you sure you didn’t have more than that, Mark?”
“I had three pints. Four at the most. If that put me over the limit, charge me.”
“Are you sure you didn’t have too much to drink and ask Jason if you could stay at his house? Are you sure you didn’t walk down—”
“No. I told you. I drove straight home.”
“All right, Mark. If you say so. I do, however, have one more question for you before I leave you to think over our little discussion.”
“What’s that?”
“If you gave Jason the beer bottle, and he drank from it on his way home, then why didn’t we find
his
fingerprints on it, too?”
II
The girl was incredibly beautiful, Banks thought. Part Oriental, she had long, sleek black hair, a golden complexion, a heart-shaped face with perfect, full lips and slightly hooded eyes. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years old.
At the moment, she was sitting on a chair bathed in the red neon glow, wearing dangling silver earrings and a black lace bra and panties. Nothing else. Her slender legs were parted slightly at the inner thighs so the plump mound of her pudendum was clear to see. She had a tiny tattoo—a butterfly, it looked like—on the inside of her left thigh.