“Baden-Powell with swastikas?”
“If you like. He even throws in a bit of environmentalist stuff to hook the greenies. You know—preserve the traditional English village against pollution, that sort of thing. Thing is, to him pollution isn’t only a matter of destroying the ozone layer and the rain forests or what have you, it includes most non-Aryan racial groups. Perhaps Nev’s only saving grace as a human being is that his overriding trait is greed.”
“What do you mean?”
Craig rubbed his cheek and frowned. “Just an observation of mine. Haven’t you sometimes thought that people’s vices are often the only things that make them interesting? As a pure neo-Nazi,
Nev would simply be a bore. A sick and dangerous bore, perhaps, but a bore nonetheless. Predictable. It’s the other stuff that’s interesting, the stuff we didn’t expect.”
“Burgess mentioned drugs. Is that right?”
Craig nodded, finished his beer and slid the bottle aside. “Fancy walking?”
“Why not.”
They paid their bill and walked outside. There were still plenty of people on the streets, especially along Albert Cuypstraat, where they walked through the debris of that afternoon’s market—wilted lettuce leaves, a squashed tomato, chicken bones, a piece of cardboard that said f4.50 on it. The smell of fish still infused the evening air. Now Banks knew why Sarphatipark had felt so familiar. He and Sandra
had
been there; they had spent an hour or two one afternoon wandering through the market stalls.
“Like I said,” Craig went on, “Nev got to trust me, take me into his confidence. I think he liked the fact that according to my criminal record, I didn’t mind doing anything as long as it was profitable. And it didn’t take me long to work out that Nev likes profit more than anything.”
“So it’s money with him, not politics?”
“Mmm, not entirely. Maybe it’s both at the same time, if he can get it that way. If not, then I’d say money comes out distinctly on top. Like I said, Nev’s a greedy bastard. Greedy for power and greedy for cash. First thing I found out when I got involved was that he was organizing some of his younger and thicker recruits into groups of thieves, turning their gains over to him, of course, for the good of the League.”
“And they did this?”
Craig snorted. “Sure they did. Let’s face it, most of these kids are pretty dense. Five or six of them would go into a shop, say, and as soon as—”
“Steaming?”
“You know about it?”
“I’ve heard the term. And I know it’s been a problem for West Yorkshire CID recently. Along with muggings at cash dispensers. I didn’t know Motcombe was behind it.”
“Some of it. I’m sure there are plenty of freelancers out there, too. But what Nev does is, he takes these kids’ anger and channels it. He gives them someone to hate. He gives their rage some structure and provides them with real targets rather than nebulous ones. So they end up believing they’re committing theft, assault and vandalism for a good cause. Isn’t that what terrorism is basically all about, anyway? Add a few
olde worlde
patriotic values, a lot of guff about the ‘true English homeland’ and a bit of green to the mix and it makes them feel like downright responsible and virtuous citizens, the only ones who really care about their country.”
“You make it sound easy.”
They turned right, towards the neo-Gothic mass of the Rijksmuseum, dark and solid against the night sky. Street-lights cast long shadows. A breeze stirred, wafting a smell of decay from the canal. Banks could hear music in the distance, see TV screens flickering through people’s curtains.
Craig shrugged. “It’s not as hard as you think, that’s the sad thing. Recruiting isn’t, anyway. Take rock concerts, for example. Invitation only. Makes people feel privileged and exclusive right off the bat. Then the white-power bands get the kids all worked up with their rhythm and energy, and someone like me moves in to bring the message home. And they target schools, particularly schools that have a large number of immigrant pupils. They hang around outside in the street and pass out leaflets, then they hold meetings in different venues. They also hang out in the coffee bars where some of the kids go on their way home. You know, start chatting, give them a sympathetic shoulder for their problems with Ali or Winston. They get a surprising number of converts that way.”
“Some of whom Motcombe organizes into gangs of thieves?”
“Some, yes. But not all.” He laughed. “One or two of the lads in the know have nicknamed him Fagin.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. “‘You’ve got to pick a pocket or two,’” he sang, a passable imitation of Ron Moody in
Oliver
. “I imagine he’d just love that.”
Craig smiled. “I’ll bet. Thing is, though, there’s a lot of money to be made, one way or another. Steaming and mugging are just part of the bigger picture. These right-wing political groups finance
themselves in any number of ways. Some deal in arms and explosives, for example. Then there’s the rock angle. These bands record CDs. That means people produce, record, manufacture and distribute them. That can be big business. And where there’s rock, there’s drugs. There’s a lot of money to be made out of that.”
“Motcombe has an arrest for receiving, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. His one big mistake. A couple of his lads broke into a Curry’s and ran off with a few videos and stereos under their arms. They didn’t tell Nev where they’d got the stuff from. Anyway, since then, it’s been cash only. And he skims off the top, too. I’ve seen him stuff the notes into his own pocket.” Craig shook his head. “If there’s one thing worse than a Nazi, it’s a bent Nazi.”
“How does Jason Fox fit in? Was he one of the thieves?”
Craig paused and leaned on a bridge as they crossed to Hobbemakade, looking down at the reflections of the lights. Banks stood beside him and lit a cigarette. It was quiet now apart from a few cars and the whir of an occasional bicycle.
“No, Jason never went out steaming. Not his style. Too smart. Jason was a thinker. He was good at recruiting, at propaganda in general. The thing about Jason was, he was basically an honest kid. A straight, dedicated Nazi.”
“One of those boring fascists, without vices?”
Craig laughed. “Almost. Not exactly boring, though. In some ways he was naïve in his sincerity, and that made him almost likeable.
Almost
. But he was also more dedicated, more driven, than most of the others. Frightening. See, when you come down to it, Nev’s not much more than a petty crook with delusions of grandeur. Jason, on the other hand, was the genuine article. Real dyed-in-the-wool neo-Nazi. Probably even read
Mein Kampf
.”
“I thought even Hitler’s most fanatical followers couldn’t get through that.”
Craig laughed. “True.”
“Have you any ideas as to why Jason was killed? Was he involved in this drug deal?”
They moved away from the bridge and headed down the street. Banks flicked his cigarette end in the water, immediately feeling guilty of pollution.
“No,” Craig said. “Not at all. Jason was violently anti-drug. In fact, if you ask me, that’s where you might want to start looking for your motive. Because he certainly knew about it.”
V
“Another bottle of wine?”
“I shouldn’t,” said Susan, placing her hand over her half-filled glass.
“Why not? You’re not driving.”
“True.”
“And you’ve just wrapped up a case. You should be celebrating.”
“All right, all right, you silver-tongued devil. Go ahead.”
Gavin grinned, called the waiter and ordered a second bottle of Chablis. Susan felt her heart give a slight lurch the way it did when she first jumped The Strid at Bolton Abbey as a teenager. It happened the moment her feet left the ground and she found herself hurtling through space over the deep, rushing waters, because that was the moment she had committed herself to jumping, despite all the warnings. So what had she committed herself to by agreeing to a second bottle of wine?
She took another mouthful of filo pastry stuffed with Brie, walnuts and cranberries, and washed it down with the wine she had left in her glass. It hadn’t even been there long enough to get lukewarm. Already, she was beginning to feel a little light-headed—but in a pleasant way, as if a great burden had been lifted from her.
They were in a new bistro on Castle Walk, looking west over the formal gardens and the river. A high moon silvered the swirling current of water far below and frosted the tips of the leaves on the trees. The restaurant itself was one of those hushed places where everyone seemed to be whispering, and food and drink suddenly appeared out of the silence as if by magic. White tablecloths. A floating candle in a glass jar on every table. It was also, she thought, far too expensive for a couple of mere DCs. Still, you had to push the boat out once in a while, didn’t you, she told herself, just to see how far it would float.
She stole a glance at Gavin, busy finishing his venison. He caught her looking and smiled. She blushed. He really did have lovely brown eyes, she thought, and a nice mouth.
“So how does it feel?” Gavin asked, putting his knife and fork down. “The success? I understand it was largely due to your initiative?”
“Oh, not really,” Susan said. “It was teamwork.”
“How modest of you,” he teased. “But seriously, Susan. It was you who found the killer’s name. What was it … Mark something or other?”
“Mark Wood. Yes, but Superintendent Gristhorpe got him to confess.”
“I’d still say you get a big gold star for this one.”
Susan smiled. The waiter appeared with their wine, gave Gavin a sip to test, then poured for both of them and placed it in the ice bucket. Good God, Susan thought, an
ice
bucket. In Yorkshire!
What am I doing here? I must be mad
. She had finished her food now and concentrated on the wine while she studied the dessert menu. Sweets. Her weakness. Why she was a few inches too thick around the hips and thighs. But she didn’t think she could resist nutty toffee pie. And she didn’t.
“Chief Constable Riddle’s pretty damn chuffed,” Gavin said later as they tucked into their desserts and coffee. “Sunday or not, it’s my guess he’ll be down your neck of the woods again tomorrow dishing out trophies and giving a press statement. As far as he’s concerned, this solution has gone a long way towards diffusing racial tensions.”
“Well, he was certainly keen to get everything signed, sealed and delivered this afternoon.”
“I’ll tell you something else. Golden boy isn’t exactly top of the pops as far as the CC is concerned.”
“What’s new?” Susan said. “And I told you, I wish you’d stop calling him that.”
“Where is he, by the way?” Gavin went on. “Rumour has it he hasn’t been much in evidence the last couple of days. Not like him to miss being in at the kill, is it?”
“He’s taken some time off.”
“Pretty inconsiderate time to do that, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure he has his reasons.” Susan pushed her empty dessert plate aside. “Mmm. That pie was divine.”
“How very mysterious,” Gavin said. “Is he often like that?”
“Sometimes. He can be a bit enigmatic when he wants, can the DCI. Anyway, I’m glad Jimmy Riddle’s happy, but this just isn’t the sort of solution that makes you feel exactly wonderful, you know.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for Mark Wood.”
“Sorry? I thought he was supposed to have kicked his mate to death?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Isn’t that about as vicious as it gets?”
“I suppose so. But he
was
provoked. Anyway, I don’t mean that. It’s not so much
him
I feel sorry for, it’s his family. He has a young wife and a baby. Poor devils. I can’t help but wonder how they’re going to manage without him.”
“He should have thought of that before he killed Jason Fox, shouldn’t he?”
Susan drank some more wine. It tasted thin and acidic after the sweetness of her dessert. “I know,” she said. “But you should have seen where they live, Gavin. It’s a dump. Thin walls, peeling wallpaper, damp, cramped living-space. And it’s a dangerous neighbourhood, especially for a young woman alone with her baby. Gangs, drugs … And it was partly because he was defending his wife, her race, that he ended up killing Jason.”
Gavin shook his head. “I never took you for a bleeding heart, Susan. You can’t allow yourself to start getting sentimental. It’ll make you soft. He’s a villain and you’ve done your job. Now let’s just hope the court puts him away where he belongs. Poverty’s no excuse. Plenty of people have it tough and they don’t go around booting their pals to death. My dad was a miner, and more often out of work than in. But that doesn’t give me an excuse to go around acting like a yob. If you want anything in this life, you go out and get it, you don’t idle around moaning about what a bad hand you’ve been dealt.”
“I suppose so,” Susan said. She refilled her wine glass and smiled. “Anyway, enough of that. Cheers.”
They clinked glasses.
“Cheers,” Gavin said. “To success.”
“To success,” Susan echoed.
“Why don’t we pay the bill and go,” Gavin said, leaning forward. His hand touched hers. She felt the tingle right down to her toes. “I’ll walk you home.”
Susan looked at him for a moment. Those soft, sexy brown eyes. Long lashes he had, too. “All right,” she said, her hand turning to clasp his. “Yes. I’d like that.”
VI
No more than a few hundred miles away, over the North Sea, Banks and Craig McKeracher had passed the Rijksmuseum and were walking down the quiet streets towards Prinsengracht.
“Basically,” Craig was busy explaining, “Nev met this right-wing loony in Turkey who had a load of heroin he wanted to shift, and he wondered if Nev could help. Nev couldn’t, of course. He knows bugger all about dealing drugs. Doesn’t know a fucking joint from a tab of acid. But he’s always one to leave the door a little ajar, so he tells this bloke, hang on a while, let me see what I can do. Now there’s only two people he knows with any brains who have ever had anything to do with drugs. One of them’s yours truly, and the other’s Mark Wood.”
Banks paused. “Wait a minute. Motcombe knew Mark Wood?”