Dead Right (38 page)

Blackstone tilted his head and squinted at Banks. “Are you hinting that one of our lads is bent?”

Banks sighed. “Look, there’s no evidence, but it seems clear that someone, most likely someone from West Yorkshire, is doing a few little favours for Neville Motcombe and his league of merry men.”

Blackstone’s expression hardened. “Are you certain?”

“No, not certain. It just seems to be the most obvious of things. As far as I know, so far it’s just been a matter of accessing criminal records. If you use the PNC, you wouldn’t have to be in West Yorkshire to do that, I’ll admit, but that’s where Motcombe lives. Logical deduction.”

“Brilliant, my dear Holmes,” said Blackstone. “But
ve haff vays
of finding out who’s been using the PNC, and what they’ve been
looking for. I’ll catch the bastard and have his bollocks for golf balls.”

“Maybe it’s a ‘her’?”

“Maybe. But how many women do you find hanging around with these white-power groups? Not a lot. It inclines me to believe they’ve got more sense.”

“Well, not many of them like playing soldiers, that’s for certain. I don’t know what odds I’d take against how many of them actually
agree
with some of the stuff Motcombe’s lot comes out with, though. Anyway, can I ask you one more favour, Ken?”

“Go ahead. You’re doing pretty well for a suspended copper so far.”

“Thanks. Don’t move on the mole until I’ve played out my hand.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason I asked you to keep quiet about Amsterdam. It could jeopardize Craig’s cover as Rupert Francis. Or even his life. I don’t think Motcombe’s the forgiving sort.”

Blackstone squirmed and scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. My lips are sealed. Want to tell me more?”

Banks told him about Motcombe’s gangs of steamers and muggers, then about the Turkish connection and the possible heroin deal with Devon, the deal in which Mark Wood was to play such a big part. Blackstone listened without comment, shaking his head every now and then.

“That’s quite a conspiracy,” he said finally. “It makes me wonder about this suspension business. Do you think there’s anything more to it?”

“Like what?”

Blackstone paused a moment. “More sinister. Remember when John Stalker got taken off that investigation into the RUC’s shoot-to-kill policy in Northern Ireland a few years back?”

“Yes.”

“I seem to remember they mocked up some story about him consorting with criminals just to shut him up and stop him embarrassing them. It was all political.”

Banks shook his head. “A week or two ago I might have been paranoid enough to agree with you,” he said. “The old conspiracy
theory has its appeal. Especially when Dirty Dick Burgess appeared on the scene. And it wouldn’t have surprised me if Jimmy Riddle had been in the BNP at the very least. But I don’t think so. Whatever he is, Riddle isn’t a card-carrying fascist. He’s just a pushy, bull-headed arsehole, a frustrated headmaster with a mean streak. Put him on the inner-city streets where the real coppers work and he’d shit himself in five minutes.”

“Maybe so. But you’re certain there’s nothing more to it?”

“Pretty much. He’s been looking for an excuse to nobble me ever since he took the job, and now he thinks he’s found it.”

“Okay. So how can I help?”

“I’m going to ask you a couple more favours and I want to give you the chance to say no. I don’t want you to stick your neck out for me. I’m giving you fair warning.”

Blackstone paused, then said, “Go ahead. I’ll tell you if I don’t want to hear any more. Or when.”

“Fair enough.” Banks lit a cigarette. “The way I see it, though, is that most of what’s going on here is on
your
patch anyway, so you can regard me as informant, consultant, whatever the hell you like, as far as official records go.”

Blackstone laughed. “Clever bugger. Thought it all out, haven’t you? You’d have made a good lawyer. All right. I’m interested. I only hope you don’t expect paying, that’s all.”

Banks smiled. “This is for free, Ken. First off, I’d like to know whether a solicitor called Giles Varney has ever acted for Neville Motcombe. There might be some record in the paperwork on that receiving charge. Or, better still, last Thursday, after that fracas at Frank Hepplethwaite’s funeral. Someone got Motcombe out of Halifax nick pretty damn quickly.”

Blackstone got his notebook out. “How d’you spell that?”

Banks spelled Varney for him.

Blackstone smiled. “Well, that ought to be easy enough to do without compromising my career.”

“The next request might be a bit tougher, and I’ll understand if you say no. There was a band from Leeds playing at The Jubilee in Eastvale on the Saturday Jason Fox was killed. They’re called Scattered Dreams. Someone who was there told me that there were
a couple of Jamaicans dealing small quantities of hash, crack and Ecstasy. Apparently, they might have been with the band in some capacity. Roadies, hangers-on, what have you.”

Blackstone nodded. “A lot of small dealers are mobile now they’ve saturated the urban markets. And it makes sense they’d target places where there’s loud music and lots of kids. I think I’ve heard of The Jubilee. Is that the one that advertises in the
Evening Post
?”

“That’s the one. I suppose the Drugs Squad keeps tabs on these bands and their itinerant dealers?”

“I hope so,” said Blackstone. “Though you never quite know what the DS is up to. They’re a law unto themselves half the time.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, ticking off on his fingers, “Mark Wood had passing contact with one of these lads at The Jubilee. My thinking is that they might have been in this together. First off, I need to know if this band is the same one Mark Wood roadied for a couple of years back, when he was arrested on the drugs charge.”

Blackstone nodded.

“And then I’d like the names of the Jamaicans who were on the fringes of Scattered Dreams that night, if you can get them. I know that might be a bit more difficult.”

“I can only try,” said Blackstone. “Actually, I know a bloke on the Drugs Squad who can keep his mouth shut. We did some courses at Bramshill together a few years back. Bloke called Richie Hall. He’s a Jamaican himself, and he’s done a fair bit of undercover work over the years. Anyway, the point is, he knows the music and drugs scene up north better than anyone I know. If he doesn’t know who they are, nobody does.”

“Great. There might even be a short cut. Mark Wood’s wife’s Jamaican. Her maiden name is Shirelle Jade Campbell. They seem to have met up around the time Wood got involved with the band, and I’m wondering if there isn’t maybe a family connection. A brother, cousin or something. At least that gives you a name to work on.”

“I’ll pass it on to Richie. Like I said, if anyone knows, Richie does.”

“You sure you don’t mind doing this, Ken?”

Blackstone shook his head. “Nah. What are mates for. I’ll warn you, though, you’ll be bloody lucky to get anything out of these lads even if we do track them down.”

“I know that. Actually, if I’m right, I was thinking of a slightly more devious approach to the truth. But let’s wait and see, shall we?”

“Just as long as your expectations aren’t too high. Who knows, there might even be a bit of glory in this for me.”

Banks smiled. “Maybe. Whatever happens, there’ll be no Brownie points for me from Jimmy Riddle. But I promise you, if there’s any credit to be taken, it’s yours. And lunch is on me.”

“Will you do
me
one small favour, Alan?”

“Name it.”

“Just be bloody careful, that’s all.”

II

By nine o’clock on Friday morning, Banks felt edgy and restless alone in the house. He was pleased with himself, however, for avoiding the booze completely on Thursday evening, and for actually managing to finish
The Power and the Glory
as he listened to Beethoven’s late quartets. So he felt full of energy when he woke up on Friday. There was nothing else he
could
do until he heard from Ken Blackstone, except pace the floor.

When his phone rang at about half past nine, he grabbed the receiver on the first ring. “Yes? Banks here.”

“Alan, it’s Ken.”

“What have you got?”

“Some answers for you. I hope. In answer to your first question, yes, Giles Varney is Neville Motcombe’s solicitor and has acted for him on a number of occasions. Their professional relationship goes back to the time Motcombe started buying property in the Leeds area, about four years ago. It seems like they’ve been bosom buddies ever since.”

“Does Varney have any other known right-wing connections?”

“Yes. I checked around and he’s pretty well known in some of the more extreme-right circles.”

“Great. That would seem to indicate that Mark Wood did a deal with Motcombe through Varney. Anything else?”

“This is where it gets a bit more complicated, I’m afraid. And you owe me. I had to spend yesterday evening in a pub with Richie Hall, and he drinks like a bloody fish. I’ll be sending you the bill.”

Banks laughed. “Find anything out?”

“Yes. The band Mark Wood worked with at the time of his first arrest was called Cloth Ears. They split up shortly after the drug bust. But this Scattered Dreams was formed partly from the ashes. Phoenix-like, you might say. Apparently the blokes you’re interested in used to play with Cloth Ears but now they just hang around the fringes of Scattered Dreams and sell dope. Seems drugs have sapped whatever talents they might once have had, and most of the time they’re too stoned to strum a chord. And you were right about the family connection. The one with the dreadlocks is Shirelle Wood’s brother, Wesley Campbell, and the other’s a mate of his called Francis Robertson. ‘Wes’ and ‘Frankie,’ as they’re known locally. Both of them have been seen to associate with Devon recently, according to Richie.”

“Low-level dealers?”

“Looks that way.”

“Excellent.”

“And in Shirelle Wood’s favour, Richie says she’s not connected with any of this. In fact she stopped talking to her brother, Wes, as soon as she discovered he was involved in getting Mark busted the first time, and she hasn’t talked to him since. Cut him off completely.”

Good for her, Banks thought. There were very few people he had come to have respect for in this whole business. Frank Hepplethwaite was one of them, and Shirelle Jade Wood was another. Pity about her husband. He should have followed her lead and cut off communications with Wesley Campbell, too. But no, Mark Wood thought he could make an easy fortune. And it was a sad thought that Shirelle and Connor would be the ones to suffer the most if the truth did come out.

“Thanks, Ken,” Banks said. “You’ve done a great job.”

“No problem.”

“Now for the hard part.”

He heard Blackstone sigh. “Somehow I had a feeling there might be more to it than this. I assume this is your ‘cunning plan’ for getting to the truth?”

Banks laughed. “Hear me out, Ken, then let me know if you think we can do it.”

III

About an hour later, Banks drove down to Leeds alone. There was no point involving Susan Gay or Jim Hatchley with his scheme. It was risky and could backfire, then he’d have their jobs on his conscience, too. Ken Blackstone would be fine; he was simply carrying out an investigation on his own patch, based on information received. The fact that Banks was along for the ride really didn’t matter.

Banks lit a cigarette and turned up the volume on Bryn Terfel’s renditions of
Songs of Travel.
He looked at the digital clock. Eleven o’clock. Plenty of time to do what he had to and pick up Tracy at the residence by six o’clock.

As he pulled up behind Millgarth, he looked at his watch. Just after twelve. If Ken Blackstone had done his work, everything ought to be set up and ready to roll by now. He checked at the front desk and went straight up to Blackstone’s office. In the corridor outside the CID offices, as arranged, sat Mark Wood, who had been brought in from Armley Jail shortly after Banks’s nine-thirty talk with Ken Blackstone, just to answer a few more questions and help make the paperwork flow more smoothly.

Even though Wood had been sitting there for probably a couple of hours already, he hadn’t asked for Giles Varney yet. If he did, they’d have to lie and tell him they couldn’t get in touch. With Varney present, the plan would be useless.

Mark Wood didn’t look much, Banks thought. Muscular, yes, but basically just another sullen, nervous kid chewing his fingernails in a police station.

Banks introduced himself. They hadn’t met before, and it was important that Wood know
someone
from Eastvale was involved in all this. As expected, Wood looked puzzled and confused. When he asked Banks why he had come down all this way, Banks said it was nothing to worry about, he would find out in a while. He sounded like a doctor about to tell a patient he has a terminal illness.

Leaving Wood under guard in the corridor, they went into Ken Blackstone’s office, where Wood could watch them through the glass partition if he wanted, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying. That would make him even more nervous. Especially if they glanced his way once in a while as they spoke.

They had been standing behind the glass chatting for fifteen minutes about Leeds United’s abysmal season and occasionally looking at Mark, when three large uniformed officers led Wesley Campbell and Francis Robertson along the corridor, as arranged. The two had been passive and compliant when picked up over an hour earlier, Ken said. That was either a mark of confidence that they’d be out again in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Banks thought, or they were too stoned to care. Both had been found in possession of small amounts of marijuana, and neither had time to flush it down the toilet, so they had been languishing in the charge room for a while. By now, they weren’t quite as complacent.

As they passed Mark Wood, they glanced down at him, and Mark looked even more confused. His eyes widened with fear. Campbell actually struggled against his guards for a moment and tried to get closer to Wood, as if he wanted to warn or threaten him. But the guards held on. Campbell and Robertson were taken to separate interview rooms around the corner. Both seemed to know the PACE regulations by heart, and they asked to make their phone calls immediately.