Final Account (29 page)

Her brow furrowed and she turned her eyes up, as if inspecting her eyelashes. She looked at her watch again, bit her lip, then perched on the edge of the chair, knees together, clutching her briefcase to her chest. “There
was
someone. I really can't stay. I'm going to be late. I can't think of the name, but I might be able to remember if you give me a bit of time. He did have those sort of sad eyes, like a puppy, now I think of it.”

Banks sat forward. “What were the circumstances?”

“I told you Danny doesn't do criminal work, but he is a solicitor, and apparently he was the only one this chap knew. According to Danny, they met in a pub, had a few drinks, got talking. You know how it is. This chap had been in the army or something, over in Northern Ireland. When he got himself arrested, Danny was the only one he knew to call on.”

“What happened?”

“Danny referred him to someone else. I only remember because he came round to the house once. He wasn't too happy about the solicitor Danny passed him on to for some reason. I think it might have been the fee or something like that. They argued a bit, then Danny managed to calm him down. They had a drink, then the man left. I never saw or heard of him again. I'm sorry, I didn't really hear what was going on. Not that I'd remember now.”

“How long ago was it?”

“A little over two years. Shortly before we separated.”

“And you remember nothing more about this man?”

“No. Not off-hand.”

“What pub did they meet in?”

“I can't remember. Isn't that odd? You mentioning about meeting a killer in a pub? What if it was him?”

“What was he arrested for?”

“It was something to do with assault, I think. A fight. I know it wasn't really serious. Certainly not murder or anything. Look, I really must go. I'll try and remember more, I promise.”

“Just one thing,” Banks said. “Can you remember the name of the solicitor your husband referred him to? We might be able to trace him through our records.”

She compressed her lips in thought for a moment, then said, “Atkins. Of course, it would have been Harvey Atkins. He and Danny are good friends, and Harvey does a fair bit of criminal work.”

“Thank you,” Banks said, but she was already dashing away.

“I'll be in touch,” she called over her shoulder.

Banks headed for the staircase. While he had been talking with Melissa Clegg, he had remembered what it was that had been nagging at him all morning. He decided to satisfy his curiosity before meeting Ken Blackstone. Things were moving fast.

TWELVE

I

“Take the scenic route,” said Sergeant Hatchley. “We're not in a hurry.”

Instead of going east to the A1 at the roundabout by the Red Lion Hotel, Susan headed south-west along the edge of the Dales through Masham, Ripon and Harrogate.

Hatchley didn't smoke at all during the journey, though he insisted she stop once at a café in Harrogate for a cup of coffee, during which he chain-smoked three cigarettes. It was very different from travelling with Banks. For a start, Banks liked to drive, and with him there was always music, sometimes tolerable, sometimes execrable. Hatchley preferred to sit with his arms crossed and look out of the window at the passing scenery, no doubt with visions of bare breasts flashing through what passed for his mind.

She wished she didn't have to work with men all the time. One crying jag or sharp response, and it was PMT; a day off for any reason meant it was “that time of the month.” She had to put up with it without complaint, just take it all in her stride.

Maybe she was being unfair, though. Hatchley aside, the men she worked with were mostly okay. Phil Richmond, with whom she spent the most time, was a sweetheart. But Phil was leaving soon.

Superintendent Gristhorpe frightened her a little, perhaps because he made her think of her father, and she always felt like a silly little girl when he was around.

Banks, though, was like an older brother. And, like a brother, he teased her too much, especially about music when they were in the car. She was sure he played some terrible things just to make her uncomfortable. Right now, though, as she approached the busy Leeds Ring Road, she would have welcomed something soothing to listen to.

Susan was building up a nice collection of classical music. Every month, she bought a magazine that gave away a free CD of bits and pieces of the works reviewed. It provided a breakdown of what to listen for at what points of time—like “6:25: The warm and sunny feeling of the spring day returns,” or “4:57: Second theme emerges from interplay of brass and woodwinds.” Susan found it very helpful, and if she liked the part she heard, she would buy the complete work, unless it was a lengthy and expensive opera. At the moment her favourite piece was Beethoven's “Pastoral” Symphony. She knew Banks would approve, but she was too embarrassed to tell him.

Susan went on to think about her talk with Tom Rothwell by the river, and about the agonies he must be going through. It was hard enough being homosexual anywhere, she imagined, but it would be especially tough in Yorkshire, where men prided themselves on their masculinity and women were supposed to know their place and stick to it.

There was a prime example of Yorkshire manhood sitting right next to her, she thought, all Rugby League, roast beef and pints of bitter. And she couldn't imagine what he could find offensive about her perfume. It certainly smelled pleasant enough to her, and she used it sparingly.

The traffic snarled up on the Ring Road, and Hatchley sat there with the tattered Leeds and Bradford
A to Z
on his lap squinting at signs. He was the kind of navigator who shouted, “Turn here!” just as you passed by the turning. After several misdirections and a couple of hair-raising U-turns, they pulled up outside candidate number one, a newsagent's shop at the edge of a rundown council estate in Gipton.

Two scruffy kids swaggered out as Susan and Hatchley went in. The girl behind the counter couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen. She was pale as a ghost and skinny as a rake. Her hair, brown streaked with silver, red and green, teetered untidily on top of her head, and unruly strands snaked down over her white neck and face, partly covering one over-mascaraed eye.

She looked as if she had a small, pretty mouth underneath the full and pouting one she had superimposed with brownish purple lipstick. Susan also noticed a pungent scent, which she immediately classified as cheap, not at all like her own. The girl rested her ring-laden fingers with the long crimson nails on the counter and slanted her bony shoulders towards them, head tilted to one side. She wore a baggy white T-shirt with “SCREW YOU” written in black across her flat chest.

“Mr Drake around, love?” Hatchley asked.

She moved her head a fraction; the hair danced like Medusa's snakes. “In the back,” she said, without breaking the rhythm of her chewing.

He moved towards the counter and lifted the flap.

“Hey!” she said. “You can't just walk through like that.”

“Can't I, love? Do you mean I have to be announced all formally, like?” Hatchley took out his identification and held it close to her eyes. She squinted as she read. “Maybe you'd like to get out your salver?” he went on. “Then I can put my calling card on it and you can take it through to Mr Drake and inform him that a gentleman wishes to call on him?”

“Sod off, clever arse,” she said, slouching aside to let them pass. “You're no fucking gentleman. And don't call me love.”

“Who have we got here, then?” Hatchley stopped and said. “Glenda Slagg, feminist?”

“Piss off.”

They went through without further ceremony into the back room, an office of sorts, and Susan saw Mr Drake sitting at his desk.

Below the greasy black hair was the lumpiest face Susan had ever seen. He had a bulbous forehead, a potato nose and a carbuncular chin, over all of which his oily, red skin, pitted with black-heads, stretched tight, and out of which looked a pair of beady black eyes, darting about like tiny fish in an aquarium. His belly was so big he could hardly get close enough to the desk to write. A smell of burned bacon hung in the stale air, and Susan noticed a hotplate with a frying-pan on it in one corner.

When they walked in, he pushed his chair back and grunted, “Who let you in? What do you want?”

“Remember me, Jack?” said Hatchley.

Drake screwed up his eyes. They disappeared into folds of fat. “Is it … ? Well, bugger me if it isn't Jim Hatchley.”

He floundered to his feet and stuck out his hand, first wiping it on the side of his trousers. Hatchley leaned forward and shook it.

“Who's the crumpet?” Drake asked, nodding towards Susan.

“The ‘crumpet,' as you so crudely put it, Jack, is Detective Constable Susan Gay. And show a bit of respect.”

“Sorry, lass,” said Drake, executing a little bow for Susan. She found it hard to hold back her laughter. She knew that old-fashioned sexism was alive and well and living in Yorkshire, but it felt strange to have Sergeant Hatchley defending her honour. Drake turned back to Hatchley. “Now what is it you want, Jim? You're not still working these parts, are you?”

“I am today.”

Drake held his hands out, palms open. “Well, I've done nowt to be ashamed of.”

“Jack, old lad,” said Hatchley heavily, “you ought be ashamed of being born, but we'll leave that aside for now. Girlie magazines.”

“Eh? What about 'em?”

“Still in business?”

Drake shifted from one foot to the other and cast a beady eye on Susan, guilty as the day is long. “You know I don't go in for owt illegal, Jim.”

“Believe it or not, at the moment I couldn't care less. It's not you I'm after. And it's
Sergeant
Hatchley to you.”

“Sorry. What's up, then?”

Hatchley asked him about the masked killer with the puppy-dog eyes. Drake was shaking his head before he had finished.

“Sure?” Hatchley asked.

“Aye. Swear on my mother's grave.”

Hatchley laughed. “You'd swear night was day on your mother's grave if you thought it would get me off your back, wouldn't you, Jack? Nonetheless, I'll believe you, this time. Any ideas where we might try?”

“What have you got?”

“Shaved pussies, excited penises. Right up your alley, I'd've thought.”

Drake turned up his misshapen nose in disgust. “Shaved pussies? Why, that's pretty much straight stuff. Nay, Jim, times have changed. They're all into the arse-bandit stuff or whips and chains these days.”

“I'm not just talking about the local MPs, Jack.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. Even so.”

Hatchley sighed. “Benny still in business?”

Drake nodded. “Far as I know. But he deals mostly in body-piercing now. Very specialized taste.” He looked at Susan. “You know, love—pierced nipples, labia, foreskins, that kind of thing.”

Susan repressed a shudder.

“Bert Oldham?” Hatchley went on. “Mario Nelson? Henry Talbot?”

“Aye. But you can practically sell the stuff over the counter, these days, Ji—Sergeant.”

“It's the ‘practically' that interests me, Jack. You know what the law says: no penetration, no oral sex and no hard-ons. Anyroad, if you get a whiff of him, phone this number.” He handed Drake a card.

“I'll do that,” said Drake, dropping back into his chair again. Susan thought the legs would break, but, miraculously, they held.

The girl didn't look up from her magazine as they went out. “Better give that reading a rest, love,” said Hatchley. “It must be hell on your lips.”

“Fuck off,” she said, chewing gum at the same time.

Shit, thought Susan, it's going to be one of those days.

II

Banks was right, he saw, as he stood on the threshold of Robert Calvert's flat and surveyed the wreckage. The only difference between this and Pamela Jeffreys's flat was that there had been no human being hurt and no prized possessions utterly destroyed. Stuffing from the sofa lay strewn over the carpet, which had been partly rolled up to expose the bare floorboards. In places, wallpaper had been ripped down, and the television screen had been shattered.

So they had come back. It supported his theory. They obviously didn't know that Banks was a policeman, didn't know that Calvert's flat had already been thoroughly searched by professionals. If they had known, they would never have come here.

It was as he had suspected. They had started following him when he left Clegg's Park Square office on Monday morning. They must have seen the police arrive first, but from their point of view, the police arrived sometime
after
Banks, and he left alone, so there was no reason to make a connection, certainly none to suspect that
he
was a policeman. For all they knew, he could have been a friend of Betty Moorhead's, or a colleague of Clegg's.

Still looking for clues to Clegg's whereabouts, they had trailed him on his lunch date with Pamela and noted where she was rehearsing. One of them must have found out where she lived. They didn't know about the Calvert flat until Banks led them there, and they must have thought the place had something to do with Clegg. Finally, when Banks saw them from the window, they ran off, only to come back later and search the place when the coast was clear.

Where were they now? Already, their descriptions had been sent to other police forces, to the airports and ports. If the men had any sense, they would lie low for a while before trying to leave the country. But criminals don't always have sense, Banks knew. In fact, more often than not, they were plain stupid.

And what about Rothwell's killers? If the man Melissa Clegg remembered was involved—and it was a big if—then he was local. Was he the kind to stay put or run? And what about his partner?