Final Account (37 page)

Banks looked at the two policemen, sighed and said, “Give my regards to Dirty Dick.”

Shandy came back with a not very convincing, “Who's that?” Spike grinned, rubbed the barrel of his gun against his upper thigh, and said, “Will do, sir.”

SIXTEEN

I

Banks had always hated hospitals: the antiseptic smells, the starched uniforms, the mysterious and unsettling pieces of shiny equipment around every corner—things that looked like modern sculpture or instruments of torture made of articulated chrome. They all gave him the creeps. Worst of all, though, was the way the doctors and nurses seemed to huddle in corridors and doorways and whisper about death, or so he imagined.

It was Saturday afternoon, 21st May, just over a week since Rothwell's murder and two days after Jameson's shooting, when Banks walked into Leeds Infirmary.

He had spent Thursday night in London, then headed back to Amersham for his car the next morning. After spending a little time with Superintendent Jarrell, Banks and Hatchley had driven back to Eastvale that Friday evening and arrived a little after nine.

On Saturday morning, he had to go into Leeds to consult with Ken Blackstone and wrap things up. After their pub lunch, he had taken a little time off to go and buy some more compact discs at the Classical Record Shop and pay a sick visit before heading back to Eastvale for Richmond's farewell bash. Sandra was off with the Camera Club photographing rock formations at Brimham Rocks, so he was left to his own devices for the day.

Banks paused and looked at the signs, then turned left. At last, he found the right corridor. Pamela Jeffreys shared a room with one other person, who happened to be down in X-ray when Banks called. He pulled up a chair by the side of the bed and put down the brown paper package he'd brought on the table. Pamela looked at it with her one good eye. The other was covered in bandages.

“Grapes,” said Banks, feeling embarrassed. “It's what you bring when you visit people in hospital, isn't it?”

Pamela smiled, then decided it hurt too much and let her face relax.

“And,” Banks said, pulling a cassette from his pocket, “I made you a tape of some Mozart piano concertos. Thought they might cheer you up. Got a Walkman?”

“Wouldn't go anywhere without it,” Pamela said out of the side of her mouth. “It's a bit difficult to get the headphones on with one hand, though.” She directed his gaze to where her bandaged right hand lay on the sheets.

He set the cassette on the bedside table beside the grapes. “The doctor says you're going to be okay,” he said.

“Hm-mm,” murmured Pamela. “So they tell me.” It came out muffled, but Banks could tell what she said.

“He said you'll be playing the viola again in no time.”

“Hmph. It might take a bit longer than that.”

“But you
will
play again.”

She uttered a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. “They broke two fingers on my right hand,” she said. “My bowing hand. It's a good thing they know bugger all about musical technique. If they'd broken my wrist that might really have put an end to my career.”

“People like that aren't chosen for their intelligence, as a rule,” said Banks. “But the important thing is that there's no permanent damage to your fingers, or to your eye.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I ought to think myself lucky.”

“Well?”

“Oh, I'm okay, I suppose. Mostly just bored. There's the tapes and the radio, but you can't listen to music all day. There's nothing else to do but watch telly, and I can stomach even less of that. Reading still hurts too much with just one good eye. And the food's awful.”

“I'm sorry,” Banks said. “And I'm sorry about that day in the park.”

She moved her head slowly from side to side. “No. My fault. You had to ask. I overreacted. Is this an official visit? Have you come about the men? The men who hurt me?”

“No. But we know who they are. They won't get away with it.”

“Why have you come?”

“I … that's a good question.” Banks laughed nervously and looked away, out of the window at the swaying tree-tops. “To see you, I suppose,” he said. “To bring you some grapes and some Mozart. I just happened to be in the area, you know, buying CDs.”

“What did you get?”

Banks showed her: Keith Jarrett playing Shostakovitch's 24 preludes and fugues; Nobuko Imai playing Walton's viola concerto. She raised her eyebrow. “Interesting.” Then she tapped the Walton. “It's beautiful if you get it right,” she said. “But so difficult. She's very good.”

“It says in the notes that the viola is an introvert of an instrument, a poet-philosopher. Does that describe you?”

“My teacher told me I had to be careful not to get overwhelmed by the orchestra. That tends to happen to violas, you know. But I manage to hold my own.”

“How long are they going to keep you here?”

“Who knows? Another week or so. I'd get up and go home right now but I think my leg's broken.”

“It is. The right one.”

“Damn. The prettiest.”

Banks laughed.

“Did you catch the men who killed Robert?” she asked. “Was it the same ones?”

Banks gave her the gist of what had happened with Jameson, avoiding the more lurid details.

“So one got away?” she said.

“So far.”

“That's not bad going.”

“Not bad,” Banks agreed. “Fifty per cent success rate. It's better than the police average.”

“Will you get a promotion out of it?”

He laughed. “I doubt it.”

“Don't look so worried,” she said, resting her bandaged hand on his. “I'll be all right. And don't blame yourself … you know … for what happened to me.”

“Right. I'll try not to.” Banks felt his eyes burn. He could see her name bracelet and the tube attached to the vein in her wrist. It made him feel squeamish, even more so than seeing Jameson's body against the wall in the hotel room. It didn't make sense: he could take a murder scene in his stride, but a simple intravenous drip in a hospital made him queasy.

Pamela was right. She would be fine. Her wounds would heal; her beauty would regenerate. In less than a year she would be as good as new. But would she ever recover fully inside? How would she handle being alone in the house? Would she ever again be able to hear someone walking up the garden path without that twinge of fear and panic? He didn't know. The psyche regenerates itself, too, sometimes. We're often a damn sight more resilient than we'd imagine.

“Will you come and see me again?” she asked. “I mean, when it's all over and I'm home. Will you come and see me?”

“Sure I will,” said Banks, thinking guiltily of the feelings he had had for Pamela, not sure at all.

“Do you mean it?”

He looked into her almond eye and saw the black shape of fear at its centre. He swallowed. “Of course I mean it,” he said. And he did. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her good cheek. “I'd better go now.”

II

Why was he born so beautiful?

Why was he born so tall?

He's no bloody use to anyone,

He's no bloody use at all.

Richmond took the Yorkshire compliment, delivered in shaky harmonies by Sergeant Hatchley and an assorted cat's choir of PCs, very well, Banks thought, especially for someone who listened to music that sounded like Zamfir on Valium.

“Speech! Speech!” Hatchley shouted.

Embarrassed, Richmond gave a sideways glance at Rachel, his fiancée, then stood up, cleared his throat and said, “Thank you. Thank you all very much. And thanks specially for the CD-ROM. You know I'm not much at giving speeches like this, but I'd just like to say it's been a pleasure working with you all. I know you all probably think I'm a traitor, going off down south—” Here, a chorus of boos interrupted his speech. “But as soon as I've got that lot down there sorted out,” he went on, “I'll be back, and you buggers had better make sure you know a hard drive from a hole in the ground. Thank you.”

He sat down again, and people went over to pat him on the back and say farewell. Everyone cheered when Susan Gay leaned forward and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. She blushed when Richmond responded by giving her a bear-hug.

They were in the back room of the Queen's Arms on Saturday night, and Banks leaned against the polished bar, pint of Theakston's in his hand, with Sandra on one side and Gristhorpe on the other. Someone had hung balloons from the ceiling. Cyril had hooked up the old jukebox for the occasion, and Gerry and the Pacemakers were singing “Ferry Across the Mersey.”

Banks knew he should have been happier to see the end of the Rothwell case, but he just couldn't seem to get rid of a niggling feeling, like an itch he couldn't reach. Jameson had killed Rothwell. True. Now Jameson was dead. Justice had been done, after a fashion. An eye for an eye. So forget it.

But he couldn't. The two men who had beaten Pamela Jeffreys hadn't been caught yet. Along with Jameson's accomplice, that left three on the loose. Only a twenty-five per cent success rate. Not satisfactory at all.

But it wasn't just that. Somehow, it was all too neat. All too neat and ready for Martin Churchill to slip into the country one night with a new face and a clean, colossal bank account and retire quietly to Cornwall, guarding the secrets of those in power to the grave. Which might not be far off. Banks wouldn't be surprised if someone from MI6 or wherever slipped into Cornwall one night and both Mr Churchill
and
his insurance had a nasty accident.

Susan Gay walked over from Richmond's table and indicated she'd like a word. Banks excused himself from Sandra and they found a quiet corner.

“Sorry for dragging you away from the festivities, sir,” Susan said, “but I haven't had a chance to talk to you since you got back. There's a couple of things you might be interested in.”

“I'm listening.”

Susan told him about her talk with Tom Rothwell after the funeral, about his homosexuality and what he had seen his father do that day he followed him into Leeds. “The artist came in on Wednesday evening, sir, and we managed to get the impression in the papers on Thursday, while you were down south.”

“Any luck?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Come on, then. Don't keep me in suspense.”

“We've found out who she is. Her name's Julia Marshall and she lives in Adel. That's in north Leeds. She's a schoolteacher. We got a couple of phone calls from colleagues. Apparently, she was a quiet person, shy and private.”

“Was?”

“Well, I shouldn't say that, really, sir, but it's just that she's disappeared. That's all we know so far. I just think we should find her, that's all,” she said. “Talk to her friends. I don't really know why. It's just a feeling. She might know something.”

“I think you're right,” said Banks. “It's a loose end I'd like to see tied up as well. There are too many bloody disappearances in this case for my liking. Is there anything else?”

“No. But it's not over yet, is it, sir?”

“No, Susan, I don't think it is. Thanks for telling me. We'll follow up on it first thing tomorrow. For now, we'd better get back to the party or Phil will think we don't love him.”

Banks walked back to the bar and lit a cigarette. The music had changed; now it was the Swinging Blue Jeans doing “Hippy, Hippy Shake” and some of the younger members of the department were dancing.

Banks thought about Tom Rothwell and his father. Susan had been sharp to pick up on that. It didn't make sense, given Rothwell's
other
interests, that he should be so genuinely upset that his son didn't want to be an accountant or a lawyer. On the other hand, perhaps nothing was more of an anathema, an insult, to a confirmed heterosexual philanderer than a gay son.

“Penny for them?” Sandra said.

“What? Oh, nothing. Just thinking, that's all.”

“It's over, Alan. Leave it be. It's another feather in your cap. You can't solve the whole world's problems.”

“It feels more like a lead weight than a feather. I think I'll have another drink.” He turned and ordered another pint. Sandra had a gin and tonic. “You're right, of course,” he said, standing the drink on the bar. “We've done the best we can.”

“You've done
all
you can. It's being pipped at the post by Dirty Dick that really gets your goat, isn't it?” Sandra taunted. “You two have got some kind of macho personal vendetta going, haven't you?”

“Maybe. I don't know. I won't say it's a good feeling, knowing the bastard's got his way.”

“You did what you could, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“But you still think Burgess has won this time, and it pisses you off, doesn't it?”

“Maybe. Yes. Yes, it bloody well does. Sandra, the man had someone
shot
.”

“A cold-blooded murderer. Besides, you don't know that.”

“You mean I can't prove it. And we're not here to play vigilantes. If Burgess had Jameson shot, you can be damn sure it wasn't just an eye for an eye. He was making certain he didn't talk.”

“Men,”
said Sandra, turning to her drink with a long-suffering sigh.

Gristhorpe, who had been listening from the other side, laughed and nudged Banks in the ribs. “Better listen to her,” he said. “I can understand how you feel, but there's no more you can do, and there's no point making some kind of competition out of it.”

“I know that. It's not that. It's … oh, maybe Sandra's right and it is macho stuff. I don't know.”

At that moment, Sergeant Rowe, who had been manning the front desk across the street, pushed through the crowd of drinkers and said to Banks, “Phone call, sir. He says it's important. Must talk to you in person.”