Blood At The Root

I

By Saturday morning, Susan guessed, Mark Wood must be feeling like one of those mice that has wandered into a humane trap; it can’t find its way back out, and it is just beginning to realize that it’s in a trap. Even when the mice do get released, she realized, they generally find themselves a long way from home.

“Your solicitor, Mr. Varney, rang,” said Gristhorpe. “He’s sorry, he was out last night. Anyway, he’s on his way up from Leeds. What can we do for you in the meantime? Coffee? Danish?”

Wood reached forward and helped himself to a pastry. “I don’t have to talk to you until he gets here,” he said.

“True,” said Gristhorpe. “But remember that caution I read you yesterday? If you don’t say anything now, it could go very badly for you later when you try to change your story again.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’re a liar, Mark. You’ve already given us half a dozen old wives’ tales. The more lies you tell, the lower your credibility rating falls. I’m offering you a chance to sweep the board clean, forget the lies and tell me the truth once and for all. What happened after you and Jason Fox left the Jubilee last Saturday night? Your solicitor will only give you the same advice. Tell the truth and I’ll turn on the tape recorders.”

“But I’ve already told you.”

Gristhorpe shook his head. “You lied. The bottle. The fingerprint, Mark. The fingerprint.”

Susan hoped to hell that Gristhorpe did get somewhere before Giles Varney arrived, because he’d milked that fingerprint for far more than it was worth already. They couldn’t be certain it was Wood’s, and Gristhorpe had framed his references to it with great care when the tapes were running, saying it was a “close match” rather than an identical one.

Even “close match” was pushing it a bit. One of the first things Varney would do was look at the forensic evidence and tell his client just how flimsy it was. Then Wood would clam up. Susan had phoned the lab just a few moments ago, and while they said they might get some results before the morning was out, it certainly wouldn’t be within the hour.

Even then, she knew, these would only be preliminary results. But they might, at a pinch, at least be able to determine whether there was human blood on Wood’s clothing and whether it matched Jason Fox’s general type. For more specific and solid evidence, such as DNA analysis, they would have to wait much longer. Even a general grouping, Susan thought, along with an identification and statement from the landlord of the Jubilee, would be more than they had right now. And it might be enough to convince the magistrates to remand Wood for a while longer.

“Nobody touched that bottle but you, Mark,” Gristhorpe went on. “The fingerprint proves that.”

“What about the bloke I bought it off? Why weren’t his fingerprints on it?”

“That’s not important. Mark. What matters is that your fingerprints were on it and Jason’s weren’t. There’s no getting away from that, solicitor or no solicitor. If you tell me the truth now, things will go well for you. If you don’t… well, it’ll be a jury you’ll have to explain yourself to. And sometimes you can wait months for a trial. Years, even.”

“So what? I’d be out on bail and you can’t prove anything.”

True, Susan thought.

“Wrong,” Gristhorpe said. “I don’t think you’d get bail, Mark. Not for this. It was a vicious murder. Very nasty indeed.”

“You said it might not be murder.”

“That depends. The way things are looking now, you’d have to confess to make us believe it was manslaughter, Mark. You’d have to tell us how it really happened, convince us it wasn’t murder. Otherwise we’ve got you on a murder charge. Concealing evidence, not coming forward, lying – it all looks bad to a jury.”

Wood chewed on his lower lip. Susan noticed the crumbs of pastry down the front of his shirt. He was sweating.

“You’re a clever lad, aren’t you, Mark?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know all about computers and the Internet and all that stuff?”

“So?”

“Now, me, I don’t know a hard drive from a hole in the ground, but I do know you’re lying, and I do know that your only way out of this tissue of lies you’ve got yourself well and truly stuck in is to tell me the truth. Now.”

Finally, Wood licked his lips and said, “Look, I didn’t kill anyone. All right, I was there. I admit it. I was there when it started. But I didn’t kill Jason. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Why do I have to believe you, Mark?” Gristhorpe asked softly.

“Because you do. It’s true.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

“Can I have a smoke?”

“No,” said Gristhorpe. “After you’ve told me. If I believe you.” He turned on the dual cassette recorder and made the usual preamble about the time, date and who was present.

Wood sulked and chewed his lip for a moment, then began: “We left the Jubilee just after closing time, like I said. I had a bottle with me. Jason didn’t. He didn’t drink much. In fact, he had a thing about drink and drugs. Into health and fitness, was Jason. Anyway, we took the short cut – at least that’s what he told me it was – through some streets across the road, and where the streets ended there’s a ginnel that leads between two terrace blocks to some waste ground.”

“The rec,” said Gristhorpe.

“If you say so. I didn’t know where the fuck we were.”

“Why were you also heading in that direction? I thought you said your car was parked on Market Street.”

“It was. Jason asked me back to his place for a drink. That’s all. I know I shouldn’t have been drinking so much when I was driving, but…” He grinned. “Anyway, it was like you said yesterday. If I thought I’d had too much, I would’ve stopped the night.”

“At Jason’s house?”

“His parents’ house, yes.”

“Carry on.”

“Well, the ginnel looked a bit creepy to me, but Jason went ahead. Then, all of a sudden, they came at us, three of them, from where they’d been waiting at the other end. The rec end.”

“Three of them?”

“That’s right. Asian lads. I recognized them. Jason had had a minor run-in with one of them earlier, in the pub.”

“What happened next?”

“I dropped the bottle and scarpered fast. I thought Jason was right behind me, but by the time I looked back he was nowhere in sight.”

“You didn’t see what happened to him?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t go back?”

“No way.”

“All right. What did you do next?”

“I kept going until I got to the car, then I drove home.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

Wood scratched his neck and averted his eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t think of it, really. And I’d been drinking.”

“But your friend – sorry, your business associate – was in danger. He could at least expect a severe beating, and all you could do was scarper. Come on, Mark, you can’t expect me to believe that. Surely you’ve got more bottle, a fit lad like you?”

“Believe what you want. I didn’t know Jason was in danger, did I? For all I knew he’d run off in a different direction. I’d have been a proper wally to go back there and get my head kicked in.”

“Like Jason.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t know what happened, did I?”

“Did you really believe that Jason had got away too?”

“He could have done, couldn’t he?”

“Okay. Now tell me: if you’d done nothing wrong, why didn’t you come forward later, after you knew Jason had been killed?”

Mark scratched the side of his nose. “I didn’t know till I read it in the papers a couple of days later. By then I thought it would look funny if I came forward.”

Gristhorpe frowned. “Look funny?”

“Yeah. Suspicious.”

“Why?”

“Because I hadn’t said anything at the time. Isn’t that something makes you blokes suspicious?”

Gristhorpe spread his hands. “Mark, we’re simple souls, really. We’re just thrilled to bits when someone decides to tell us the truth.”

“Yeah, well… I must admit I wasn’t too proud of myself.”

“What for? Running away? Deserting your mate when he needed your help?”

Wood looked down at his hands clasped on his lap. “Yes.”

“Any other reason you kept out of it?”

“Well, if they killed Jason, whether they meant to or not… I mean, I’ve got a wife and kid. Know what I mean? I wouldn’t want to put any of us in danger by testifying if there were likely to be… you know… recriminations.”

“Recriminations? By the three attackers?”

“By them, yes. Or people like them.”

“Other Pakistani youths?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, they stick together, stand up for one another, don’t they? I didn’t want to put my wife and kid at risk.”

Gristhorpe shook his head slowly. “This isn’t making any sense to me, Mark. You look like a strong lad. Why didn’t you stay and fight with Jason, give him a bit of support?”

“I told you, I was thinking of Sheri and Connor. I mean, how would they manage without me, if I got hurt, put in hospital?”

“Same way they’ll have to manage without you when you get put in jail, I suppose,” said Gristhorpe. “You’re telling me you ran away out of concern for your wife and child?”

Wood’s face reddened. “I’m not saying that’s what I thought straight off. It was instinctive. I didn’t have much choice, did I? And like I said, I thought Jason was right behind me. It was three against two.”

“It was three against one after you ran off, Mark. What sort of choice did Jason have? The two of you could have taken those three easily. I’d have put my money on you.”

Wood shook his head.

“Are you telling me you’re a coward, Mark? Strong-looking lad like you? Bet you lift weights, don’t you? Yet when it comes to the crunch you bugger off and leave your mate to die alone.”

“Look, will you shut up about that?” Wood leaned forward and banged his fist down. The metal table rattled. “The point is that I didn’t do anything. It doesn’t matter whether I ran away. Or why I ran away. All that matters is that I didn’t kill Jason!”

“Calm down, Mark.” Gristhorpe raised his hand, palm out. “What you’re saying is true. Technically, at any rate.”

“What do you mean, technically?”

“Well, if what you’re telling us is the truth at last-”

“It is.”

“ – then you didn’t kill Jason in any legal, criminal sense of the word. But I’d say you’re morally responsible, wouldn’t you? I mean, you could have saved him, but you didn’t even try.”

“I told you to stop it with that. You can’t prove it would have done any good if I’d stayed. Maybe I’d have got killed, too. What good would that have done anyone? I don’t care about fucking morality. There’s nothing you can charge me with.”

“How about leaving the scene?”

“That’s crap, and you know it.”

“Maybe so,” Gristhorpe admitted. “Nevertheless, deserting your mate the way you did… That’s something you’ll have to live with forever, isn’t it, Mark?”

Gristhorpe went to the door and asked the two uniformed officers to come in and take Wood back to his cell, then he and Susan picked up their coffees and left the stuffy interview room for Gristhorpe’s office. Up there, in a comfortable chair, with plenty of space and clean air to breathe, Susan felt herself relax.

“What do you think of his story?” Gristhorpe asked.

Susan shook her head. “He’s certainly a bit of a chameleon, isn’t he? I hardly know what to think. I’ll tell you one thing, though, sir; I think I caught him in at least one more lie.”

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh, aye? And which lie would that be?”

“Mark told us that when they left the Jubilee, Jason invited him back to his house for a drink, and maybe to stop overnight. Jason wouldn’t have done that. His parents insisted he never brought his friends to their house.”

“Hmm. Maybe they’re the ones who are lying?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Why should they? If you think about it, Jason lived most of his life in Leeds. He only came home on weekends occasionally, mostly to play football for United, spend a little time with his parents, get his washing done, maybe visit his granddad. He never told any of them what he was up to in Leeds. It’s easy to see why he wouldn’t want to mention Neville Motcombe or explain how he got fired from the plastics factory. And that meant he couldn’t mention the computer business either. He could have simply lied from the start, told them he’d left the factory of his own free will for something better, but he didn’t. Didn’t want to face the questions, I suppose. After that, all the lies became interconnected. Who knows what Mark might have let slip to Jason’s parents?” She shook her head. “Unless Mr. and Mrs. Fox are lying, which I doubt, then it’s hardly likely Jason would suddenly decide to take one of his Leeds mates back to the Eastvale house on a whim. Too risky. And there’s another thing. Jason didn’t keep anything to drink at the Eastvale house. In fact, according to all accounts, he hardly drank at all.”

“Maybe he was intending to give Mark some of his dad’s Scotch or something?”

“It’s possible, sir,” Susan said. “But as I say, I doubt it.”

“And maybe he would have bent the rules a bit if his mate had had too much to drink and needed somewhere to sleep it off? That might also explain why Mark didn’t drive down from Market Street to Jason’s place.”

“Again, sir,” said Susan, “it’s possible.”

“But you’re not convinced. Do you think he did it?”

“I don’t know, sir. I just don’t trust his story.”

“Make that stories. All right, I’ll bear your reservations in mind. I can’t say I like them much, either.” He shook his head slowly. “Anyway, we’d better arrange to bring in George Mahmood and his pals again.”

“Even though the forensic evidence supports George’s story?”

“Even so.”

“Chief Constable Riddle will love that, sir.”

“The way I see it, Susan, we’ve got no choice. Mark Wood says he saw three Asian lads attack Jason Fox. Unless we can prove he’s lying, it doesn’t matter what we think. We have to bring them in.”

Susan nodded. “I know, sir.”

“And give the lab another call. Ask them to get their fingers out. If all they can tell us is there’s human blood on the clothes, I’d be satisfied for the time being. Because if we don’t get something positive soon, Mark Wood is going to walk out of here in less than an hour and I’m still not happy with a word he’s told us.”

II

Banks made it down to breakfast with just minutes to spare before the nine-o’clock deadline, getting a frosty look from the stout waitress in the hotel lounge for his trouble. First, he helped himself to coffee from a table by the window, then he sat down and looked around. A large NO SMOKING symbol hung over the lace-curtained window.

He doodled away at yesterday’s Yorkshire Post crossword while he sipped the rich black coffee and waited. Eventually, the waitress returned and, with a dour glance, she deposited a glass of orange juice and a plate in front of him. On the plate lay a few slices of cold ham, a chunk of Edam cheese, a hard-boiled egg, a couple of rolls and some butter. The Dutch breakfast. Banks tucked in.

He felt fortunate in having only the mildest of hangovers. The slight ache behind his eyes had been easily vanquished with the aid of two extra-strength paracetamols from his traveler’s emergency kit, and he suspected that the minor sense of disorientation he felt was still more due to being in a foreign city than to the residual effects of alcohol. Whatever the reason, he felt fine. At least physically.

Only as he sipped the last of his coffee did he realize he hadn’t thought of his domestic problems at all last night. Even now, in the morning’s light, everything felt so distant, so disembodied. He could hardly believe that Sandra had really gone. Was it a question of not being there to see the tree fall in the woods, or was it what the psychologists of grief called denial? Maybe he would ask his psychologist friend Jenny Fuller when she got back from America. Jenny. Now, if Sandra really had gone, did that make him a free agent? What were the rules? Best not think about it too much. Maybe he would ring home again before going out, just to see if she had come back.

He was the only person sitting in the spotless lounge, with its dark wood smelling of polish, its lace doilies, ticking clock and knickknacks stuffed in alcoves. As he had hoped, Burgess had either breakfasted earlier or hadn’t even got out of bed yet. Banks suspected the latter.

Thank the Lord a passer-by had stopped to help him haul Burgess out of the canal last night. Dirty Dick had stood there dripping the foul water and complaining loudly about the canal-building Dutch engineers – most of whom, according to him, had only one parent, a mother, with whom they had indulged in unspeakable sexual relations.

Banks finally managed to persuade him to calm down and walk back to the hotel before the police arrived and arrested them.

That they succeeded in doing, and their arrival attracted only a puzzled frown from the man at the desk as they traipsed through the lobby. Burgess still trailed dirty canal water as he went, his shoes squelching with every step. He held his head high, like W. C. Fields trying to pretend he was sober, and walked with as much dignity as he could muster. After that, he went straight up to his room on the second floor, and that was the last Banks had seen or heard of him.

After breakfast, Banks went all the way back up to his room and phoned home again. Still nothing. Not that he had expected Sandra to get the first train back home, but one lives in hope. He didn’t leave a message for himself.

As he trod carefully back down the steep, narrow stairs, tiptoeing over the landing near Burgess’s room, he reflected on how he had enjoyed himself last night, how, against all expectations, he had enjoyed his night of freedom. He hadn’t done anything he wouldn’t normally have done, except perhaps drink too much and get silly, but he had felt differently about it.

For the first time, he found himself wondering if Sandra wasn’t, perhaps, right. Maybe they both did need a little time to maneuver and regroup after all the changes of the past few years, especially Sandra’s new and more demanding job at the gallery, and the loss of the children.

Not children now, Banks reminded himself. Grown-ups. He thought back to that evening in the Pack Horse only a few days ago, when he had watched Tracy with her friends and realized he couldn’t cross the lounge to be with her; then he remembered a telephone call he had once made from Weymouth to his son in Portsmouth, realizing then for the first time how distant and independent Brian had become.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Any of it. Except to make damn sure he kept in touch with them, helped them the best he could, became a friend and not a meddlesome irritation to them. He wondered how they would take the news of their parents’ separation. For that matter, who would tell them? Would Sandra? Should he?

He walked out onto Keizersgracht. The sun glinted on the parked bicycles on the quay and on the canal, making a rainbow out of a pool of oil. Reflections of trees shimmered gently in the ripples of a passing boat.

His mysterious meeting was set for eight o’clock tonight. Well, he thought, in the meantime, on a day like this, tourist map in hand, he could walk the city to his heart’s content.

III

“You’ve got to admit, Superintendent, that your evidence is pretty thin.”

Giles Varney, Mark Wood’s solicitor, sat in Gristhorpe’s office later that Saturday morning, staring out over the market square as he talked.

Outside, a sunny morning had brought plenty of tourists to the bustling open market, but now it was clouding over and, to Susan’s well-trained nose, getting ready to pour down before the day was out. She had already seen the gusts of wind, which would later bring the rain clouds, billowing the canvas covers of the market stalls.

Varney wasn’t a pinstripe lawyer like the one they’d had to deal with last year in the Deborah Harrison murder. He was casually dressed in jeans and a sports shirt, and his very expensive light wool jacket hung on a stand in the corner. He was young, probably not much older than Susan’s own twenty-seven, in good shape, and handsome in a craggy, outdoorsy kind of way. He looked as if he were on his way to go hang-gliding.

There was something Susan didn’t like about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. An arrogance, perhaps, or overconfidence. Whatever it was, it put her on her guard.

“I realize that, Mr. Varney,” said Gristhorpe, “but I’m sure you can see our predicament.”

Varney smiled. “With all due respect, it’s not my job to see your predicament. It’s my job to get my client out of jail.”

Supercilious prat, Susan thought.

“And it’s our job,” countered Gristhorpe, “to get to the bottom of Jason Fox’s death. Your client admits he was at the scene.”

“Only prior to the crime. He couldn’t have had any knowledge of what was going to happen.”

“Oh, come off it, Mr. Varney. If three kids came at you in a dark alley, I think you’d have a pretty good idea what was about to take place, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s beside the point. And since when has saving your own skin been regarded as a criminal act? Technically, my client is not guilty of any crime. I expect you to release him immediately. I trust you have the real criminals in custody?”

“On their way. Again,” muttered Gristhorpe.

Varney raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I understand you had these same chaps in custody once before and let them go?”

“Had to,” Gristhorpe said. “No evidence. You’d have approved.”

Varney smiled again. “Not having much luck with evidence these days, are you, Superintendent?”

“There is one other small matter,” said Gristhorpe.

Varney glanced at his Rolex with irritation. “Yes?”

“Your client has now become an important witness. I trust you’d have no objection to his remaining here in order to identify the suspects when we’ve brought them in?”

Varney narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Superintendent. But something smells. Still, how could I have any objection? And I’m sure my client will be more than willing to help sort out this mess for you. As long as he’s released from his cell this very minute and treated as a witness rather than as a criminal. He also has to know that he’s free to go home whenever he wants.”

Susan breathed a sigh of relief. She knew that Gristhorpe was playing for time, trying to find some reason to keep Mark Wood in Eastvale until the lab came up with something – or with nothing. This way, at least, they might get another hour or so out of him, especially if they had him write another formal statement after the identification. Maybe a lot more time than that if they put together an identification parade, which would mean importing a few more Asians of similar build to George, Kobir and Asim.

As it turned out, they hardly had to wait at all. Just as Gristhorpe was about to leave the office and take Varney down to release Mark Wood, the phone rang. Gristhorpe excused himself, picked up the receiver, grunted a few times, then beamed at Susan. “That’s the lab,” he said. “They’ve found traces of blood between the uppers and the soles of Mark Wood’s Doc Martens, and it matches Jason Fox’s blood group. I’m afraid, Mr. Varney, we’ve got a few more questions for your client.”

Varney sniffed and sat down again. Gristhorpe picked up his phone and called downstairs. “Bert? Have young Mark Wood brought up from the cells, would you? Yes, the interview room.”

Giles Varney insisted on having a private talk with Mark Wood before the interview. Susan waited with Gristhorpe in his office, where they went over all Wood’s previous statements, planning their strategy. The rags of cloud had drifted in from Scotland now and the air that blew in through the partially open window was beginning to smell like a wet dog. Susan walked over and watched some of the tourists looking at the sky, then heading for the pubs or for their cars.

“Hungry?” Gristhorpe asked.

“I can wait, sir,” said Susan. “A few less calories won’t do me any harm.”

“Me neither,” grinned Gristhorpe. “But at my age you don’t worry about it so much.”

There was a brisk tap at the door and Giles Varney walked in.

“Finished?” Gristhorpe asked.

Varney nodded. “For the moment. My client wishes to make a statement.”

“Another one?”

“Look,” said Varney with a thin smile, “the blood evidence isn’t much to write home about so far, you have to admit, and the fingerprint rubbish is even less. You should be grateful for what you can get.”

“In a few days,” Gristhorpe countered, “we’ll have DNA on the blood. And I suspect your client knows that will prove it’s Jason Fox’s. At the moment, I think we’ve got enough to hold him.”

Varney smiled. “That’s what I thought you’d say. What you hear might change your mind.”

“How?”

“After a certain amount of reflection, on the advice of his solicitor, my client is now willing to explain exactly what happened last Saturday night.”

“Right,” said Gristhorpe, getting up and glancing over at Susan. “Let’s get to it then.”

They went into the interview room, where Mark Wood sat chewing his fingernails, went through the preliminaries and turned on the tape recorders.

“Right, lad,” said Gristhorpe. “Mr. Varney here says you wish to make a statement. I hope it’s the truth this time. Now what have you got to say?”

Wood looked at Varney before opening his mouth. Varney nodded. “I did it,” Wood said. “I killed Jason. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

“Why don’t you tell us what happened, Mark?” Gristhorpe coaxed him. “Slowly. Take your time.”

Wood looked at Varney, who nodded. “We were going back to his place, like I said before. Jason was going on about those Pakis back in the Jubilee, what he thought should be done with them. We started arguing. I told him I didn’t like that racist crap. Jason was going on about how I was really a racist deep down, just like him, and why didn’t I admit it, join the group. I laughed and told him I’d never join that band of wankers in a million years. I was pretty mad by then, so I told him that my wife was from Jamaica. Then he started insulting her, calling her a black bitch and a whore and calling little Connor a half-breed mutant. We were getting near the ginnel now and Jason was really laying into me. Really crude stuff. Like I’d betrayed the white race by marrying a nigger, and shit like that.” Mark paused and rubbed his temples. “I’d had a few drinks, more than I admitted, and more than Jason, at any rate, and sometimes I… well, I’ve got a bit of a temper when I’m pissed. I just lost it, that’s all. He came at me. I had the bottle in my hand and I just lashed out with it and hit him.”

“What happened next?”

“He didn’t go down. Just put his hand to the side of his head and swore, then he came at me again. He was strong, was Jason, but I reckon I’m probably stronger. Anyway, we started fighting, but I think the head wound had sort of weakened him and I managed to knock him down. I thought about what he’d said about Sheri and Connor and I just saw red. The next thing I knew, he wasn’t moving, and I ran off.”

“And left him there?”

“Yes. I didn’t know he was fucking dead. How could I? I thought I’d just put him out of action for a while.”

“Why did you empty his pockets?”

“I didn’t. Why would I do that?”

“Because the whole thing was a lot more deliberate than you’re saying? Because you wanted to make it look like a mugging? You tell me, Mark.”

“Superintendent,” Varney chipped in. “My client is offering a voluntary statement. If he says he didn’t empty the victim’s pockets, then I suggest you believe him. He has no reason to lie at this point.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Varney,” said Gristhorpe. He looked at Mark again.

Mark shook his head. “I don’t remember doing that. Honest.”

Gristhorpe sniffed and riffled through some sheets of paper in front of him. “Mark,” he said finally, “Jason Fox’s injuries included a fractured skull and a ruptured spleen. Yet you say you only knocked him down?”

“That’s how it happened. I admit I lost it, I was in a rage, but I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“All right, Mark,” said Gristhorpe. “Is this the statement you want to make?”

“Yes.”

“My client will be pleading to the charge of manslaughter, Superintendent,” Varney said. “And I think there might be some room for mitigating circumstances.”

“Plenty of time for charges later,” said Gristhorpe. “Let’s just go through the story again first.” Gristhorpe turned to Susan and sighed. “Susan, go and make sure George Mahmood and his friends are released immediately. The poor sods won’t know whether they’re coming or going.”

Susan nodded and got up. As she left the interview room, she heard Gristhorpe say wearily, “Right then, Mark, once more from the top.”

IV

Using a street map he’d bought that afternoon, Banks walked to the address Burgess had given him. Though he felt silly doing it, he had looked over his shoulder once in a while and taken a very circuitous route.

It was another brown café, this one on a street corner by Sarphatipark. The park itself was a dark rectangle wedged between blocks of tenements. It looked familiar. He was sure he had seen it before, with Sandra. It reminded him of the kind of square you’d find in Bloomsbury or Edinburgh. The café itself wasn’t the kind of place listed in the tourist guides. The wood was dark and stained with years of tobacco smoke, and most of the tables were scratched and blackened here and there where cigarettes had been left to burn.

One or two locals sitting at the bar, workingmen by the look of their clothes, turned and glanced at Banks as he walked in and found a table in the far corner. One of them said something to the man behind the bar, who shrugged and laughed, then they paid him no further attention. Only a few tables were taken, and only one of those by a young man and a woman. It was pretty much of a men’s pub by the look of it. Accordion music was playing quietly behind the bar. Welcome to hell.

The table wobbled. Banks took a beer mat and placed it under one leg. That helped. Not wanting a repeat of last night, he decided he was going to stick with beer, and not even drink many of those. That jenever could be deadly. He ordered an Amstel, lit a cigarette and settled down to wait, back to the wall, eyes on the door. After a day spent walking around the city, stopping only at a café now and then for a coffee and a cigarette, Banks was also glad of the chance to rest his legs.

As he waited, he reflected on the curious and unsettling experience he had had that afternoon. One of the places he’d walked by was a canal-side coffeehouse he remembered visiting with Sandra all those years ago. The kind of place that also sold hash and grass. It didn’t seem to have changed at all. At first he thought it couldn’t possibly be the same one, but it was. Curious, he turned back and wandered inside.

At the back, where it was darker, piles of cushions lay scattered on the floor. You could lie back, smoke your joint, look at the posters on the wall and listen to the music. He noticed a young couple there, in the far corner, and for one spine-tingling moment, in the dim light, he felt he was looking down on himself and Sandra when they were young. And he hadn’t even smoked any hash.

Shaken, he walked out into the sunshine and went on his way. It was a good five or ten minutes before he could get rid of the spooky feeling. He and Sandra had smoked some hash there with some Americans, he remembered. Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde album had been playing, the long “Sadeyed Lady of the Lowlands.” Later, they had made love in their sleeping bag in the Vondelpark, hidden away from other nighthawks by some bushes. Memories. Would he never escape them?

Just as he was lighting his second cigarette, someone walked through the door. And for the second time that day Banks felt gob-smacked.

If he wasn’t mistaken, it was the man he had last seen in Neville Motcombe’s house: Rupert Francis, the tall, gangly woodworker.

He obviously noticed Banks’s surprise. “You can close your mouth now, sir,” he said. “It really is me.”

Banks shook his head slowly. “So I see. Rupert Francis, right? And what’s with the ‘sir’?”

“Actually, I’m DS Craig McKeracher, sir,” he said, shaking hands. “That makes you my senior officer. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He smiled sheepishly and sat down. “I’m sorry about all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, sir, but if they found out who I really am, they’d kill me.”

Banks shook hands and collected his thoughts. The waiter came over and Craig ordered a beer.

“I think we can drop the ‘sir,’” said Banks.

Craig nodded. “If you like. I must admit you gave me the shock of my bloody life when I saw you at Nev’s place the other day. I thought the game was up right there and then.”

“You didn’t have to show yourself.”

“I know. But I heard voices, so I thought up an excuse and came up to see what was going on. Part of my brief, after all, to keep my eyes and ears open. Just as well you’d never seen me before.”

“How long have you been undercover there?”

“About five months. Nev trusts me. ‘Rupert Francis’ has an impeccable background with the neo-Nazi movement. BNP, fringe groups, the whole kit and caboodle. He’s even been done on firearms and explosives charges. In addition to that, he’s got a long and varied criminal record. Assault, burglary, drugs. You name it. That’s something Nev also trusts.”

“How would he know about your record?”

Craig sipped some beer from the bottle before answering. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny throat. “He’s got a man on the inside somewhere. West Yorkshire. Some PC or DC sympathetic to the cause. Believe me, there are plenty of blokes on the Job who’d have no ax to grind with Neville Motcombe’s ideas. However he does it, he has no problem checking out criminal records.”

“So it’s you who wants me here, not Burgess?”

“Yes. After I’d seen you, I got in touch with Dirty – with Superintendent Burgess soon as I could. He’s my controller, but with things getting so hot lately we’ve not had the chance for much more than minimal telephone contact. And you’ve got to be really careful over the phone. Anyway, I told him I wanted to talk to you as soon as possible, but I didn’t want to risk doing it locally. Then I thought this would be a perfect opportunity. Know why I’m here?”

“Haven’t a clue,” said Banks.

“I’m helping to organize an international conference on race and IQ, if you can swallow that. Anyway, Superintendent Burgess said not to worry, he’d make the arrangements.” Craig grinned. “In fact, he said he’d enjoy it. You should have heard him when I told him you’d walked right into Nev’s front room. I gather the two of you know each other? You and the super, that is?”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and sipped some beer. “You could say that.”

“He likes you. Honest, he does. Respects you. That’s what he told me. I reckon he thinks you’re a bit naive, but he was glad to hear it was you on the Fox case and not someone else.”

“Maybe we should start a mutual admiration society.”

Craig laughed.

“Anyway,” Banks asked, “why all this interest in the Albion League?”

“Because of Neville Motcombe and his contacts with known international terrorists. When he left the BNP and decided to start his own fringe group, we thought it’d be a good idea to keep an eye on him.”

Banks sipped some Amstel. “And did he live up to your expectations?”

“In some ways, yes. In others, he exceeded them. The Albion League’s nowhere near as politically active as we thought it would be. As Combat 18 are, for example. I’m not saying there haven’t been violent incidents, there have, and I’ve even heard talk of a pipe bomb to sabotage the mosque opening. Now we know about that possibility, we can tighten security and make sure it doesn’t happen. But mostly, as far as revolutionary action is concerned, they’ve been pretty tame so far. More like a fucking boys’ club than anything else.”

“I wondered about that. What is it with Motcombe and these young boys? Is he gay or something?”

The waiter came over and they ordered two more beers. When he had gone again, Craig said, “No. No, Nev’s not gay. I’ll confess I had my own suspicions when I first met him and he invited me down the cellar to help with his woodwork. Like, come and see my etchings. But he’s not. If anything, I’d say he was asexual. His wife left him. If you ask me, it was because he spent more time licking envelopes than licking her. He’s that kind of person. Power is more important to him than romantic or sexual relationships. The youth thing is just part of his shtick. He actually used to be involved in church groups, youth clubs, that sort of thing. He was even a Boys’ Brigade leader at one time. Always did like paramilitary organizations and uniforms.”

“What happened?”

“He got kicked out for trying to recruit kids to the BNP. Anyway, a big part of his thing is the emphasis on the old British values and virtues: war games in the Pennines, crafts, camping, hiking, survival techniques, a healthy mind and healthy body. That sort of thing.”

“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 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, toward 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, 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 naive in his sincerity, and that made him almost likable. 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 antidrug. 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 parcel, 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 toward 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. “Rumor 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 neighborhood, 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, for crying out loud, 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 wineglass 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 Rijks-museum and were walking down the quiet streets toward 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?”

“Yes.”

“This is Jason’s business partner?”

Craig snorted. “Some partnership that’d be. There wasn’t a lot of love lost between them, as far as I could see.”

“Is Mark a member of the league?”

Craig shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t have anything to do with them.”

“Then how-”

“Mark and Jason met on this computer course, and they got on well enough at first. They were both good at it, too. Anyway, when they finished, Mark couldn’t get a job. I understand he’s got a wife and kid and lives in a shit-hole out Castleford way, so he was pretty desperate by then. Nev finances Jason in the computer business – only because he knows it’s something he’ll be able to use to his advantage down the line – and Jason decides he’ll take Mark on as partner, seeing as he came top of the class. Naturally, because Nev’s putting money into the business, he’s curious about Mark, so Jason arranges a meeting. I wasn’t there, but I gather Nev had got details of his record by then and quizzed him about the drug arrest.”

“What were the details?”

“Mark used to be a roadie for a Leeds band, a mixed-race band, like UB40, and one of the Jamaicans, a Chapel-town bloke, was into dealing in a big way. Used the group van, and got Mark involved. They got caught. End of story. So Nev finds out that Mark has some contacts in Chapel-town who might know someone who’ll be interested if the price is right.”

“This wouldn’t involve a bloke called Devon, would it?”

Craig raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. How’d you know about him?”

“Same source I heard about the steaming. Just a lucky guess. Carry on.”

“Right. Well, like I said, living in this shit-hole with his wife and kid, Mark was definitely interested in making money, even though he didn’t give a flying fuck for Nev’s politics. But he made a perfect go-between. Devon and his mates probably wouldn’t be any too happy if they knew their supplier was a fascist bastard who thought they should all be sent home to rot in the sun, at best. But Mark got on with the black community okay, and they seemed to accept him. And he wasn’t a member of the league.”

Banks nodded. “Okay. That makes sense.”

They spotted a vendor at the street corner, and as neither had eaten that evening, they bought bags of chips with mayonnaise, something Banks would never think of eating back in Eastvale. Here, they tasted wonderful.

“But how did Jason square all this with his politics?” Banks asked as they walked on. “You said he was dedicated. Straight.”

“He didn’t. That’s the point. I’ll get to it in a minute. See, in general, neo-Nazis aren’t only racist, they’re also anti-drug, same way they’re anti-gay.”

“Even though many of Hitler’s lot were homosexuals or junkies?”

Craig laughed. “You can’t expect logic or consistency from these buggers. I’ll give Nev his due, though. Normally, he could make raping and murdering old ladies sound like a good thing to do for the cause. A true politician. A week or so later, when Mark’s out of the way, he has another meeting with just me and Jason, and he tells us about this idea he came up with after traveling in America and talking to fellow strugglers there. What he thinks is that by providing a steady and cheap supply of heroin, you weaken and destroy the fabric of the black community, making them much poorer and more vulnerable when the big day comes, blah-blah-blah. It’s his version of the smallpox blankets the whites gave the American Indians. Or, more recently, that newspaper story about the CIA financing the crack business in south-central Los Angeles. As a bonus, the blacks become complicit in their own destruction. That’s the kind of irony Nev can’t resist. And all the while he makes a tidy profit out of it, too. Couldn’t be better.”

“Jason fell for this crap?”

Craig kicked at an empty cigarette packet in the street. “Ah, not exactly. There’s the rub. Motcombe needed one of us, someone inside the league, just to keep an eye on Mark and make sure everything was going tickety-boo. He didn’t fully trust Mark. Jason, being Mark’s partner, seemed a natural choice. But Jason didn’t go for it. Jason wasn’t interested in profit; he’d have starved for the cause. Nev seriously underestimated his right-hand man’s dedication. Jason didn’t fall for all that rubbish about weakening the community from within. In fact, he saw the scheme for exactly what it was – a money-making venture on Nev’s part. Apparently, he already suspected Nev of skimming for his own gain, and there was quite a little power struggle brewing between them. They argued. Jason said he knew the organization needed money, but this just wouldn’t work, that there was no way they could limit the sale to blacks, that it would spread to the white community too and sap their spirit as well. He said drugs were a moral evil and a pure Aryan would have nothing to do with them. He also said heroin wouldn’t encourage the immigrants to go back home, which is what the organization was supposed to be all about, and that they’d be better concentrating on making the buggers feel uncomfortable and unwelcome than plying them with opiates.”

“Impressive,” said Banks. “But surely Motcombe must have suspected he’d react that way? Why did he even tell Jason in the first place?”

“I think Nev really did miscalculate the intensity of Jason’s reaction. It would also have been pretty hard to keep anything like that from him. Nev fell in love with what he thought was his impeccable rhetoric, and he figured the best thing was to bring Jason in right from the start. No way, he thought, could anyone not see the absolute perfection of his logic and irony. At that point also, remember, he’d no idea how violently anti-drugs Jason was. It had simply never come up before.” Craig shook his head. “I was there. Nev was absolutely stunned at Jason’s negative reaction.”

“What happened next?”

“They argued. Nev couldn’t convince him. In the end he said he’d abandon the idea.”

“But he didn’t?”

“No way. Too much money in it. He just cut Jason out.”

“But Jason knew?”

“I think by then he was pretty certain Nev wouldn’t give up potential profits that easily.”

“So Jason knew about the proposed drug deal and Motcombe was worried he’d go to the police.”

“That was always a possibility, yes. But even more of a threat was that he’d talk to other ranking neo-Nazis. Nev’s peers and colleagues. Some of whom felt exactly the way Jason did about drugs. Think about it. If Jason could convince them Nev was nothing but a petty thief and a drug dealer, then Nev would never be able to hold his head up in the movement again. He’d be ostracized. Hypocrisy reigns in the far right every bit as much as it does in most other places. There’s another thing, too.”

“What’s that?”

“Jason had charisma. He was popular. Nev was coming to see him as a rival for power – and power meant money for Nev. So Nev was getting paranoid about Jason. It was Jason who made first contact with most of our members. It was Jason they went to when they had problems with the ideology of beating the crap out of some poor black or Asian kid. Jason who set them straight.”

“So Jason was making inroads on Motcombe’s position?”

“Exactly.”

Banks nodded. He found a rubbish bin and dropped his empty chip packet in it. They were near Keizersgracht now, not too far from the hotel.

“What was your role in all this?”

“Like I said, Nev wanted someone close, someone in the league to keep tabs on Mark. Obviously Jason wasn’t going to do it, so I was the next logical choice. I hadn’t been around as long as Jason, but I did have an impressive criminal record, including drugs charges.”

“So what it comes down to is that Motcombe had a pretty good motive for wanting Jason out of the way.”

Craig nodded. “Exactly. That’s why I needed to talk to you. To fill you in on it all. I don’t know who killed Jason. I wasn’t privy to that. Nev likes to keep his left hand and his right hand quite independent from one another. But I do know the background.”

They paused at a bridge. A young couple stood holding hands and looking into the reflections of lights in the water. “Where do you want me to go with this?” Banks asked.

“Wherever it takes you. I didn’t have you brought here to tell you to lay off, if that’s what you think. And it’s not a competition, or a race. Whatever we can get Motcombe for is fine with me. And with Superintendent Burgess. That’s why he agreed to arrange this meeting. All I’m asking is that you hold off moving against Nev until you’ve got something you’re certain will put him away for a long time.” He grinned. “Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t blow my cover. I value my life, and I might need to stick around awhile longer to see what he gets up to next.”

“When is this drug deal supposed to take place?”

“The heroin’s already on its way.”

They reached the door of Banks’s hotel. He thought for a moment, then said, “All right.”

“Appreciate it, sir.”

“Coming in?”

“No. Got to go. I’m staying somewhere else.”

“Take care, then.”

“I will. Believe me.”

They shook hands, and Craig wandered off down the canal. Banks looked up at the hotel’s facade. It was still early. He wasn’t tired and didn’t fancy sitting in a cramped room watching Dutch television. He also had a lot to think about. Zipping up his jacket against the chill, he wandered off in search of a quiet bar.

VII

Susan put her hands behind her head, rested back on the pillow and sighed.

“Was that a sigh of contentment,” Gavin asked, “or disappointment?”

She laughed and nudged him gently. “You should know. You had something to do with it.”

“I did? Little old me?”

And to think that not more than an hour ago she’d had cold feet. When they had got back to her flat, she had asked Gavin in and one thing led to another, as she had known and hoped it would when she agreed to the second bottle of wine. But when the crucial decision came out into the open, there was an embarrassing moment when it turned out that neither of them had any protection. Well, it was good in a way, Susan realized. It meant that he wouldn’t think she was a slut, and she didn’t think he had taken her out to dinner in the expectation of ending up in her bed. But it was bloody awkward, nonetheless.

Luckily, there was an all-night chemist’s on York Road, not more than a couple of hundred yards away, and Gavin threw on his jacket and set off. While he was gone, Susan started to get nervous and have second thoughts. Instead of giving in to them, she busied herself tidying up the place, especially the bedroom, throwing clean sheets on the bed, and when he came back she found, after a little kissing and caressing, that her resolve was just as strong as before.

And now, as she basked in the afterglow, she was glad she had made the decision. One of Chopin’s piano concertos – she didn’t know which one – played softly from the living room.

“Well, I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate,” said Gavin. His hand brushed Susan’s thigh and started sliding up over her stomach.

“Mmm. Me neither.”

“And I’ll tell you something else,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll bet we’re having a better victory celebration than anyone. Even golden boy, wherever he is.”

Something about the mention of Banks’s name gave Susan a moment of uneasiness, the way she had felt naked talking on the telephone to Banks when the Jason Fox case started. But it passed. She smiled and stretched, feeling a little sleepy from the wine and sex. “Oh, he’s probably not having such a bad time,” she said. “He does all right.”

“What makes you think that? You don’t know where he is or what he’s doing.”

“I do know where he is.”

Gavin’s hand rested on her breast. He had soft hands, like silk brushing her warm skin. She felt her nipple harden. “You know?” His hand moved again, downward.

Susan gave a little gasp. “Yes. Amsterdam. He’s gone to Amsterdam.”

“Lucky devil,” said Gavin. Then he did something with his hand that made Susan realize she wasn’t all that sleepy after all.