Blood At The Root

I

“Ken, you’re a mate,” said Banks, “so I want to let you know before you agree to anything that I’m under suspension.”

“Bloody hell!” Blackstone nearly spilled his drink. It was Thursday lunchtime, and they were in the City of Mabgate, a pub near Millgarth, finishing bowls of chili. “What’s it all about?” Blackstone asked when he’d recovered his equilibrium.

Banks told him.

Blackstone shook his head. “They can’t make it stick,” he said. “It sounds like a personal vendetta to me.”

“It is. But don’t underestimate personal vendettas, Ken. Especially when Chief Constable Jimmy Riddle’s the one carrying them out. And for the record, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else around here where I was over the weekend. It could mean real trouble for Craig McKeracher.”

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 favors 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 explanation. 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 favor, 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 that Mark Wood was to play such a big part in. 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, bullheaded arse-hole, 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 favors 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 favor, 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 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 favor, 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 in 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 Robert Louis Stevenson’s 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.

Apparently, Wood had been more than willing to show his cooperation. And even though he’d 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 like 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 about Leeds United’s abysmal season and occasionally looking at Mark for about fifteen minutes, 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 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.

At about two o’clock, after Banks and Blackstone had enjoyed a leisurely lunch across the road, it was time to start. They went back upstairs and took Mark into an interview room. It was agreed that Banks, being more familiar with the case, would do most of the questioning. Blackstone would give the occasional prod if things got slow. They weren’t taping this one. There would be time for formalities later, with Banks well out of the way, if the plan worked. If it didn’t, then all hell might break loose as far as disciplinary actions were concerned. Banks had already warned Ken and given him the option of staying well away, but Ken had insisted on being involved.

“Well, Mark,” said Banks, “I know we haven’t met until today, but I’ve had a great interest in you ever since I saw Jason Fox’s body a couple of weeks ago.”

“I’ve told the police all about that,” Wood said. “I’ve pleaded guilty to manslaughter. What’s all this about?”

Banks raised an eyebrow. “It’s not quite settled yet,” he said. “Not to my satisfaction, anyway.”

Wood folded his arms. “I don’t know what you mean. First you leave me hanging about in the corridor for hours, now you start interrogating me. I’m not saying anything. I want my solicitor.”

“Mr. Varney? Well, we’ll see what we can do. For the moment, though, I suggest you hold your horses, Mark, and listen to me. Certain new evidence has come to light that puts an entirely different complexion on the Jason Fox killing.”

“Oh? What’s that, then?”

Banks jerked his head toward the door. “We’ve just had a long chat with Mr. Campbell and Mr. Robertson, and they’ve told us some very interesting things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the truth about what you did to Jason Fox.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Mark, surely you can do much better than that?”

“I’m not saying a word.”

“Listen to me, then. According to your brother-in-law, Mr. Campbell, an old mate of yours from the Cloth Ears days, the two of you were commissioned by Neville Motcombe to get rid of Jason Fox. Jason had become a major risk in a heroin deal you were planning, and a serious threat to Motcombe’s power. Motcombe couldn’t get any of his own members to do it because Jason was too popular with them. Instead, he got two of the people who were already involved in the drug deal – one from each side, so to speak – two people who also stood to gain a lot. I should imagine Devon wanted one or two of his own lads along just to make sure you did what you agreed, didn’t he? From what I hear, he’s not the kind of bloke to take undue risks. How am I doing so far?”

Wood’s eyes widened. “You know about Devon? Jesus Christ, does he know about this? Does he know I’m here? Have Wes and Frankie been talking to him? Shit, if Devon thinks I’m talking to the coppers, he’ll fucking kill me.”

Banks ignored him. “When Scattered Dreams played at the Jubilee, it gave you the perfect opportunity. Jason was going to be in Eastvale anyway – he had a football match in the afternoon – so you told him you were coming up and that the two of you could go see the band. Maybe it would be a chance to settle your differences and talk a bit of business, try to save the partnership somehow. I’d imagine you were compliant, more than willing to make compromises. You knew Scattered Dreams weren’t Jason’s cup of tea, but suggested he might like to broaden his horizons a bit. Who knows, maybe you promised to go to the next Celtic Warrior concert if he gave your lot a try. Jason had been to the Jubilee before, and he had mentioned that a couple of Pakistani youths went there on a fairly regular basis. I’m only guessing at this part, but I think he’d already chucked a brick through one of their windows, and he’d said he was looking for trouble with them. Perfect for you, if something like that happened in public, wasn’t it? A bonus. As long as it was just a minor incident, enough to draw just a bit of attention.

“Anyway, according to Mr. Campbell, you accompanied Jason toward the ginnel, where he and Mr. Robertson were waiting at the other end to render any necessary assistance. According to them, you whacked Jason on the back of the head with the bottle a couple of times, and he went down. After that, you managed to kick him to death all by yourself. They didn’t have to do a thing. And that, Mark, with two eyewitnesses to testify against you, makes it murder.”

Wood turned pale. “That’s not true,” he said. “It didn’t happen like that at all. They’re lying.”

Banks leaned forward. “What didn’t happen like what, Mark?”

“It was like I said. There was just me and Jason. We got into a fight. He slagged off Sheri and Connor. I didn’t mean for him to die.”

Banks shook his head. “I’m afraid that story’s gone right down the toilet now, Mark, along with all your other stories. Let me see if I can get them right.” He began counting them off on his fingers, looking toward Ken Blackstone, who nodded at each one. “First, you weren’t anywhere near Eastvale the night Jason got killed. Second, you were at the Jubilee but you never went anywhere near the ginnel. Third, you were there and you saw George Mahmood and his mates kill Jason. And, fourth, you killed him yourself in a fair fight. How am I doing so far?”

Wood licked his lips and shifted in his chair.

“Problem is, Mark,” Banks went on, “you’re a liar. The only version we have any independent corroboration of is the one I just put to you, the one Mr. Campbell told us about. So it looks as if that’s the way it’s going to go down now.” He paused, then went on. “After this interview, DI Blackstone and I will be having a word with Crown Prosecution Service about changing the charges from manslaughter to murder. That carries a much longer jail sentence, as I’m sure you know.”

“You can’t be serious? You can’t believe those bastards.”

“Why not? I certainly can’t believe you. Look at your track record, Mark. No, I’m afraid this is the end of the line for you. You get charged with murder now, and you don’t get out of jail for a long, long time. In fact, by the time you get out, your wife will have run off with another bloke long since, and your kid will have grown up and forgotten you. In the meantime, you’ll be fending off the arse-bandits in Wormwood Scrubs or Strangeways. And that’s if you last that long. I suspect both Devon and Neville Motcombe have long reaches.”

Wood seemed to shrivel, to draw in on himself like a bank of ashes collapsing. Banks could tell he was trapped. He knew lies wouldn’t save him now, but he didn’t know the best course of action. Time to tell him, time to give him a ray of hope. After pulling the carpet from under him, give him a foam mattress to land on.

“There’s only one way out for you, Mark,” he said.

“What’s that?” Mark’s voice was no louder than a whisper.

“The truth. Right from the top.”

“How will that help?”

“I’m not saying it’ll get you off scot-free. Nothing will do that. We don’t have the power to make deals with criminals, reduce their sentences in exchange for information. That only happens on American TV shows. But I can guarantee it’ll make things easier for you.”

Wood chewed on his knuckles for a few seconds, then said, “I need protection. They’ll kill me. My family, too.”

“We can help you with that, Mark. If you help us.”

Mark rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I never meant to kill him,” he said. “Honest, I didn’t. It was those two.” He was close to tears.

“Who?”

“Frankie and Wes.”

“What happened, Mark? Right from the beginning.”

Banks took out his cigarettes and offered Mark one. He took it with a shaking hand. “All right,” he said. “But what guarantee have I got that things will go easier for me if I tell you the truth? What are you offering me?”

“You’ve got my word,” said Banks.

“For what?”

“That you and your family will be protected and that your cooperation will be considered.”

“I want relocation for me and Sheri,” he said. “And new identities. The Witness Protection Program. That’s what I want.”

“I’ve already told you, this isn’t America, Mark. We don’t do things that way in England. Look, like I said, I’m not telling you you’re going to walk out of here a free man. You’re not. One way or another, you’ll serve some time. What I’m saying is that if you give us what we want, the charge can remain manslaughter, not murder.”

“It doesn’t sound like that good a deal to me.”

“Well, it is,” Ken Blackstone chipped in. “The difference is between, say, twenty-five years in a very nasty place – where you’ll be vulnerable to anyone Devon or Motcombe cares to send along – and maybe five in minimum-security prison. Protected environment. Telly and conjugal visits thrown in.” He glanced at Banks, who nodded. “Your choice, Mark. It’s as simple as that.”

Wood looked between the two of them and his gaze finally settled on Banks again. “What about Sheri and Connor?”

“We’ll take care of them, make sure they’re safe,” said Banks. “You have my word. What about it?”

Wood looked at Blackstone again, who assured him that Banks was right, then he rested back in his chair and said, “All right. Okay. Neville Motcombe approached me several weeks ago and said he knew about my record for drugs offenses. At first I didn’t know what he was getting at, then it became clear that he’d made a contact for getting his hands on some pretty large amounts of heroin through Turkey at a rock-bottom price, and he hadn’t a clue what to do about it. Drugs just weren’t part of his gig, but he saw a way to make a lot of money and fuck up the ‘niggers’ in the bargain, as he put it. He really does talk like that. Makes you sick. Anyway, he found out about my drug bust and decided I was to be the go-between.”

“What was in it for you?”

“Something in the region of fifty thousand quid over a period of a few months, if all went well. Maybe more in the future, if the supply didn’t dry up.” He leaned forward and gripped the sides of the chair. “Look, you can judge me all you like, but have you any idea what that would have meant to Sheri and me? It would have got us out of that fucking prefab, for a start, and it would have given me a good chance at expanding the business, buying some up-to-date equipment, making something out of it. And all I had to do was play go-between for Motcombe and Devon.” He laughed. “It was a bit of a joke on Motcombe, too. He didn’t know Sheri’s Jamaican and that his money would actually be going to help one of the people he wanted to destroy.”

“Didn’t that bother you, Mark? That he was intending to cause so much suffering in the West Indian community?”

“That was just a load of bollocks he came up with for Jason’s benefit. He was after profits, pure and simple.”

“Takes one to know one?”

“Something like that. Anyway, once you get heroin out on the streets, there’s no telling what color your buyers will be, is there? There’s no color bar on H. Even Jason knew that. Like I said, I thought it was funny that Sheri and Connor were going to get some benefit from this.”

Banks shook his head. “So you agreed?”

Wood nodded. “Under Motcombe’s instructions, I met with Wes, then with Devon. They never met Neville, didn’t know who he was. I called him Mr. H. Anyway, we talked about prices, delivery schedules, methods of getting the stuff into the country, the lot. Then Devon said he’d think about it. A few days later he got in touch with me through Wes and told me to let Mr. H know we were in business. I suppose Motcombe got in touch with his blokes in Turkey – I didn’t have anything to do with that end of the operation – and they set things in motion. There were huge profits in it for everyone. Devon wouldn’t stop at Leeds – he’d be shifting stuff to Bradford, Sheffield, Manchester, Birmingham, you name it. Somehow or other, that seemed to resolve the problems on both sides. Motcombe’s about dealing with darkies and Devon’s about dealing with a whitey like me.” Mark snorted. “Great healer of race relations, greed, isn’t it?”

“And where does Jason come in?”

“Motcombe made a big mistake there. I could have told him, but he didn’t ask. He seemed to think Jason would just love the idea. I mean, I don’t think they’d ever talked about drugs or anything other than league business before. But Jason was straight. Even with Motcombe’s justification, he wouldn’t go for it. Motcombe got worried that Jason would spread the word among his colleagues in the movement and they’d chuck him out and put Jason in charge instead. I suppose you know neo-Nazis aren’t really supposed to be into drugs?”

Banks nodded.

“Then there was the matter of the money to be made. Anyway, Motcombe got paranoid, especially as Jason had gained a lot of respect in the movement and people looked up to him for guidance and leadership. Jason was fast becoming a loose cannon on the deck. So Motcombe decided things would be better all around with Jason out of the way. He knew I was desperate for the money, and he also knew me and Jason didn’t get along, so he asked me if I could arrange for the Jamaicans to do away with him. That way, he said, if they happened to get caught, it’d only be two less ‘niggers’ to worry about. You have to give the guy credit, at least he’s consistent. I didn’t want to do it. I mean, I’m no killer. I know Jason and me had our problems, but I didn’t want to see him dead. You have to believe that. I had no choice.”

“What happened?” Banks asked.

Mark ran his hand over his head. “Like Motcombe asked, I talked to Wes and I told him Jason was involved in the Turkish end of the deal and that he was planning to rip Devon off. I also said he turned out to be a racist bastard, a member of some loony fringe group. Well, I couldn’t tell him the truth, could I? I had to make something up pretty quick, and it had to cover whatever publicity might come about when you found out who Jason was. Wes went back to Devon, who ordered it done. Just like that. No questions asked. And he also stipulated that I had to be in it with them. A sort of test of faith, I suppose. I didn’t want to do it. I just didn’t have any fucking choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Mark.”

“Right. Sure. Easy for you to say that. It came down to me over Jason. Sheri and Connor over Jason. What would you have done? Like I said, Jason and me weren’t close, and the bastard did get on my nerves with all that Nazi shit.”

“Who came up with the plan?”

“That was down to me. You know the rest. Motcombe wanted it done out of the way. I mean, he knew you’d find out who the victim was eventually, and what organization he belonged to, but he needed time to get his files out of Jason’s house. He sent two of his blokes to do that. Anyway, Scattered Dreams were playing in Eastvale and Jason had mentioned possible trouble with some Pakistani kids who went there. Told me he’d already chucked a brick through one of their windows. It couldn’t have been better.”

“What about the actual killing? How did it happen?”

Wood swallowed. “Frankie and Wes were waiting at the other end of the ginnel, as we’d arranged, and when I hit Jason with the bottle they came forward and started booting him. I kicked him a couple of times, to make it look like I was with them all the way. But only a couple of times. And not very hard. He-” Wood stopped for a moment and put his head in his hands. “Christ, he begged us to stop. I just thought about Connor and the damp walls and the yobs that taunt Sheri, call her a black bitch and threaten to gang-bang her every time she goes to the shops. I didn’t think about Jason lying there till it was too late. You have to believe me, I didn’t mean to kill him. It was Wes and Frankie. They’re fucking maniacs. They’d been out in the van smoking crack.”

“All right, Mark,” said Banks. “Calm down. Tell me, what happened when we first arrested you? Why did you change your story?”

Mark shifted in his chair. “Well, the evidence. It was getting pretty strong against me. I was up shit creek. So when Varney took me aside, I phoned Motcombe and basically explained the situation.”

“What did he say?”

“To tell you it was just a fight between the two of us, to leave him out of it, and he’d see I got the best legal help available. He’d also take care of Sheri and Connor financially while I was inside, if it came to that. What a laugh, Motcombe taking care of a black woman and a mixed-race kid.”

“But he didn’t know that.”

“No. And I didn’t tell him.”

“Have you talked to him from jail?”

“A couple of times. But even then he seemed very nervous.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Getting my story right when it came to court.”

“Did you talk to Devon?”

“No. He’s keeping a low profile. I phoned my brother-in-law, though, Wes.”

“What did you talk to him about?”

“I told him who Mr. H was, where he lived. Just in case something went wrong and Motcombe didn’t keep up his end of the bargain. You know, like maybe when he did find out Sheri’s black and all, then he wouldn’t help them. I needed some sort of insurance.”

“Okay, Mark, I need to know just one more thing before we start taking fresh statements and making this all official.”

“Yes?”

“Will you testify that Neville Motcombe instigated this conspiracy to murder Jason Fox?”

Wood’s lips curled. “Motcombe? Bloody right I will. No way that bastard’s going to get away with it.”

“And Devon?”

Mark looked away. “I don’t know. That’s different. I’d need some sort-”

“We’ll see you and family are protected, Mark, like I told you earlier.”

“I’ll think about it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Banks smiled. “I think that just about wraps it up for now. Thanks, Mark, you’ve been a great help.”

“What happens to me now?”

“You make your official statement, then you go back to Armley. Eventually, there’ll be committal proceedings and a trial, but we’ll cross those bridges when we get to them. In the meantime, we’ll make sure you’re protected.” Banks looked at his watch. Just after three-thirty. Then he turned to Ken Blackstone. “For the moment, though, I think it’s about time we paid Mr. Motcombe another visit.”

IV

Leaving one of Blackstone’s most trusted DCs to take Mark Wood’s official statement, Banks and Blackstone set off in the Cavalier for Motcombe’s house. Most of the journey, they talked about getting enough evidence together for the CPS to take on Motcombe.

“I’m still not sure about this,” Banks said, driving along through Pudsey. “I can’t help feeling I’m jumping the gun. How bloody long’s Motcombe likely to get for conspiracy to commit murder? That’s assuming we can prove it. Giles Varney will whittle it down to conspiracy to assault, if he’s got any brains. We might be better off leaving him to the Drugs Squad. He’d get longer for dealing heroin. And I promised Craig McKeracher I’d wait till I had something really solid before I moved in.”

Ken Blackstone shook his head. “At this point, I don’t think we have much choice. We’ve got evidence we have to act on. Mark Wood has actually named Motcombe as one of the blokes who requested Jason Fox’s murder. Now Wood’s blurted it all out, we have to go ahead. I don’t think he’ll get such a light sentence. And this way we also get Wes and Frankie in the bargain, and maybe even Devon, too. That’d be a real plus.”

“Maybe so,” said Banks. “I hope you’re right.”

“Besides,” Blackstone added, “I’d say we’re best getting Motcombe off the streets as soon as possible. And none of what we’re doing blows Craig McKeracher’s cover. What we’ve got all came from Mark Wood.”

Banks turned down the hill to Motcombe’s house and they got out of the car. The sky was clear and the country-side shone green and gold and silver. A chill wind from the valley whistled around their ears as they stood and knocked at the front door.

No answer.

“What’s that noise?” Blackstone asked.

Straining his ears, Banks could detect a faint whining above the sound of the wind. “Sounds like an electric drill or something. He must be down in the workshop. That’s why he can’t hear us.”

“Let’s try the back.”

They walked around to the back of the house, which over-looked the valley and parkland. The sound of the drill was louder now.

Banks hammered on the back door. Still nothing. Just on the off chance, he tried the doorknob. It opened.

“Mr. Motcombe!” he called out as the two of them walked down the stairs to the workshop. “We’re coming in.” He began to feel a slight shiver of trepidation. It looked dark at the bottom, and they could be walking into a trap. Motcombe could have a Kalishnikov or an Uzi with him. He might be hiding in a dark corner ready to start blasting away at them.

But still they advanced slowly toward where the sound was coming from. Then Banks noticed something odd. The high-pitched whine the drill was making hadn’t changed the entire time they’d been there. Surely if Motcombe was working on something and really couldn’t hear them, there would be variations in the pitch of the drill – when he stuck it into a piece of wood, for example. And if he was making so much noise when he worked, he would hardly leave the back door unlocked so that anyone could walk in, would he? Banks felt the back of his neck tingle.

At last, they approached the workroom and pushed the door open slowly on the brightly lit room.

Motcombe was there all right.

His body hung at an awkward angle, naked to the waist, his polo-neck tunic hanging in shreds around his hips as if it had been ripped or cut off. His left wrist had been wedged in a vise, which had been tightened until the bones cracked and poked through the flesh. Blood caked the oiled metal. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with iron filings, shaved wood and linseed oil. And cordite. The room felt crowded, claustrophobic, even with only the two of them there. Three, if you counted the dead man.

The drill lay on the workbench. Banks didn’t want to touch it, but he wanted the sound to stop. He went over to the wall and pulled out the plug, using a handkerchief carefully, and hoping he wasn’t smudging any valuable prints. Old habits die hard. Somehow, he doubted that there would be any. People who do things like this don’t leave fingerprints.

The scene was a gruesome one. More so because of the unnaturally bright lights that Motcombe had rigged up so he could see clearly what he was working on. What Banks at first took to be bullet holes in Motcombe’s chest and stomach turned out, on further examination, to be spots where the drill had been inserted. When the bit stopped spinning, he could see it was clogged with blood and tissue.

Motcombe’s right arm was practically in shreds, striped with lacerations, patches of skin hanging off as if he’d been flayed. Someone had obviously shredded the flesh with a saw, cutting deep into the muscle and bone. Banks noticed the blood and chips of bone on the edge of a circular saw that lay on the floor beside the body.

The coup de grâce looked like two gunshot wounds to the head, one through the left eye and the other in the middle of the temple, both leaving large exit wounds.

“Well, Ken,” said Banks finally, backing away from the scene, “I can’t say I envy you sorting this little lot out.”

“No,” said Blackstone, visibly pale. “Let’s get outside. I don’t think I can stand being in here much longer.”

They stood outside the back door overlooking the valley and the peaceful village of Tong in the distance. Three large crows circled high in the blue air. Banks lit a cigarette to take the taste and smell of the workshop out of his mouth.

“Want to call it in?” he asked.

“Yes. Just give me a minute.”

“What do you think?”

Blackstone took a deep breath before answering. “You probably know as well as I do, Alan,” he said. “Either Wes Campbell or Frankie Robertson phoned Devon the minute they saw Mark Wood at Millgarth. That was what? – over four hours ago now. This pisses Devon off mightily, and he sends a couple of lads over right away to help him vent his rage. You don’t get far in Devon’s business unless you’re seen to act, and to act fast. He relies heavily on pure fear. Who knows, maybe he’s even made a down payment to Motcombe and wants his money back, too? So they either torture him to find out where the money is, or they do it for fun, just to teach him a lesson. Then they execute him. Bang, bang.”

Banks nodded. “Either that or they decided they didn’t like Mr. H’s politics when Mark told them who he really was.”

“It’s Devon’s style, Alan,” Blackstone went on. “Two head shots with a thirty-eight, by the looks of it. Remember those murders I told you about in New York, Toronto, Chapeltown?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Same MO. Torture and two head shots. It still doesn’t help us prove anything. I don’t suppose anyone can tie Devon to the scene. He’ll have an alibi you can’t break, and there’ll never be any trace of a murder weapon.”

“We’ve still got Mark Wood to use against him.”

“If he doesn’t suddenly lose his memory the minute he hears about what happened to Motcombe. I probably would if I were him.”

“And don’t forget Campbell and Robertson. You’ve got them, too. They might not be quite as tough as they seem once you put the pressure on. Especially if they’re deprived of their narcotic sustenance. And I’ll bet you’ve got records of any telephone calls they made from Millgarth.”

Blackstone nodded and looked around, then he sighed. “Well, we’d better set things in motion. Can I use your mobile?”

“Be my guest.”

They walked around to Banks’s car at the front of the house and Banks handed him the phone. Blackstone tapped in the numbers, gave the details and requested more police, a murder van and a SOCO team.

“I’ll tell you something,” he said when he’d finished. “Your chief constable isn’t going to like it, is he? Remember the song and dance he made in the paper about solving the murder, keeping race out of it?”

“Bugger Jimmy Riddle,” said Banks. “This isn’t a matter of race, it’s drugs and greed. Anyway, they’re West Yorkshire’s Jamaicans, not ours. And I wasn’t even here.”

“What do you think now?” Blackstone asked, handing Banks the phone. “Still want to come and work for West Yorkshire?”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette on the wall and put the butt in his pocket to avoid contaminating the scene. “I don’t know, Ken. I really don’t know. I might not have much choice, might I? Anyway, right now, I think I’d better make myself scarce before the troops arrive and all hell breaks loose. You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll catch a lift back to Millgarth from one of the patrol cars. Go. Go.”

Banks shook Blackstone’s hand. “Thanks, Ken. I’d be interested to hear you tell them why you’re here and how you got here, but I really can’t stay.”

“I’ll tell them I got the bus,” said Blackstone. “Now be a good lad, Alan, and bugger off back to Eastvale. I think I hear the sound of sirens.”

Banks got in his car. He couldn’t hear sirens, but the sound of Neville Motcombe’s electric drill still whined in his ears.

A mile or so down the road, the first patrol cars passed him, lights and sirens going. No hurry, Banks thought. No hurry at all. He lit another cigarette and switched on the tape player. Robert Louis Stevenson, sung by Bryn Terfel:

Banks looked at his watch. Just gone half past four. Hard to believe, but they had hardly been half an hour at Mot-combe’s house. He still had plenty of time to go and pick up Tracy for the weekend, even with the rush-hour traffic. Plenty of time.