Blood At The Root

I

DI Ken Blackstone, West Yorkshire CID, was already waiting when Banks and Hatchley arrived at the pub he’d suggested over the telephone, a seedy-looking dive near Kirkgate Market, at the back of the Millgarth police head-quarters.

Most days there was an open-air market near the bus station, behind the huge Edwardian market hall, and today in the drizzle a few lost souls in macs wandered around the covered stalls, fingering samples of fabric and fruit, thumbing through tattered paperback romances and considering the virtues of buying that “genuine antique” brass door knocker.

But no one showed much enthusiasm, not even the vendors, who were usually keen to sing out the praises of their wares and draw customers to their stalls. Today most of them stood to the side, wearing flat caps and waxed jackets, drawing on cigarettes and shuffling from foot to foot.

The pub wasn’t very busy, either. Blackstone had assured them the cook did a decent Yorkshire pudding and gravy, and luckily it turned out to be true. In deference to duty, Banks and Blackstone drank halves. Hatchley, unwilling to miss what was a rare opportunity these days, had a full pint of Tetley’s bitter. A giant jukebox stood in one corner of the lounge bar, but it was silent at the moment, so they didn’t have to shout.

“Well, Alan,” said Blackstone, echoing Gavin Richards’s sentiments, “you’ve been spending so much time down here this past year or two, I’m surprised you’re not thinking of moving.”

Banks smiled. “I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind. Oh, not seriously. Well, maybe just a little bit seriously. With both Brian and Tracy gone, the house just seems too big, and much as I love Eastvale… I think Sandra misses big-city life. And I wouldn’t mind being a bit nearer Opera North.” When he mentioned Sandra, he felt a pang. They hadn’t talked since their argument the other night, and Opera North had certainly played its part in that.

Blackstone smiled. “It’s not such a bad place. You could do a lot worse.”

Banks looked at Hatchley, who had done a stint on the West Yorkshire force several years ago. “Jim?”

“He’s right,” Hatchley agreed. “And it might not be a bad career move.” He winked. “It’s a long way from Jimmy Riddle. We’d miss you, of course.”

“Stop it, you’ll make me cry,” Banks said, pretending to reach for a handkerchief.

“All right,” said Hatchley. “We won’t miss you, then.”

“Anyway,” Banks asked, “how’s crime?”

“Much the same as usual,” said Blackstone. “We’ve had a spate of ‘steamings’ lately. Five or six young lads will go into a shop, then, when the shopkeeper’s got his cash register open, they rush into action, create chaos all around while they grab what they want from customers and till alike. Kids for the most part. Fifteen and under, most of them. They’ve also taken to doing building societies and post offices the same way.”

Banks shook his head. “Sounds American to me.”

“You know how it goes, Alan. First America, then London, then the rest of the country. What else…? We’ve had a few too many muggings at cash dispensers, too. And to cap it all, it looks like we’re heading for another drug war in Chapeltown.”

Banks raised his eyebrows.

Blackstone sighed. “Bloke goes by the name of ‘Deevaughan.’ Spelled like the county: Devon. Anyway, Devon came up from London about a month ago and sussed out the scene pretty quickly. Already it looks like we can put down one murder to him.”

“Can’t prove anything, of course?”

“Course not. He was in a pub with twenty mates when it happened. This one’s bad, Alan. Crack, cocaine, the usual stuff, of course. But word also has it he’s a big heroin fan. He spent the last few years in New York and Toronto, and there’s rumors of death follow him around wherever he goes. Still want to move here?”

Banks laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

“Anyway, you didn’t come to talk about my problems. How can I help you this time?”

Banks lit a cigarette. “Know anything about Neville Mot-combe? Runs a white-power group called the Albion League. Lives out Pudsey way. Offices in Holbeck.”

Blackstone shook his head. “I’ve heard of him, but I can’t really say I know much, not off-the-cuff. Bit out of my bailiwick, to be honest.”

“What is? Neo-Nazis or Pudsey?”

Blackstone laughed. “Both, I suppose.” With his thinning sandy hair – still enough left to curl around his ears – wire-rimmed glasses, long, pale face and Cupid’s-bow lips, Blackstone reminded Banks more of an academic than a copper. Except that he was always well-dressed. Today, he wore a dazzling white shirt, its brightness outdone only by his gaudy tie, and a pinstripe suit that looked tailor-made, not off-the-peg, with a silk handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. Banks didn’t even wear a suit and tie unless he had to, and he always kept the top button of his shirt undone. Today he was wearing his favorite suede jacket again, and his tie hung askew.

“How did you come to hear about him?” Banks asked.

Blackstone laughed. “Bit of a joke around the station, actually. Seems he tried to flog a stolen stereo to one of our off-duty PCs at a car-boot sale last year. Luckily for us, it was one of our honest PCs, and he traced it to a Curry’s break-in a couple of months earlier.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Motcombe swore blind he’d bought it at the market and we couldn’t prove otherwise. Got a light rap on the knuckles, and that’s the lot.”

“Did you know about the Albion League?”

“I’ve heard of it, yes. I try at least to stay abreast of possible troublemakers.”

“And you think they’re likely ones?”

Blackstone pursed his lips. “Mmm. I’d say they’ve got potential, yes. We’ve had a few unattributed racial incidents this past year or so. We can’t tie them in to him and his group yet, but I have my suspicions.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Know that big mosque they’re putting up out Bradford way?”

Banks nodded.

“There’s been a few small acts of sabotage. Nothing much. Stolen building materials, spray-painted racist slogans, slashed tires, scratched paintwork. That sort of thing.”

“And you suspect Motcombe’s lot?”

“Well, it’d be surprising if there weren’t some sort of organized group behind it. What really worries me is what level of violence they’re likely to rise to.”

“A bomb? Something like that?”

Blackstone shrugged. “Well, if the IRA can do it… Anyway, it’s just speculation at the moment. Want me to dig around a bit more?”

Banks nodded. “I’d appreciate it, Ken. Right now anything is better than nothing. We’re getting nowhere fast.”

“What about those Asian lads you had in custody?”

“They’re not off my list yet.”

“You said earlier you had an idea,” Sergeant Hatchley prompted Banks.

“Ah, yes.” Banks stubbed out his cigarette and looked at Blackstone. “It’s probably just a minor thing, really. We talked to two of Motcombe’s cronies in Holbeck. Ray Knott and Des Parker.”

Blackstone nodded. “We know Ray Knott,” he said. “Used to be a dab hand at taking and driving away.”

“Used to be?”

Blackstone shrugged.

“Anyway,” Banks went on. “At one point, Knott let slip that the Albion League, or Motcombe himself, actually owned the property. I’m wondering if that’s true or whether it was simply some sort of figure of speech. You know, the way someone might say ‘Get off my property’ even if it’s only rented?”

“And you’d like me to check it out?”

“If you would.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’d like to know if money’s involved. If Motcombe owns property and lives in a nice house in Pudsey, maybe there’s some scam involved.”

Blackstone nodded. “Hmmm. Good thinking. I’ll do what I can. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a couple of mates in the town hall, and they owe me a favor or two.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “What’s this, Ken? Have you been tipping them off when their brothel’s going to be raided?”

Blackstone laughed. “Not exactly.”

“There’s an address in Rawdon I’d like you to check, too, if it’s not too much trouble. Jason Fox lived there. As far as we know, he hasn’t been employed this past couple of years, so we’d like to know how he could afford it.”

“Will do,” said Blackstone. He looked at his watch. “Look, I should get back to the station. I can make a couple of phone calls, get working on it pretty much straightaway.”

“We should be moving along, too,” said Banks, looking at Hatchley, who started swigging the last of his ale in expectation of an imminent departure. “We’re going to pay Mr. Motcombe a visit. And there’s another thing, Ken.”

Blackstone raised his eyebrows.

“We still haven’t been able to track down the lad Jason Fox was drinking with the night he was killed. If the Albion League, or Neville Motcombe himself, does actually own the Holbeck building, or the Rawdon house, do you think you could check and see if he owns any other property in the city? Who knows, it might lead us to Jason’s mystery pal.”

“Who may or may not know something?”

Banks smiled and nudged Hatchley. “Ever the optimist, our Ken, isn’t he, Jim?”

Hatchley laughed. “West Yorkshire does that to you.”

“Can do,” said Blackstone, standing up. “I’ll call you soon as I get anything.”

“Appreciate it,” said Banks. “I owe you one.”

“I’ll remember that if you ever transfer here.”

II

After lunch, Susan’s Wednesday afternoon was becoming every bit as frustrating as Tuesday’s had been. She had telephoned the service provider that gave Internet and Web access to Fox Wood Designs, but she couldn’t get a name and address out of them over the phone. A court order would see to that, of course, but what grounds had she to seek one? A vague hunch that it might lead her to someone who might know something about a mysterious death?

Every once in a while she left her computer terminal, stretched, and paced around the flat for a while. She put on the disc that came with her magazine, and arias followed solo piano pieces, which in turn followed symphonic movements, from Monteverdi to Maxwell Davies. It was all very confusing.

Like Banks, she wondered about George Mahmood and his mates. Had they done it? They certainly could have. And maybe not many people would blame them. The reporters had been around the station in droves, of course, and there was sure to be an article on police racism in the weekly Eastvale Gazette, due out on Friday.

Susan turned back to her desk. Still working on the assumption that if “Fox” was Jason Fox, then “Wood” might turn out to be a real person, too, she phoned directory assistance and discovered, as she suspected, that in Leeds alone there were pages of “Woods.”

Well, she supposed, she could try them all. And what would she say? Ask each one if he knew Jason Fox? If this Wood person didn’t want the police to know he knew Jason, he would hardly be likely to tell her over the telephone, would he?

There had to be an easier way. Tax records? Business registries? Maybe FoxWood Designs was incorporated, or had registered their design as a trademark.

Suddenly she realized there might be an even easier way than that. Subterfuge.

She hurried back to the computer, where she typed away for a few minutes, then sat back to survey her handiwork. Not bad. She made one or two small changes, correcting a typo here and an awkward phrase there. When she had finished, the message read:

TO: FoxWood Designs

FROM: Gayline Fashions

I have just started my own fashion-design business and I’m looking for ways to find a wider audience for my products. I noticed your work recently on a Web page and was very impressed by what I saw. I realized that the Web is an ideal way to achieve my aims and from what I saw I realized your company would be more than capable of handling the graphics necessary for the sort of page I have in mind. I would really like to talk to you about this as soon as possible. Do you think you could supply me with your address so that I could come around and discuss the possibility of our working together? I would much appreciate the opportunity to get myself established on the World Wide Web without delay.

Susan Gay.

Sole Proprietor: Gayline Fashions.

Susan read it over. It wasn’t perfect – English had never been her strong point at school – but it would do.

She saved the message and logged in again. Then, when all the preliminaries were done with, she took a deep breath, pressed enter, and sent her message bouncing around the world’s computer systems to the E-mail address she had taken from the bottom of the Fox Wood Designs page.

III

Before Banks and Hatchley even had time to ring Mot-combe’s doorbell, they saw the figure approaching through the frosted glass.

“Mr. Motcombe?” said Banks, showing his identification.

“That’s me,” said Motcombe. “I’m surprised it took you so long. Please. Come in.”

They followed him through to the living room.

“You’ve been expecting us?” Banks asked.

“Ever since Jason’s tragic demise.”

“But you didn’t bother to call us?”

Motcombe smiled. “Why should I have? I don’t know anything that can help you. But that doesn’t keep you away from me, does it? Sit down. Please.”

Hatchley sat in one of the deep armchairs and took out his notebook. Banks walked over to the window at the far end of the room. The house was perched on a hillside; the back window looked over toward the village of Tong, not much more than a mile away, past Park Wood. The smoking chimneys of Bradford stood to the right and Leeds sprawled to the left.

“Yes, it’s impressive, isn’t it?” Banks heard Motcombe say behind him. “It’s one of the things that helps me remember what we’re fighting for. That all isn’t lost.” Motcombe was standing so close that Banks could smell peppermint toothpaste on his breath.

Banks turned and walked past him, glancing around at the rest of the room. The furniture looked solid and well-crafted – a table, chairs, sideboard and a glass-fronted cabinet, all dark, shiny wood. While there were no posters of Hitler or swastikas on the bright floral wallpaper, inside the cabinet was obviously Motcombe’s collection of Nazi memorabilia: armband, bayonet, German officer’s cap – all bearing the swastika – a series of dog-eared photographs of Hitler, and what was probably a wartime edition of Mein Kampf, again with the swastika on the front.

“Hitler was an inspiration, don’t you think?” Motcombe said. “He made mistakes, perhaps, but he had the right ideas, the right intentions. We should have joined forces with him instead of sending our forces against him. Then we would have a strong, united Europe as a bulwark against the corruption and impurity of the rest of the world, instead of the moth-eaten ragbag we do have.”

Banks looked at him. He supposed Motcombe was imposing enough. Tall and gaunt, wearing a black polo-neck jumper tucked into matching black trousers with sharp creases, and a broad belt with a plain, square silver buckle, he had closely cropped black hair – shorter even than Banks’s own – a sharp nose, and lobeless ears flat against his skull. His eyes were brown, and there was a gleam in them like the winter sun in a frozen mud puddle. A constant sly smile twitched at the corners of his thin, dry lips, as if he knew something no one else did, and as if that knowledge made him somehow superior. He reminded Banks of a younger Norman Tebbit.

“That’s all very interesting,” Banks said at last, resting the backs of his thighs against the table. “But, if you don’t mind, we’ve got some questions for you.”

“Why should I mind? As far as I’m concerned, we’re on the same side.” Motcombe sat, crossed his legs and put his hands together in front of him, fingertips touching, as if in prayer.

“How do you work that one out?” Banks asked, thinking it odd that was the second time he’d heard the same thing today.

“Easy. Jason Fox was killed on your patch. You did your job as best you could under the circumstances. You found his killers quickly. But you had to let them go.”

He narrowed his eyes and gazed at Banks. Just for a moment Banks fancied he saw a gleam of something in them. Conspiracy? Condescension? Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

“How that must have sickened you,” Motcombe went on, his voice a low, hypnotic monotone. “Having to bow to political pressure like that. Believe me, I know how your hands are tied. I know about the conspiracy that renders our police ineffective. You have my every sympathy.”

Banks took a deep breath. It smelled like a non-smoking room, but at this point he didn’t care. He lit up anyway. Motcombe didn’t complain.

“Look,” said Banks, after he blew out his first mouthful. “Let’s get something straight from the start. I don’t want your sympathy. Or your opinions. Let’s stick to the facts. Jason Fox.”

Motcombe shook his head slowly. “You know, I half expected something like that. Deep down, most people agree with us. Just listen to the way they talk in pubs, the jokes they tell about Chinks, Pakis, niggers and Yids. Listen to the way you talk when you let your politically correct guard down.” He pointed toward the window. “There’s a whole silent nation out there who want what we want but are afraid to act. We aren’t. Most people just don’t have the courage of their convictions. We do. All I want to do is make it possible for people to look into their hearts and see what’s really there, to know that there are others who feel the same way, then to give them a way they can act on it, a goal to aim for.”

“A white England?”

“Is that such a bad thing? If you put your prejudices aside for just a few moments and really think about it, is that such a terrible dream to pursue? Look at what’s happened to our schools, our culture, our religious trad-”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Banks asked, his voice calm but hard. “Let’s stick to the facts.”

Motcombe favored him with that conspiratorial, condescending smile, as if he were regarding a wayward child. “Of course,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Please, Chief Inspector, go ahead. Ask your questions. And there’s an ashtray on the sideboard just behind you. I don’t smoke myself, but my guests occasionally do. Secondhand smoke doesn’t bother me.”

Banks picked up the ashtray and held it in his left hand while he spoke. “Tell me about Jason Fox.”

Motcombe shrugged. “What is there to say? Jason was a valued member of the Albion League and we will miss him dearly.”

“How long had you known him?”

“Let me see, now… about a year. Perhaps a little less.”

“How did you meet?”

“At a rally in London. Jason was flirting with the British National Party. I had already left them as they didn’t adequately serve my vision. We talked. At the time, I was just about to start setting up the league, making contacts. A few months later, when we got going, Jason and I met again at a conference. I asked him, and he joined us.”

“Were you close?”

Motcombe tilted his head again. “I wouldn’t say close, no. Not in the personal sense, you understand. In ideas, yes.” He tapped the side of his head. “After all, that’s where it counts.”

“So you didn’t socialize with him?”

“No.”

“What was Jason’s specialty? I heard he was your minister of propaganda.”

Motcombe laughed. “Very good. Yes, I suppose you could put it like that. He wrote most of the pamphlets. He also handled the computer. An essential tool in this day and age, I fear.”

Banks showed him the vague drawing of the boy Jason had been drinking with the night he was killed. “Do you know him?” he asked. “Is he one of yours?”

“I don’t think so,” Motcombe said. “It’s almost impossible to tell, but I don’t think I recognize him.”

“Where were you on Saturday night?”

Motcombe’s black eyebrows shot up and he laughed again. “Me? Do you mean I’m a suspect, too? How exciting. I’m almost sorry to disappoint you, but as a matter of fact I was in Bradford, at a tenants’ meeting. In a block of council flats where some people are becoming very concerned about who, or should I say what they’re getting for neighbors. Crime is-”

“You can prove this, I suppose?”

“If I have to. Here.” He got up and took a slip of paper from the sideboard drawer. “This is the address of the block where the meeting was held. Check up on it, if you want. Any number of people will vouch for me.”

Banks pocketed the slip. “What time did the meeting end?”

“About ten o’clock. Actually, a couple of us went on to a pub and carried on our discussion until closing time.”

“In Bradford?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been to Eastvale?”

Motcombe laughed. “Yes. I’ve been there on a number of occasions. Purely as a tourist, you understand, and not for about a year. It’s a rather pretty little town. I’m a great lover of walking the unspoiled English countryside. What’s left of it.”

“Have you ever heard of George Mahmood?”

“What a ridiculous name.”

“Have you ever heard of him?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. He’s one of the youths responsible for Jason’s death.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Oh, come on, Chief Inspector.” Motcombe winked. “There’s a big difference between what you can prove and what you know. You don’t have to soft-soap me.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Did Jason ever mention any racial problems in Eastvale?”

“No. You know, you’re lucky to live there, Chief Inspector. As I understand it, these Mahmoods are about the only darkies in the place. I envy you.”

“Then why don’t you move?”

“Too much work to be done here first. One day, perhaps.”

“Did Jason ever mention George?”

“Once or twice, yes.”

“In what context?”

“I honestly don’t remember.”

“But you’d remember if he said he chucked a brick through their window?”

Motcombe smiled. “Oh, yes. But Jason wouldn’t have done a thing like that.”

For what it was worth, it was probably the first positive link between Jason Fox and George Mahmood that Banks had come across so far. But what was it worth? So Jason had noticed George in Eastvale and mentioned him to Motcombe. That didn’t mean George knew Jason was a neo-Nazi.

And everything Motcombe said could have come from the newspapers or television. There had been plenty of local coverage of the detainment and release of the three Asian suspects. Ibrahim Nazur had even appeared on a local breakfast television program complaining about systemic racism.

“What about Asim Nazur?” he asked.

Motcombe shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Kobir Mukhtar?”

Motcombe sighed and shook his head. “Chief Inspector, you have to understand, these do not sound like the kind of people I mix with. I told you I remember Jason mentioned a certain George Mahmood once or twice. That’s all I know.”

“By name?”

“Yes. By name.”

The Mahmood part Jason might have known from the shop sign. But George? How could he have known that? Perhaps from the report in the Eastvale Gazette after the brick-throwing incident. As Banks recollected, George had been mentioned by name then.

If Motcombe was lying, then he was playing it very cautiously, careful not to own to knowing too much, just enough. Obviously a story of a full-blown conspiracy between the three Asians to attack Jason Fox would be even better for propaganda purposes, but it would be much more suspicious. A jet flew across the valley, a bright flash of gray against the gray clouds. Suddenly, someone else walked into the room. “Nev, have you got – Sorry, didn’t know you’d got company. Who’s this?”

“This,” said Motcombe, “is Detective Chief Inspector Banks and Detective Sergeant Hatchley.”

“And now we’ve got that out of the way,” said Banks, “maybe you’d care to tell us who you are?”

“This is Rupert,” said Motcombe. “Rupert Francis. Come in, Rupert. Don’t be shy.”

Rupert came in. He was wearing a khaki apron, the kind Banks had to wear for woodwork classes at school. His hair was cut short, but that was where his resemblance to Jason’s mystery friend ended. In his mid- to late twenties, Banks guessed, Rupert was at least six feet tall, and thin rather than stocky. Also, there was no sign of an earring and, as far as Banks could make out, no hole to hang one from.

“I’m a carpenter, a cabinetmaker,” said Motcombe. “Though it’s more in the form of a hobby than a true occupation, I’m afraid. Anyway, I’ve converted the cellar into a workshop and Rupert helps me out every now and then. He’s very good. I think the traditional values of the craftsman are very important indeed in our society, don’t you?”

Rupert smiled and nodded at Banks and Hatchley. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about Jason Fox,” said Banks. “Didn’t happen to know him, did you?”

“Vaguely. I mean, I saw him around. We weren’t mates or anything.”

“Saw him around here?”

“Down the office. Holbeck. On the computer.”

Banks slipped the drawing from his briefcase again. “Know this lad?”

Rupert shook his head. “Never seen him before. Can I go now? I’m halfway through finishing a surface.”

“Go on,” said Banks, turning to Motcombe again.

“You really must try believing us, Chief Inspector,” he said. “You see-”

Banks stood up. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us? About Jason? About his problem with George Mahmood?”

“No,” said Motcombe. “I’m sorry, but that just about covers it. I told you when you first came that I couldn’t tell you anything that would help.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say you haven’t helped us, Mr. Motcombe,” said Banks. “I wouldn’t say that at all. Sergeant.”

Hatchley put his notebook away and got to his feet.

“Well,” said Motcombe at the door, “I suppose I’ll see you at the funeral?”

Banks turned. “What funeral?”

Motcombe raised his eyebrows. “Why, Jason’s, of course. Tomorrow.” He smiled. “Don’t the police always attend the funerals of murder victims, just in case the killer turns up?”

“Who said anything about murder?”

“I just assumed.”

“You make a lot of assumptions, Mr. Motcombe. As far as we know, it could have been manslaughter. Why are you going?”

“To show support for a fallen colleague. Fallen in the course of our common struggle. And we hope to gain some media coverage. As you said yourself, why waste a golden opportunity to publicize our ideas? There’ll be a small representative presence at the graveside, and we’ll be preparing a special black-border pamphlet for the event.” He smiled. “Don’t you realize it yet, Chief Inspector? Jason is a martyr.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks, turning to leave. “Jason’s just another dead Nazi, that’s all.”

Motcombe tut-tutted. “Really, Chief Inspector.”

At the door, Banks did his Columbo impersonation. “Just one more question, Mr. Motcombe.”

Motcombe sighed and leaned on the doorpost, folding his arms. “Fire away, then, if you must.”

“Where were you on Sunday morning?”

“Sunday morning? Why?”

“Where were you?”

“Here. At home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Is there any reason I have to?”

“Just pursuing inquiries.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t prove it. I was alone. Sadly, my wife and I separated some years ago.”

“Are you sure you didn’t visit number seven Rudmore Terrace in Rawdon?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why should I?”

“Because that was where Jason Fox lived. We have information that two men went there on Sunday morning and cleaned the place out. I was just wondering if one of them happened to be you.”

“I didn’t go there,” Motcombe repeated. “And even if I had done, I wouldn’t have broken any law.”

“These men had a key, Mr. Motcombe. A key, in all likelihood, taken from Jason Fox’s body.”

“I know nothing about that. I have a key, too, though.” He grinned at Banks. “As a matter of fact, I happen to own the house.”

Well, Banks thought, that was one question answered. Motcombe did own property. “But you didn’t go there on Sunday morning?” he said.

“No.”

“Did you give or lend a key to anyone?”

“No.”

“I think you did. I think you sent some of your lads over there to clean up after Jason’s death. I think he had stuff there you didn’t want the police to find.”

“Interesting theory. Such as what?”

“Files, perhaps, membership lists, notes on upcoming projects. And the computer had been tampered with.”

“Well, even if I did what you say,” said Motcombe, “I’m sure you can understand how I would be well within my rights to go to a house I own to pick up property that, essentially, belongs to me, in my capacity as leader of the Albion League.”

“Oh, I can understand that completely,” Banks said.

Motcombe frowned. “Then what…? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Well, then,” Banks said slowly. “Let me explain. The thing that bothers me is that whoever went there went before anyone knew that the victim was Jason Fox. Anyone except his killers, of course, that is. Bye for now, Mr. Motcombe. No doubt we’ll be seeing you again soon.”