Final Account

1

The storm broke in the middle of the night. Banks lay in the dark in his strange hotel bed tossing and turning as lightning flashed and thunder first rumbled in the distance then cracked so loudly overhead that the windows rattled.

Once unbound, the shape of his rage was fluid; it could be as easily warped and twisted into fanciful images by sleep as it had been channelled into violence earlier. He kept waking from one nightmare and drifting back into another. Rain lashed against the windows, and in the background something hissed constantly, the way something always hisses in hotel rooms.

In the worst nightmare, the one he remembered the most clearly, he was talking on the telephone to a woman who had dialled his number by mistake. She sounded disoriented, and the longer she spoke the longer the spaces stretched between her words. Finally, silence took over completely. Banks called hello a few times, then hung up. As soon as he had done so, he was stricken by panic. The woman was committing suicide. He knew it. She had taken an overdose of pills and fallen into a coma while she was still on the line. He didn’t know her name or her telephone number. If he had kept the line open and not hung up, he would have been able to trace her and save her life.

He awoke feeling guilty and depressed. And it wasn’t only his soul that hurt. His head pounded from too much whisky and from the “ Glasgow handshake” he had given one of his attackers, his chest felt tight from smoking, his knuckles ached, and his side felt sore where he had been slammed into the wall. His mouth tasted as dry as the bottom of a budgie’s cage and as sour as month-old milk. When he got up to go to the toilet, he felt a stabbing pain shoot through his kneecap and found himself limping. He felt about ninety. He took three extra-strength Panadols from his traveller’s survival kit and washed them down with two glasses of cold water.

It was four twenty-three A.M. by the red square numbers of the digital clock. Cars hissed by through the puddles in the road. Around the edges of the curtains, he could see the sickly amber glow of the street-lights and the occasional flash of distant lightning as the storm passed over to the north.

He didn’t want to be awake, but he couldn’t seem to get back to sleep. All he could do was lie there feeling sorry for himself, remembering what a bloody fool he had been. What had started as a simple bit of childish self-indulgence, drowning his sorrows in drink, had turned into a full-blown exhibition of idiocy, and both his skinned knuckles and the empty Scotch bottle on the bedside table were evidence enough of that.

After the fracas, he had dashed back to the hotel and hurried straight up to his room before anyone could notice his bloody knuckles or torn jacket. Once safe inside, he had poured himself a stiff drink to stop the shakes. Lying on the bed watching television until the programs ended for the night, he had poured another, then another. Soon, the half-bottle was empty and he had fallen asleep. Now it was time to pay. He had heard once that guilt and shame contributed to the pain of hangovers, and at four thirty-two that morning, he certainly believed it.

Christ, it was so bloody easy to slide down one’s thoughts into the pit of misery and self-recrimination at four thirty-two A.M. At four thirty-two, if you feel ill, you just know you have cancer; at four thirty-two, if you feel depressed, suicide seems the only way out. Four thirty-two is the perfect time for fear and self-loathing, the time of the dark night of the soul.

But it wouldn’t do, he told himself. Feeling sorry for himself just wouldn’t bloody well do. So he wasn’t perfect. He had contemplated committing adultery. So what? He wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last. He felt responsible for Pamela Jeffreys’s injuries. Maybe, just maybe, he should have acted differently when he knew he was being followed – put a guard on everyone he had talked to – but it was a big maybe. He wasn’t God almighty; he couldn’t anticipate everything.

Most detective work was pissing about in the dark, anyway, waiting for the light to grow slowly, as it was doing now outside. On rare occasions, the truth hit you quick as a lightning flash. But they were very rare occasions indeed. Even then, before the lightning hit you, you had spent months looking for the right place to stand.

So last night, in the alley, he had lost it. So what? Two yobbos had tried to mug him and he had gone wild on them, plastered them all over the walls. Most of it was a blur now, but he remembered enough to embarrass him.

They had just been kids, really, early twenties at most, out looking for aggro. But one had been black and one white, like the men who had put Pamela Jeffreys in hospital. Banks knew in his mind that they weren’t the same ones, but when the bubble of his anger burst and the fury unleashed itself, when the blood started to flow, they were the ones he was lashing out at. No wonder they ran away shitting bricks. There was nothing rational about it; blinded by rage, he had thought he was hurting the people he really wanted to hurt. He had taken out his anger on two unwary substitutes. They had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Still, he told himself, they bloody well deserved it, bleeding amateurs. At least he might have discouraged two apprentice muggers from their chosen career. And nobody would ever know what happened. They certainly wouldn’t say anything. After all, he hadn’t killed them; they had managed to run away and lick their wounds. They would survive to fight again another day, if they got back the bottle. It wasn’t the worst thing he had ever done. And soon, surely, that feeling of being a total fucking idiot would go away and he could get on with his life.

He dozed briefly and woke again at five forty-one. Not quite as bad as four thirty-two, he thought, at first glance. He got up and looked outside at the gray morning. The road and pavement were still awash with puddles. Green double-decker buses were already running people to work, splashing up the water where it had collected in the gutters. Banks was on the fifth floor, and he could see the gray sky streaked with blood and milk behind the majestic dome of the Town Hall. Already, dim shadows were shuffling out of the Salvation Army shelter opposite.

Banks made a cup of instant coffee with the electric kettle and sachet provided and took it back to bed with him. He turned on the bedside light and picked up the copy of Evelyn Waugh’s Sword of Honour trilogy he had brought with him. Guy Crouchback’s misadventures should cheer him up a bit. At least he didn’t have that much misfortune.

He would put last night behind him, he decided, sipping the weak Nescafé. A man was allowed his mistakes; he had just better not cling to them or they would drag him down to the bottom of the abyss.

2

At nine o’clock that morning, Susan Gay sat alone on the second pew from the back of the small non-denominational chapel at Eastvale Crematorium. It was cool inside, thanks to a large fan below the western stained-glass window, and the lighting was suitably dimmed. The place smelled of shoe polish, not the usual musty hymn-books she associated with chapels.

The service went briskly enough. The rent-a-vicar said a few words about Keith Rothwell’s devotion to his family and his dedication to hard work, then he read Psalm 51. Susan thought it particularly apt, all that guff about being cleansed of sin. “Bloodguiltiness” was a word she hadn’t heard before, and it made her give a little shudder without knowing why. The mention of “burnt offering” brought the unwelcome image of Rothwell’s corpse, the head a black mess, as if it had indeed been burned, but “Wash me; and I shall be whiter than snow” almost made her laugh out loud. It brought to mind an old television advert for detergent, then Rothwell’s money-laundering.

After the vicar read a bit from “Revelation” about a new heaven and a new earth and all sorrow, pain and death disappearing, it was all over.

The Rothwells, all suitably dressed in shades of black for the occasion, sat in the front row. Throughout the ceremony, Mary sat stiffly, Alison kept glancing around her at the stained-glass and the font, and Tom sat hunched over. As far as Susan could tell from behind, nobody reached for a handkerchief.

When she watched them walk out into the sunlight, she could tell she was right: dry eyes; not a tear in sight; Mary Rothwell doing her stiff-upper-lip routine, bearing her loss and grief with dignity.

Everyone ignored Susan except Tom, who approached her and said, “You’re the detective who was at our house when I got back from the States, aren’t you?”

“Yes. DC Susan Gay, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I hadn’t forgotten. What are you doing here?”

“I’d like a word with you, if you can spare a few minutes.”

Tom took a silver pocket-watch from his waistcoat and looked at it. Susan saw it was attached by a chain to one of his belt loops. Somehow, it seemed like a very affected gesture in one so young. Maybe it had impressed the Americans. He slipped it back in his pocket. “All right,” he said. “But I can’t come just now. Everyone’s going back to Mr. Pratt’s for coffee and cake. I’ll have to show up.”

“Of course. How about an hour?”

“Okay.”

“Look, it’s a fine morning,” Susan said. “How about that café by the river, the one near the pre-Roman site?”

“I know it.”

Susan busied herself with paperwork back at the station for three quarters of an hour, then set off to keep her appointment.

The River Swain was flowing swiftly, still high after the spring thaw. On the grass by the bank, the owner of the small café had stuck a couple of rickety white tables and chairs. Susan bought a tin of Coke for Tom and a pot of tea for herself and they sat by the water. Two weeping willows framed the rolling farmland beyond. Right across, in the center of the view, was a field of bright yellow rape-seed.

Flies buzzed around her head, and Susan kept fanning them away. “How was it?” she asked.

Tom shrugged. “I hate those kinds of social gatherings,” he said. “And Laurence Pratt gets on my nerves.”

Susan smiled. At least they had something in common. She let the silence stretch as she looked closely at the youth sitting opposite her. Wavy brown hair fell over his ears about halfway down his neck. He was tanned, slender, handsome, and he looked as good now in his mourning suit as he had in torn jeans and a denim shirt. The more she let herself simply feel his presence, the more she was sure she was right about him.

He shifted in his chair. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about the other day. I was rude, I know. But I was tired, upset.”

“I understand,” Susan said. “It’s just that I got the impression there was something you wanted to tell me.”

Tom looked away over the river. His face was scrunched up in a frown, or maybe the sun was in his eyes. “You know, don’t you?” he asked. “You can tell.”

“That you’re homosexual? I have a strong suspicion, yes.”

“Am I that obvious?”

Susan laughed. “Maybe not to everyone. Remember, I’m a detective.”

Tom managed a weak smile. “Funny thing, that, isn’t it?” he said. “You’d think it would be men who’d guess.”

“I don’t know. Women are used to responding to men in certain ways. They can tell when something’s… ”

“Wrong?”

“I was going to say missing, but even that’s not right.”

“Different, then?”

“That’ll do. Look, I’m not judging you, Tom. You mustn’t think that. It’s really none of my business, unless your sexual preference connects somehow with your father’s murder.”

“I can’t see how it does.”

“You’re probably right. Tell me about this Aston, or Afton, then. When Chief Inspector Banks mentioned the name, you assumed it was a man. Why?”

“Because I didn’t assume. I know damn well who he is. His name’s Ashton. Bloody Clive Ashton. How could I forget?”

“Who is he?”

“He’s the son of one of my father’s clients – Lionel Ashton. We were at a party together once. I made a mistake.”

“You made advances toward him?”

“Yes.”

“And they weren’t welcome?”

Tom gave a dry laugh. “Obviously not. He told his father.”

“And?”

“And his father told my father. And my father told me I was disgusting, sick, queer, and that I should see about getting myself cured. That’s the exact word he used, cured. He said it would kill Mum if she ever found out.”

“And he suggested you take off to America for a while, at his expense?”

“Yes. But that came a bit later. First we let it lie while we figured out what was best.”

“What did you do in the meantime?”

Tom looked at her, tilted his tin back and finished his Coke. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Susan turned away and watched a family of ducks drift by on the Swain. Tom wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then said, “I followed him.”

She turned back toward him. “You followed your father? Why?”

“Because I thought he was up to something. He was away so often. He was always so remote, like he wasn’t really with us even when he was at home. I thought he was doing damage to the family.”

“He wasn’t always like that?”

Tom shook his head. “No. Believe it or not, Dad used to have a bit of life about him. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to make a bad joke.”

“I know. How long had he been behaving this way?”

“Hard to say. It was gradual, like. But this past couple of years it was getting worse. You could hardly talk to him.” He shrugged.

“Was that the only reason you followed him, because you thought he was up to something?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to get something on him. Revenge, I don’t know. Find out what his guilty secret was.”

“And did you?”

Tom took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out loudly with a nervous laugh. “This is harder than I thought. Okay. Here goes. Yes. I saw my father with another woman.” He said it fast, staccato-style. “There, that’s it. I said it.”

Susan paused a moment to take the information in, then asked, “When?”

“Sometime in February.”

“Where?”

“ Leeds. In a pub. They were sitting together at a table in the Guildford, on The Headrow. They were holding hands. Christ.” His eyes were glassy with gathering tears. He rubbed the backs of his hands over them and collected himself. “Do you know what that feels like?” he asked. “Seeing your old man with another woman. No, of course you don’t. It was like a kick in the balls. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Did your father see you?”

“No. I kept myself well enough hidden. Not that they had eyes for anyone but each other.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. I left. I was so upset I just got in the van and drove around the countryside for a while. I remember stopping somewhere and walking by a river. It was very cold.”

“Was the woman dark-skinned? Indian or Pakistani?”

Tom looked surprised. “No.”

Susan took her notepad and pen out. “What did she look like?”

Tom closed his eyes. “I can see her now,” he said, “just as clearly as I could then. She was young, much younger than Dad. Probably in her mid-twenties, I’d guess. Not much older than me. She was sitting down, so I couldn’t really see her figure properly, but I’d say it was good. I mean, she didn’t look fat or anything. She looked nicely proportioned. She was wearing a blouse made of some shiny white material and a scarf sort of thing, more like a shawl, really, over her shoulders, all in blues, whites and reds. It looked like one of those Liberty patterns. She had long fingers. I noticed them for some reason. Am I going too fast?”

“No,” said Susan. “I’ve got my own kind of shorthand. Carry on.”

“Long, tapered fingers. No nail varnish, but her nails looked well kept, not bitten or anything. She had blonde hair. No, that’s not quite accurate. It was a kind of reddish blonde. It was piled and twisted on top with some strands falling loose over her cheeks and shoulders. You know the kind of look? Sort of messy but ordered.”

Susan nodded. Hairstyles like that cost a fortune.

“She was extraordinarily good-looking,” Tom went on. “Very fine, pale skin. A flawless complexion, like marble, sort of translucent. The kind where you can just about see the blue veins underneath. And her features could have been cut by a fine sculptor. High cheekbones, small, straight nose. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue. They may have been contact lenses, but they were sort of light but very bright blue. Cobalt, I guess. Is that it?”

“It’ll do. Go on.”

“That’s about all really. No beauty spots or anything. She was wearing long dangly earrings, too. Lapis lazuli. No rings, I don’t think.”

“That’s a very good description, Tom. Do you think you could work with a police artist on this? I think we’d like to have a talk with this woman, and your description might help us find her.”

Tom nodded. “No problem. I could paint her myself from memory if I had the talent.”

“Good. We’ll arrange something, then. Maybe this evening.”

Tom took his watch out again. “I suppose I’d better be going home. Mum and Alison need my support.”

“Did you ever challenge your father about what you saw?” Susan asked.

Tom shook his head. “I came close once, when he kept going on about how disappointed he was in me, how sick I was. I told him I was disappointed in him, too, but I wouldn’t tell him why.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Just carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.”

“Does your mother know?”

He shook his head. “No. She doesn’t know. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you think she suspects?”

“Maybe. Who knows? She’s been living in a bit of a dream world. I’m worried about her, actually. Sometimes I get the feeling that underneath all the lies she knows the truth but she just won’t admit it to herself. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes. What about Alison?”

“Alison’s a sweet thing really, but she hasn’t got a clue. Lives in her books. She’s Brontë mad, is Alison, you know. Reads nothing but. And she’s got notebooks full of her own stories, all in tiny handwriting like the Brontës did when they were kids. Made up her own world. I keep thinking she’ll grow out of it, but… I don’t know… she seems even worse since… since Dad… ” He shook his head slowly. “No, she doesn’t know. I wouldn’t confide in her. I kept it all to myself. Can you imagine that? I still do. You’re the first person I’ve told.” He stood up. “Look, I really must be off.”

“We’ll be in touch about the artist, then.”

“Yes. Okay. And… ”

“Yes?”

“Thanks,” he said, then turned abruptly and hurried off.

Susan watched him go down the path, hands in pockets, shoulders slumped. She poured herself another cup of tea, stewed though it was, and looked out at the river. A beautiful insect with iridescent wings hovered a few feet above the water. Suddenly, a chaffinch shot out from one of the trees and took the insect in its beak in mid-air. Susan left her lukewarm tea and headed off to meet Sergeant Hatchley. The porn hunt awaited.

3

After Banks had gone for a swim in the hotel pool, taken a long sauna, and put away three cups of freshly brewed coffee and a plateful of bacon and eggs, courtesy of room service, he was feeling much better.

As he made a few phone calls, he tried to remember something that had been nagging away at him since the early hours, something he should do, but he failed miserably. At about the same time that Susan Gay was talking to Tom Rothwell, he went out for his first appointment, with Melissa Clegg.

The morning sun had burned off most of the rain, and the pavements had absorbed the rest, leaving them the color of sandstone, with small puddles catching the light here and there. As wind ruffled the water’s surface, golden light danced inside the puddles.

It wasn’t as warm as it had been, Banks noticed. He had left his torn sports jacket at the hotel. All he wore on top was a light blue, open-neck shirt. He carried his notebook, wallet, keys and cigarettes in his briefcase.

A cool wind whispered through the streets, and there were plenty of dark, heavy clouds now lurking on the northern horizon behind the Town Hall. It looked like the region was in for some “changeable” weather, as the forecasters called it: sunny with cloudy periods, or cloudy with sunny periods.

He could drive to his appointment, he knew, but the one-way system was a nightmare. Besides, the city center wasn’t all that big, and the fresh air would help blow away the cobwebs that still clung to his brain.

Banks had grown quite fond of Leeds since he had been living in Yorkshire. It had an honest, slightly shabby charm about it that appealed to him, despite the new “Leeds-look” architecture – redbrick revival with royal blue trim – that had sprouted up everywhere, and despite the modern shopping centers and the yuppie developments down by the River Aire. Leeds was a scruff by nature; it wouldn’t look comfortable in fancy dress, no matter what the price. And then there was Opera North, of course.

Avoiding City Square and the scene of the previous evening’s debacle, he cut up King Street instead, walked past the recently restored Metropole Hotel, all redbrick and gold sandstone masonry, and along East Parade through the business section of banks and insurance buildings in all their jumbled glory. Here, Victorian Gothic rubbed shoulders with Georgian classicism and sixties concrete and glass. As in many cities, you had to look up, above eye level, to see the interesting details on the tops of the buildings: surprising gables where pigeons nested, gargoyles, balconies, caryatids.

As he walked along The Headrow past Stumps and the art gallery, he became aware again of the sharp pain in his knee, with which he had probably chipped a cheekbone or broken a jaw the previous evening.

He arrived at the Merrion Centre a couple of minutes early. Melissa Clegg had told him on the phone that she had a very busy day planned. She was expecting a number of important deliveries and had appointments with her suppliers. She could, however, allow him half an hour. There was a quiet coffee bar with outside tables, she told him, on the second level, up the steps over the entrance to Le Phonographique. She would meet him there at half past ten.

Banks found the coffee bar, and an empty table, with no trouble. At that time on a Wednesday morning, the Merrion Centre was practically deserted: especially the upper level, which seemed to have nothing but small offices and hairdressers.

Melissa Clegg arrived on time with all the flurry of the busy executive. When she sat down, she tucked her hair behind her ears. Today, she wore a pink dress cut square at her throat and shoulders.

The last thing on earth Banks felt he needed was another cup of coffee, but he took an espresso just to have something in front of him. Also, by the feel of his chest, he didn’t need a cigarette, either, but he lit one nonetheless. The first few drags made him a bit dizzy, then it tasted fine.

“You look a bit the worse for wear,” Melissa observed.

“You should have seen the other two,” Banks said. He could tell by the way she laughed that she didn’t believe him, just as he had expected. But he had also noticed the angry contusion high on his left cheek, just to the side of his eye, when he shaved that morning. Another result of his crash into the alley wall. He tried to keep his skinned knuckles out of sight, which made drinking coffee difficult.

“What can I do for you this time, Inspector, or Chief Inspector, is it?”

“Chief Inspector. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your husband?”

“Ex. Well, near as. No, I haven’t. But he’s hardly likely to get in touch with me. I still don’t know why you’re so worried. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“I don’t think so, Mrs. Clegg. Remember last time we met I asked you if you knew a Robert Calvert?”

“Yes. I said I didn’t and I still don’t.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would keep this quiet for the moment, but we believe that Robert Calvert was also Keith Rothwell.”

“I don’t understand. Do you mean he had a false name, an alias?”

“Something like that. More, actually. He lived in Leeds, had a flat in the name of Robert Calvert. A whole other life. Mary Rothwell doesn’t know, so-”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. You’ve got me puzzled.”

“We were, too. But the reason I’m telling you this is that your husband acted as a reference for Robert Calvert in the matter of his bank account and credit card. Also, ironically enough, Calvert listed his employer as Keith Rothwell.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Melissa. “Daniel must have known about this double life, then?”

“It looks that way.”

“Well, I certainly knew nothing about it. As I told you before, I haven’t seen Keith Rothwell since Danny and I split up two years ago.” She frowned. “I must say it surprises me that Daniel would risk doing something so obviously dishonest as that. Not that dishonesty is beneath him, but it seems too much of a risk for no return.”

“We don’t know what the returns were,” Banks said. “How close are you and Daniel?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he ever mention a woman called Marci Lapwing to you?”

“God, what a name. No. Who is she? His girlfriend?”

“Someone he’s been seeing lately.”

“Well, he wouldn’t tell me about her, would he?”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “He never does. Maybe he thinks I’d be jealous.”

“Would you?”

“Look, I don’t see what it has to do with anything, but no. It’s over. O. V. E. R. We made our choices.”

“Is there someone else?”

She blushed a little but met his gaze with steady eyes as she fingered the top of her dress over her freckled collarbone. “As a matter of fact there is. But I won’t tell you anything more. I don’t want him dragged into this. It’s none of your business, anyway. Danny’s probably run off with his bimbo.”

“No. Marci Lapwing is still around. Never mind. Let’s move on. How do you explain the two men who visited you?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps her husband sent them?”

“Whose husband?”

“The bimbo’s. Marci whatever-her-name-is.”

“She’s not married. Since we last talked,” Banks said, lowering his voice, “things have taken several turns for the worse. We’re talking about very serious matters indeed. It looks as if your husband might be implicated in murder, money-laundering, theft and fraud, and that he may be partly responsible for the savage beating of a young woman.”

“My God… I… ”

“I know. You didn’t take all this seriously. Nor did you want to. Now will you?”

She began to fidget with her coffee-spoon. “Yes. Yes, of course. I assume you’re talking about Keith Rothwell’s murder?”

“Yes.”

“And who has been beaten?”

“A friend of Mr. Rothwell’s. The way it looks, both Keith Rothwell and your husband were laundering money for a Mr. X. We think we know his identity, but I’m afraid I can’t reveal it to you. Rothwell was either stealing or threatening to talk, or both, and Mr. X asked your husband to get rid of him.”

She shook her head. “Danny? No. I don’t believe it. He couldn’t kill anyone.”

“Hear me out, Mrs. Clegg. He did as he was asked. Maybe his own life was threatened, we don’t know. Immediately after he arranged to get rid of Keith Rothwell, he either became a threat himself, or he made off with a lot of illegal money, so Mr. X sent two goons to track him down. Maybe he’d seen it coming and anticipated what they would do. At this point, there’s a lot we can only speculate about.”

“And that explains the two men?”

“Yes.” Banks leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “They visited your ex-husband’s office, they visited you, then they visited a girl they saw me talking to. She was the one they beat up. Now tell me again, Mrs. Clegg, have you ever seen or heard of a woman called Pamela Jeffreys? She was born here in Yorkshire, but her family came originally from Pakistan. She’s about five foot four, slender figure, with almond eyes and long black hair that she sometimes wears tied back. She has a smooth, dark gold complexion and a gold stud through her left nostril. She’s a classical musician, a violist with the Northern Philharmonia.”

Banks watched Melissa’s face as he described Pamela Jeffreys. When he had finished, she shook her head. “Honestly,” she said, “I’ve never seen her, and Danny never mentioned anyone like that. She sounds impressive, but he doesn’t go for that type.”

“What type?”

“Bright women. Career women. It scared him to death when I started to make a success of the wine business. At first he could just look down on it as my little hobby. You said she was a classical musician?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t like classical music. All he likes is that bloody awful trad jazz. A woman like the one you describe would bore Danny to death. Besides, she sounds so gorgeous, I’m sure I’d remember her.”

A gentle gust of wind blew through the center, carrying the smells of espresso and fried bacon from the café. “Two more things,” Banks said. “First, in the time you lived with your husband, did you ever come across any acquaintances, say, or clients of his whom you’d describe as shady?”

She laughed. “Oh, a tax lawyer has plenty of shady clients, Chief Inspector. That’s what keeps him in business. But I assume you mean something other than that?”

“Yes. If Daniel did have anything to do with Keith Rothwell’s death, he certainly didn’t commit the murder himself, as you pointed out.”

“That’s true. The Daniel I know wouldn’t have had the stomach for it.”

“So he must have hired someone. You don’t usually just walk into your local and say, ‘Look chaps, I need a couple of killers. Do you think you could help me out?’”

Melissa smiled. “You might try it at a Law Society banquet. I’m sure you’d get a few takers. But I see what you mean.”

“So he might have known someone who would consider the task, and it might have been someone he met through his practice. I doubt very much that the two of you socialized with hit-men, but there might be someone who struck you as dangerous, perhaps?”

“Who knows who we socialized with?” Melissa said. “Who knows anything about anyone, when it comes right down to it? No one immediately springs to mind, but I’ll think about it, if I may.”

“Okay.” Banks passed on Alison Rothwell’s vague description of the two men, especially the one with the puppy-dog eyes, the only distinguishing feature. “I’ll be at the Holiday Inn here for the next day or so, or you can leave a message with Detective Inspector Blackstone at Millgarth.”

“Is he the one who came over last night with my bodyguard?”

“No, that’s Detective Sergeant Waltham. I don’t honestly believe you’re in any danger, Mrs. Clegg – I think they’re probably miles from here by now – but it’s best to be on the safe side. Are you happy with the arrangement?”

“I didn’t really understand all the fuss at first, but after what you’ve just told me I’ll sleep easier tonight for knowing there’s someone out there watching over me.” She looked at her watch. “Sorry, Mr. Banks. Time’s pressing. You said you had two things to ask.”

“Yes. The other is a bit more personal.”

Melissa raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I mean personal in the true sense, not necessarily embarrassing.”

She frowned, still looking at him. It was a strong, attractive face with its reddish tan and freckles over the nose and upper cheeks; every little wrinkle around her gray-blue eyes looked as if it had been earned.

“We think Daniel Clegg has probably done a bunk with a lot of money,” Banks began. “Enough to set him up for life, otherwise these goons wouldn’t be so keen on finding him. But it’s a bloody big world if you don’t know where to look. The two of you shared your dreams at one stage, I suppose, like most married couples. Where do you think he would go? Where did he dream of living?”

Melissa continued to frown. “I see what you mean,” she murmured. “That’s an interesting question. Where’s Danny’s Shangri-la, his Eldorado?”

“Yes. We all have one, don’t we?”

“Well, Danny wasn’t much of a dreamer, to tell you the truth. He didn’t have a lot of imagination. But whenever he talked of winning the pools and packing it all in, it was always Tahiti.”

“ Tahiti?”

“Yes. He was a big fan of Mutiny on the Bounty. Had every version on video. I think he liked the idea of those barebreasted native girls serving him long, cool drinks in coconut shells.” She laughed and looked at her watch again. “Look, Mr. Banks, I’m sorry, but I really do have to go now. I’ve got a hell of a day ahead.” She pushed her chair back and stood up.

Banks stood with her. “Of course,” he said, shaking her hand.

“But if I can be any more help, I’ll get in touch. I mean it. I never thought Danny was capable of real evil, but if what you say is true… ” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll give what you said some thought. I… just a minute.”

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

Banks sat forward. “What were the circumstances?”

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

“What happened?”

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

“How long ago was it?”

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

“And you remember nothing more about this man?”

“No. Not off-hand.”

“What pub did they meet in?”

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

“What was he arrested for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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