Final Account

1

Despite Burgess’s protest that it would be full of commercial travellers and visiting rugby teams, Banks insisted on their drinking in the Holiday Inn’s idea of a traditional English pub, the Wig and Pen. He did this because his car was nearby and he still held hopes of getting back to Eastvale that evening. As it turned out, Burgess seemed to take a shine to the place.

He sat at the table opposite Banks with his pint of McEwan’s lager, lit a Tom Thumb and looked around the quiet pub. “Not bad,” he said, tapping his cigar on the rim of the ashtray. “Not bad at all. I never did like those places with beams across the ceiling and bedpans on the walls.”

“Bed warmers,” Banks corrected him.

“Whatever. Anyway, what do you think of those two over there as a couple of potential bed warmers? Do you think they fancy us?”

Banks looked over and saw two attractive women in their late twenties or early thirties who, judging by their clothes, had dropped by for a drink after working late at one of the many Wellington Street office buildings. There was no doubt about it, the one with the short black hair and the good legs did give Burgess the eye and whisper something in her friend’s ear.

“I think they do,” said Burgess.

“Didn’t you say something about developments?”

“What? Oh, yes.” Burgess looked away from the women and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “For a start, Fraud Squad think they’ve found definite evidence in Daniel Clegg’s books and records that Clegg and Rothwell were laundering money for Martin Churchill.”

“That hardly counts as a development,” Banks said. “We were already working on that assumption.”

“Ah, but now it’s more than an assumption, isn’t it? You’ve got to hand it to those Fraud Squad boys, boring little fuckers that they are, they’ve been burning the candle at both ends on this one.”

“Have you any idea why Churchill would use a couple of provincials like Rothwell and Clegg?”

“Good point,” said Burgess. “As it happens, yes, I do know. Daniel Clegg and Martin Churchill were at Cambridge together, reading law. Simple as that. The old boy network. I’d reckon the one knew the other was crooked right from the start.”

“Did they keep in touch over the years?”

“Obviously. Remember, Clegg’s a tax lawyer. He’s been using St. Corona as a tax shelter for his clients for years. It must have seemed a natural step to call on him when Churchill needed expert help. You can launder money from just about anywhere, you know. Baby Doc used a Swiss lawyer and did a lot of his business in Canada. You can take it out or bring it into Heathrow or Gatwick by the suitcase-load, using couriers, or you can run it through foreign exchange, wire services, whatever. Governments keep coming up with new restrictive measures, but it’s like plugging holes in a sieve. It’s easy if you know how, and a tax lawyer and a financial consultant with a strong background in accounting certainly knew how.”

“What made Clegg choose Rothwell as his partner?”

“How would I know? You can’t expect me to do your job for you, Banks, now can you? But they clearly knew one another somehow. Clegg must have known that Rothwell was exceptionally good with finances and none too concerned about their source. Takes one to know one, as they say.”

Burgess looked over at the two women, who had got another round of drinks, and smiled. The black-haired one crossed her long legs and smiled back shyly; the other put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

“My lucky night, I think,” Burgess said, clapping his hands and showering cigar ash over his stomach. He had a disconcerting habit of sitting still for ages then making a sudden, jerky movement. “I’ll say one thing for the north,” he went on, “you’ve got some damned accommodating women up here. Damned accommodating. Look, why don’t you get a couple more pints in, then I’ll tell you something else that might interest you? And mine’s lager, remember, not that pissy real ale stuff.”

Banks thought about it. Two pints. Yes, he would be fine for driving back to Eastvale, if he got the chance. “All right,” he said, and went to the bar.

“Okay,” said Burgess, after his first sip. “The two men, the white one and the darkie who were following you around?”

Banks lit a cigarette. “You know who they are?”

“I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t entirely truthful with you last time we met.”

“When have you ever been?”

“Unfair.”

“So you knew who they were last time we talked?”

“Suspected. Now we’ve got confirmation. They’re Mickey Lanois and Gregory Jackson, two of Churchill’s top enforcers. They came into Heathrow last Friday. The way it looks is that Churchill asked Clegg to get rid of Rothwell, and after he did it he took off with a lot of money, probably figuring that he might be next. Churchill heard about Clegg’s scarpering pretty quickly and sent his goons to do some damage control. You know what their favorite torture is, Banks?”

Banks shook his head. He didn’t want to know, but he knew Burgess would tell him anyway.

“They get a handful of those little glass tubes the doctors use to keep liquid in. What do you call them, vials, right? Really thin glass, anyway. And they put them in the victim’s mouth, lots of them. Then they tape the mouth shut securely and beat him a bit about the face. Or her. Churchill himself thought that up. He likes to watch. Think about it.”

Banks thought, swallowed and felt his throat constrict. “Been letting you practice it at the Yard, have they?” he asked.

Burgess laughed. “No, not yet. They’re still running tests in Belfast. Anyway, the point is that we know who they are.”

“No, that’s not entirely the point,” said Banks. “The point is where are they now and what are you going to do about them?”

Burgess shook his head. “That’s a whole different ball game. We’re talking about international politics here, politically sensitive issues. It’s out of your hands, Banks. Accept that. All you need to know is that we know who they are and we’re keeping tabs.”

“Don’t give me that politically sensitive crap,” said Banks, stabbing out his cigarette so hard that sparks flew out of the ashtray. “These two men damn near killed a woman here a few days ago. You say they like to go around stuffing people’s mouths full of glass, then you tell me to trust you, you’re keeping tabs. Well, bollocks, that’s what I say.”

Burgess sighed. “Somehow, I knew you were going to be difficult, Banks, I just knew it. Can’t you leave it be? They won’t get away with it, don’t worry.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“They won’t get away with it,” Burgess repeated.

Banks took a sip of his beer and held back his rage. There was something in Burgess’s tone that hinted he had something up his sleeve. “What are you telling me?” Banks asked.

“That we’ll get them. Or somebody will. But they’ll go down quietly, no fuss, no publicity.”

Banks thought for a moment. He still didn’t trust Burgess. “Can I talk to them?” he asked, aware he was speaking through clenched teeth, still keeping his anger in check.

Burgess narrowed his eyes. “Got to you, did it? What they did to the girl? I’ve seen pictures of her, before and after. Nasty. I’ll bet you fancied her, didn’t you, Banks? Nice dusky piece of crumpet, touch of the tarbrush, probably knew a lot of those Kama Sutra tricks. Just your type. Tasty.”

Banks felt his hand tighten on the pint glass. Why did he always let Burgess get to him this way? The bastard had a knack of touching on exactly the right raw nerve. Did it every time. “I’d just like to be there when you question them, that’s all,” he said quietly.

Burgess shrugged. “No problem. If it’s possible, I’ll arrange it. All I’m saying is no publicity on the Churchill matter, okay? Let your liberal humanist sentiments fuck this one up and you’ll be in deep doo-doo, Banks, very deep doo-doo indeed.”

“What about the press?”

“They can be dealt with. Have you ever considered that for every scandal you read about how many you don’t? Do you think it’s all left to chance? Don’t be so bloody naïve.”

“Come off it. You might be able to tape a few mouths shut, but even you can’t guarantee that no hotshot investigative reporters aren’t going to be all over this one like flies around shit.”

Burgess shrugged. “Maybe they’ll hear Churchill’s been killed in a coup. Maybe they’ll even see the body.”

“Maybe it’d be best for everyone if he did get killed in a coup. Less embarrassing all round.”

Burgess remained silent for a moment, glass in hand. Then he said, slowly, “And maybe he’s got life insurance.”

“Well, I suppose you’d know. Let’s hope there’s a good plastic surgeon on St. Corona.”

“Look,” Burgess said, “let’s stop pissing around. What I want from you is a promise that you won’t talk to the press about the Churchill angle.”

Banks lit another cigarette. What could he do? If Burgess were telling the truth, Mickey Lanois and Gregory Jackson would be caught and punished for their crimes. He could live with that. He would have to. Burgess certainly had a better chance of catching them than Banks did, by the sound of things. Perhaps they were even in custody already.

Also, with luck, Arthur Jameson and his accomplice would go down for the murder of Keith Rothwell. But was Burgess telling the full truth? Banks didn’t know. All he knew was that he couldn’t trust the bastard. It all sounded too easy. But what choice did he have?

“All right,” he said.

Burgess reached over and patted his arm. “Good,” he said. “Good. I knew I could depend on you to keep shut when it counts.”

Banks jerked his arm away. “Don’t push it. And if I find out you’ve been buggering me around on this one, my promise is null and void, okay?”

Burgess held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay.”

“There is another thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Rothwell’s killers. Lanois and Jackson didn’t do that.”

Burgess shook his head. “I’m not interested in them. They’re not in my brief.”

“So what happens when we catch Jameson, if we catch him?”

“Jameson?”

“Arthur Jameson. One of Rothwell’s killers.”

“I don’t give a monkey’s toss. That’s up to you. I’m not interested. It’s unlikely that this Jameson, whoever he is, knows anything about Churchill’s part in the matter. He was probably just a hired killer working for Clegg, who has conveniently disappeared with a shitload of cash.”

“Any ideas where?”

Burgess shook his head then jabbed his finger in the air close to Banks’s chest. “But I can tell you one thing. Wherever he is, he won’t be there for long. Churchill has the memory of an elephant, the reach of a giraffe and the tenacity of a bloody pit bull. He didn’t get to bleed an entire country dry for nothing. It takes a special talent. Don’t underestimate the man just because he’s a butcher.”

“So we write off Clegg?”

“I think he’s already written himself off by double-crossing Churchill.”

“And Jameson?”

“If he goes to trial, and if he talks – both big ifs, by the way – all he can say is that Clegg hired him to kill Rothwell. I doubt that Clegg would tell him the real reason. He might be a crooked lawyer, but I’m sure he still knows the value of confidentiality. He wouldn’t want to let his hired killers know exactly how much money was involved, would he? It would make him too vulnerable by half. Anyway, I trust you’ll have enough physical evidence to prosecute this Jameson when the time comes. If not, maybe we can fabricate some for you. Always happy to oblige.” He held his hand up. “Only kidding. My little joke.”

Burgess glanced over at the two women, who had got yet another round of drinks and seemed to be laughing quite tipsily. “Look,” he said, “if I don’t strike soon they’ll be past it. Are you sure you won’t join me? It’ll be a laugh, and the wife need never know.”

“No,” said Banks. “No, thanks. I’m going home.”

“Suit yourself.” Burgess stretched back his shoulders and sucked in his gut. “Anything to liven up a miserable evening in Leeds,” he said. “Once more unto the breach.” And with that, he strutted over to their table, smiling, pint in hand. Banks watched them make room for him, then shook his head, drank up and left.

2

“What on earth happened to you?” asked Sandra when Banks walked into the living room at about ten o’clock that evening.

“I had a slight disagreement with a couple of would-be muggers,” Banks said. “Don’t worry, I’m okay.” And he left it at that. Sandra raised her dark eyebrows but didn’t pursue it. He knew she wouldn’t. She wasn’t the mothering type, and she rarely gave him much sympathy when he whimpered through flu or moaned through a bad cold.

Banks walked over to the cocktail cabinet and poured a stiff shot of Laphroaig single malt whisky. Sandra said she’d have a Drambuie. A good sign. After that, he put on his new CD of Khachaturian’s piano concerto and flopped onto the sofa.

As he listened to the music, he looked at Sandra’s framed photograph over the fireplace: a misty sunset in Hawes, taken from the daleside above the town, all subdued gray and orange with a couple of thin streaks of vermilion. The unusual church tower, square with a turret attached to one corner, dominated the gray slate roofs, and smoke curled up from some of the chimneys. Banks sipped the peaty malt whisky and smacked his lips.

Sandra sat beside him. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

Banks told her about his meetings with Dirty Dick Burgess. “There’s always some sort of hidden agenda with him,” he said. “I’m not sure what he’s up to this time, but there’s not a hell of a lot I can do about it except wait and see. That’s about all we can do now, wait.”

“‘They also serve… ’”

“I was thinking about the Rothwells on the drive home, too. How could a man lead an entire other life, away from his family, under another name?”

“Is that what happened?”

“Yes.” Banks explained about Robert Calvert and his flat in Leeds, his fondness for gambling, women and dancing. “And Pamela Jeffreys said she was sure he wasn’t a married man. She said she’d have been able to tell.”

“Did she? Who’s Pamela Jeffreys?”

“His girlfriend. It doesn’t matter.”

Sandra sipped her drink and thought it over. “It’s probably not as difficult as you think for two people who live together on the surface to lead completely separate lives, one unknown to the other. Lord knows, so many couples have drifted so far apart anyway that they don’t communicate anymore.”

Banks felt his chest tighten. “Are you talking about us?” he asked, remembering what Ken Blackstone had said about his marriage.

“Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know.”

Sandra shrugged. “I don’t know, either. It was just a comment. But if the cap fits… Think about it, Alan. The amount we see each other, talk to each other, we could both be living other lives. Mostly, we just meet in passing. Let’s face it, you could be up to anything most of the time. How would I know?”

“Most of the time I’m working.”

“Just like this Rothwell was?”

“That’s different. He was away a lot.”

“What about the last couple of nights? You didn’t phone, did you?”

Banks sat forward. “Oh, come on! I tried. You weren’t home.”

“You could have left a message on the machine.”

“You know how I hate those things. Anyway, it’s not as if you didn’t know where I was. You could easily have checked up on me. And it’s not that often I’m away from home for a night or more.”

“Secret lives don’t always have to be lived at night.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Is it? Probably. All I’m saying is we don’t talk enough to know.”

Banks slumped back and sipped his drink. “I suppose so,” he said. “Is it my fault? You always seemed to handle my absences so well before. You understand the Job better than any other copper’s wife I’ve met.”

“I don’t know,” Sandra said. “Maybe it just took longer for the strain to work its way through. Or maybe it’s just worse because I’m busy a lot now, too.”

He put his arm around her. “I don’t know what’s been happening to us lately, either,” he said, “but maybe we’ll go away when this is all over.”

He felt Sandra stiffen beside him. “Promises,” she said. “You’ve been saying that for years.”

“Have I?”

“You know you have. We haven’t had a bloody holiday since we moved to Eastvale.”

“Well, dust off your camera. I’ve got a bit of leave due and I might just surprise you this time.”

“How long do you think the case will last?”

“Hard to say.”

“There you are, then.”

He stroked her shoulder. “Tell me you’ll think about it.”

“I’ll think about it. Tracy comes back on Sunday.”

“I know.”

“Won’t you be pleased to see her? Will you even be around to meet her at the airport?”

“Of course I will.”

Sandra relaxed a little and moved closer. A very good sign. The Drambuie was clearly working. “You’d better,” she said. “She phoned earlier tonight. She sends her love.”

“How’s she getting on?”

Sandra laughed. “She said it’s not quite like A Year in Provence down there, but she likes it anyway. She hasn’t bumped into John Thaw yet.”

“Who?”

“John Thaw. You know, the actor who was in A Year in Provence on television? I liked him better as Morse.”

“Who?”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “You know quite well who I’m talking about. I know you liked Morse. He used to be in The Sweeney, too, years ago, and you used to watch that down in London. Remember, in your old macho days? Didn’t you even go drinking with him once?”

“What do you mean, ‘old’?” Banks flexed his biceps.

Sandra laughed and moved closer. “I don’t want to fight,” she said. “Honest, I don’t. Not since we’ve seen so little of one another.”

“Me neither,” said Banks.

“I just think we’ve got a few problems to deal with, that’s all. We need to communicate better.”

“And we will. How about a truce.” He tightened his arm around her shoulder.

“Mmm. All right.”

“I’ll have to call the station and see if there’s been any developments,” he said.

But he didn’t move. He felt too comfortable. His limbs felt pleasantly heavy and weary, and the warmth of the malt whisky flowed through his veins. The slow second movement started in its haunting, erotic way. Soon, the eerie flex-atone entered and sent shivers up and down his spine. A cheap effect, perhaps, but sometimes effective if you happened to be in the right mood.

Banks drained his glass and put it on the table by the sofa. Sandra let her head rest between his shoulder and chest. Definitely a good sign. “Remember that silly film we saw on TV a while back?” he said. “The one where the couple has sex listening to Ravel’s Bolero?”

“Hmm. It’s called 10. Dudley Moore and Bo Derek. And I don’t think they were really listening. More like using it as background music.”

“Well, I’ve never really liked Bolero. It’s far too ordered and mechanical. It’s got a kind of inevitability about it that’s too predictable for my taste. I’ve always thought this Khachaturian piece would be a lot better to make love to. Much better. Wanders all over the place. You never really know where it’s going next. Slow and dreamy at the start, with plenty of great climaxes later on.”

“Sounds good to me. Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”

Sandra moved her head up until she was facing him, her lips about two inches away. He swept back a strand of hair from her cheek and let his fingers rest on her cool skin. “I thought you had to call the station?” she said.

“Later,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Later. Are the curtains closed?”

3

Boredom. They never told you about that down at the recruitment drives, thought PC Grant Everett as he rolled down the window of the patrol car and lit a cigarette. His partner, PC Barry Miller, was good about the smoking. He didn’t indulge, himself, but he understood Grant’s need to light up every now and then, especially on a quiet night like this one.

They were parked in a lay-by between Princes Risborough and High Wycombe. To the south, through the rearview mirror, Grant could see the faint glow of the nearest town, while to the north only isolated lights twinkled from scattered farms and cottages. All around them spread the dark, rolling landscape of the Chilterns. It was an attractive spot on a nice day, especially in spring with the bluebells and cherry blossoms out, but in the dark it seemed somehow forbidding, inhospitable.

A light breeze swirled the smoke out of the car. Grant inhaled deeply. It had just stopped raining and he loved the way the scent of rain seemed to blend with the tobacco and make it taste so much better. It was at moments like this when he understood why he smoked, despite all the health warnings. On the other hand, he never quite understood it when he got up after a night’s chain-smoking in the pub and coughed his guts up for half an hour.

Next to him, Barry was munching on a Mars bar. Grant smiled to himself. Six foot two and sixteen stone already and the silly bugger still needed to feed his face with chocolate bars. Who am I to talk? Grant thought, sucking on his cigarette again. To each his own poison.

Grant felt sleepy and the cigarette helped keep him awake. He had never got used to shift work; his biological rhythms, or whatever they were, had never adapted. When he lay down his head in the morning as the neighbor’s kids were going to school, the postman was doing his rounds and everyone else was off to work, he could never get to sleep. Especially if the sun were shining. And then there was Janet, bless her soul, doing her best, trying hard to be as quiet as she could around the house, and Sarah, only six months, crying for feeding and nappy-changing. And the bills to pay, and… Christ, he wasn’t going to think about that. At least the job got him out of the house, away from all that for a while.

A lorry rumbled by. Grant flicked the stub of his cigarette out of the window and heard it sizzle as it hit a puddle. Occasionally, voices cut through the static on the police radio, but the messages weren’t for them.

“Shall we belt up and bugger off, then?” said Barry. He screwed up the wrapper of his Mars bar and put it in his pocket. Ever the careful one, Grant thought, with an affectionate smile. Wouldn’t even be caught littering, wouldn’t Barry.

“Might as well.” Grant reached for his belt. Then they heard the squealing sound of rubber on wet tarmac. “What the fuck was that?”

On the main road, a north-bound car skidded as it turned the bend too fast, then righted itself.

“Shall we?” said Barry.

“My pleasure.”

Grant loved it when the lights were flashing and the siren screaming. First he was pushed back in the seat by the force when he put his foot down, and then he felt as if he were taking off, seeming somehow to be magically freed from all the restraints of the road: not just the man-made rules, but the laws of nature. Sometimes, Grant even felt as if they were really taking off, wheels no longer on the ground.

But there was no chase to be had here; it was over before it began. The car was about two hundred yards ahead of them when its driver seemed to realize they meant business. He slowed down as they caught up and pulled over to the side of the road, spraying up water from the hedgerow. His number-plate was too muddy to read.

Grant pulled up behind him, and Barry got out to approach the car.

It wasn’t likely to be much, Grant thought as he sniffed the fresh night air through the open window – maybe a drunk, maybe a few outstanding parking tickets – but at least it was something to relieve the boredom for a few minutes.

He could hear perfectly clearly when Barry asked the driver to turn off his ignition and present his driving documents. The driver did as he was told. Barry looked at the papers and passed them back. Next, he asked the man if he had been drinking. Grant couldn’t hear the man’s reply, but it seemed to satisfy Barry. Grant knew he would be listening for slurred words and sniffing for booze on the driver’s breath.

After that, Barry asked the man where he had been and where he was going. Grant thought he heard the man mention Princes Risborough.

No other cars passed. The night was quiet and Grant caught a whiff of beech leaves and cherry wood on the damp air. He thought he heard some cows low in the distance and, farther still, a nightingale.

Then Barry asked the man to get out of the car and clean off his number-plate. Grant heard him explain patiently that it was an offense to drive with a number-plate that is “not easily distinguishable” and smiled to himself at the stilted, textbook phrase. But the man would get off with a caution this time; Barry seemed satisfied with his behavior.

The man got back in the car and Grant heard Barry speak over his personal radio.

“465 to Control.”

“465 go ahead.”

“Ten nine vehicle check please.”

The voices crackled unnaturally over the country night air.

“Pass your number.”

“Mike four, three, seven, Tango Zulu Delta.”

“Stand by.”

Grant knew it would take three or four minutes for the operator to check the number on the computer, then, all being well, they could be on their way.

Barry and the driver seemed to be chatting amiably enough as they waited. Grant looked at the newly cleaned number-plate and reached idly for the briefing-sheet beside him. There seemed to be something familiar about it, something he ought to remember.

He ran his finger down the list of stolen cars. No, not there. He wouldn’t remember any of those numbers; there were always too many of them. It had to be something more important: a vehicle used in a robbery, perhaps? Then he found it: M437 TZD, gray Granada.

Suddenly, he felt cold. The owner was wanted in connection with a murder in North Yorkshire. Possibly armed and dangerous. Shit. All of a sudden, Barry seemed to be taking a hell of a long time out there.

A number of thoughts passed quickly through Grant’s mind, the first of which was regret that they didn’t do things the American way. Get the guy out of the vehicle, hands stretched on the roof, legs apart, pat him down. “Assume the position, asshole!” Why pretend they were still living in a peaceful society where the local bobby was your best friend? Christ, how Grant wished he had a gun.

Should he go out and try to get Barry to the car, use some excuse? He could say they’d been called to an emergency. Could he trust himself to walk without stumbling, to speak without stuttering? His legs felt like jelly and his throat was tight. But he felt so impotent, just watching. All he could hope was that the radio operator would understand Barry’s predicament and give the guy a clean bill of health. According to the information on the sheet, the man, Arthur Jameson, didn’t even know he was wanted.

The radio crackled back into life.

“Control to 465.”

“Go ahead, over.”

“Er… Mike four, three, seven, Tango Zulu Delta… No reports stolen. Er… Do you require keeper details over?”

“Affirmative.”

More static. Grant tensed in his seat, hand on the door-handle. Too many pauses.

“Keeper is Arthur Jameson, 47 Bridgeport Avenue, Leeds. Er… is keeper with you over?”

“Affirmative. Any problem?”

She was blowing it, Grant sensed. Someone, probably the super, was standing over her trying to help her calmly get Barry back to the car and the driver on his way, but she was nervous, halting. It was all taking far too long, and if the suspect couldn’t sense there was something wrong over the radio, then he was an idiot.

“No reports stolen.”

“You already told me that, love,” said Barry. “Is something wrong?”

“Sorry… er… 465… Stand by.”

Grant tightened his grip on the door-handle. This was it. He wasn’t going to stand around and let his partner, who had probably dozed off at the briefing and to whom the number obviously meant bugger-all, just stand there and take it.

But before he got the door half open, he saw Barry, all sixteen stone and six foot two of him, drop to the wet road clutching the side of his neck, from which a dark spray of blood fountained high and arced to the ground. Then he heard the shots, two dull cracks echoing through the dark countryside.

Left foot still in the car, right foot on the road, Grant hesitated. Mistake. His last thought was that it was so bloody unfair and pointless and miserable to die like this by a roadside outside High Wycombe. Then a bullet shattered the windscreen and took him full in the face, scattering blood, teeth and bone fragments all over the car. After its echo had faded, the Granada revved up and sped off into the night, and the nightingale sang again into the vacuum of silence the car left behind.