Final Account

1

Traditional police wisdom has it that if a case doesn’t yield leads in the first twenty-four hours, then everyone is in for a long, tough haul. In practice, of course, the period doesn’t always turn out to be twenty-four hours; it can be twenty-three, nine, fourteen, or even forty-eight. That’s the problem: when do you scale down your efforts? The answer, Banks reminded himself as he dragged his weary bones into the “Boardroom” of Eastvale Divisional Police Headquarters at ten o’clock that morning, is that you don’t.

The Suzy Lamplugh case was a good example. It started as a missing-persons report. One lunch-time, a young woman left the estate agent’s office in Fulham, where she worked, and disappeared. Only after over a year’s intensive detective work, which resulted in more than six hundred sworn statements, thousands of interviews, 26,000 index cards and nobody knew how many man-hours, was the investigation wound down. Suzy Lamplugh was never found, either alive or dead.

By the time Banks arrived at the station, Superintendent Gristhorpe had appointed Phil Richmond Office Manager and asked him to set up the Murder Room, where all information regarding the Keith Rothwell case would be carefully indexed, cross-referenced and filed. At first, Gristhorpe thought it should be established in Fortford or Relton, close to the scene, but later decided that they had better facilities at the Eastvale station. It was only about seven miles from Fortford, anyway.

Richmond was also the only one among them who had training in the use of the HOLMES computer system – acronym for the Home Office Major Enquiry System, with a superfluous “L” for effect. HOLMES wasn’t without its problems, especially as not all the country’s police forces used the same computer languages. Still, if no developments occurred before long, Richmond ’s skill might prove useful.

Gristhorpe had also given a brief press conference first thing in the morning. The sooner photographs of Keith Rothwell and descriptions of the killers, balaclavas and all, were sitting beside the public’s breakfast plates or flashing on their TV screens, the sooner information would start to come in. The news was too late for that morning’s papers, but it would make local radio and television, the Yorkshire Evening Post, and tomorrow’s national dailies.

Of course, Gristhorpe had given hardly any details about the murder itself. At first, he had even resisted the idea of releasing Rothwell’s name. After all, there had been no formal identification, and they didn’t have his fingerprints on file for comparison. On the other hand, there was little doubt as to what had happened, and they were hardly going to drag Alison or her mother along to the mortuary to identify the remains.

Gristhorpe had also been in touch with the antiterrorist squad at Scotland Yard. Yorkshire was far from a stranger to IRA action. People still remembered the M62 bomb in 1974, when a coach carrying British servicemen and their families was blown up, killing eleven and wounding fourteen. Many even claimed to have heard the explosion from as far away as Leeds and Bradford. More recently, two policemen had been shot by IRA members during a routine traffic check on the A1.

The antiterrorist squad would be able to tell Gristhorpe whether Rothwell had any connections, however tenuous, that would make him a target. As an accountant, he could, for example, have been handling money for a terrorist group. In addition, forensic information and details of the modus operandi would be made known to the squad, who would see if the information matched anything on file.

While Gristhorpe handled the news media and Richmond set up the Murder Room, Banks and Susan Gay had conducted a breakfast-time house-to-house of Relton and Fortford – including a visit to the Rose and Crown and a generous breakfast from Ian Falkland – trying to find out a bit about Rothwell, and whether anyone had seen or heard anything unusual on the night of the murder.

Gristhorpe, Richmond and Susan Gay were already in the room when Banks arrived and poured himself a large black coffee. The conference room was nicknamed the “Boardroom” because of its well-polished, heavy oval table and ten stiff-backed chairs, not to mention the coarse-textured burgundy wallpaper, which gave the room a constant aura of semi-darkness, and the large oil painting (in ornate gilt frame) of one of Eastvale’s most successful nineteenth-century wool merchants, looking decidedly sober and stiff in his tight-fitting suit and starched collar.

“Right,” said Gristhorpe, “time to get up to date. Alan?”

Banks slipped a few sheets of paper from his briefcase and rubbed his eyes. “Not much so far, I’m afraid. Rothwell was trained as an accountant. At least we’ve got that much confirmed. Some of the locals in Relton and Fortford knew him, but not well. Apparently, he was a quiet sort of bloke. Kept to himself.”

“Who did he work for?”

“Self-employed. We got this from Ian Falkland, landlord of the Rose and Crown in Fortford. He said Rothwell used to drop by now and then for a quick jar before dinner. Never had more than a couple of halves. Well-liked, quiet, decent sort of chap. Anyway, he used to work for Hatchard and Pratt, the Eastvale firm, until he started his own business. Falkland used him for the pub’s accounts. I gather Rothwell saved him a bob or two from the Inland Revenue.” Banks scratched the small scar by his right eye. “There’s a bit more to it than that, though,” he went on. “ Falkland got the impression that Rothwell owned a few businesses as well, and that accountancy was becoming more of a sideline for him. We couldn’t get any more than that, but we’ll be having a close look at his office today.”

Gristhorpe nodded.

“And that’s about it,” Banks said. “The Rothwell family had been living at Arkbeck Farm for almost five years. They used to live in Eastvale.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going out to Arkbeck Farm again after this meeting. I’m hoping Mrs. Rothwell will have recovered enough to tell us something about what happened.”

“Good. Any leads on the two men?”

“Not yet, but Susan spoke to someone who thinks he saw a car.”

Gristhorpe looked at Susan.

“That’s right, sir,” she said. “It was around sunset last night, before it got completely dark. A retired schoolteacher from Fortford was coming back home after visiting his daughter in Pateley Bridge. He said he liked to take the lonely roads over the moors.”

“Where did he see this car?”

“At the edge of the moors above Relton, sir. It was parked in a turn-off, just a dip by the side of the road. I think it used to be an old drover’s track, but it’s not used anymore, and only the bit by the road is clear. The rest has been taken over by moorland. Anyway, sir, the thing is that the way the road curves in a wide semi-circle around the farm, this spot would only be about a quarter of a mile away on foot. Remember that copse opposite the farmhouse? Well, it’s the same one that straggles up the daleside as far as this turn-off. It would provide excellent cover if someone wanted to get to the farm without being seen, and Alison wouldn’t have heard the car approaching if it had been parked way up on the road.”

“Sounds promising,” said Gristhorpe. “Did the witness notice anything about the car?”

“Yes, sir. He said it looked like an old Escort. It was a light color. For some reason he thought pale blue. And there was either rust or mud or grass around the lower chassis.”

“It’s hardly the bloody stretch-limousine you associate with hit men, is it?” Gristhorpe said.

“More of a Yorkshire version,” said Banks.

Gristhorpe laughed. “Aye. Better follow it up, then, Susan. Get a description of the car out. I don’t suppose your retired schoolteacher happened to see two men dressed in black carrying a shotgun, did he?”

Susan grinned. “No, sir.”

“Rothwell didn’t do any farming himself, did he?” Gristhorpe asked Banks.

“No. Only that vegetable patch we saw at the back. He rented out the rest of his land to neighboring farmers. There’s a fellow I know farms up near Relton I want to talk to. Pat Clifford. He should know if there were any problems in that area.”

“Good,” said Gristhorpe. “As you know, a lot of locals don’t like newcomers buying up empty farms and not using them properly.”

Gristhorpe, Banks knew, had lived in the farmhouse above Lyndgarth all his life. Perhaps he had even been born there. He had sold off most of the land after his parents died and kept only enough for a small garden and for his chief off-duty indulgence: a dry-stone wall he worked on periodically, which went nowhere and fenced nothing in.

“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “there’s been some bad feeling. I can’t see a local farmer hiring a couple of killers – people like to take care of their own around these parts – but stranger things have happened. And remember: shotguns are common as cow-clap around farms. Anything on that wadding yet?”

Banks shook his head. “The lab’s still working on it. I’ve already asked West Yorkshire to make a few enquiries at the kind of places that sell that sort of magazine. I talked to Ken Blackstone at Millgarth in Leeds. He’s a DI there and an old mate.”

“Good,” said Gristhorpe, then turned to Richmond. “Phil, why don’t you go up to Arkbeck Farm with Alan and have a look at Rothwell’s computer before you get bogged down managing the office?”

“Yes, sir. Do you think we should have it brought in after I’ve had a quick look?”

Gristhorpe nodded. “Aye, good idea.” He scratched his pock-marked cheek. “Look, Phil, I know you’re supposed to be leaving us for the Yard at the end of the week, but-”

“It’s all right, sir,” Richmond said. “I understand. I’ll stick around as long as you need me.”

“Good lad. Susan, did you find anything interesting in the appointment book?”

Susan Gay shook her head. “Not yet, sir. He had a doctor’s appointment for yesterday morning with Dr. Hunter. I called the office and it appears he kept it. Routine physical. No problems. I’m working my way through. He didn’t write much down – or maybe he kept it on computer – but there’s a few names to check out, mostly local businesses. I must say, though, sir, he didn’t exactly have a full appointment book. There are plenty of empty days.”

“Maybe he didn’t need the money. Maybe he could afford to pick and choose. Have a word with someone at his old firm, Hatchard and Pratt. They’re just on Market Street. They might be able to tell us something about his background.” Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Okay, we’ve all got plenty to do, better get to it.”

2

“I’m afraid my mother’s still in bed,” Alison told Banks at Arkbeck Farm. “I told her you were here… ” She shrugged.

That was odd, Banks thought. Surely a mother would want to comfort her daughter and protect her from prying policemen? “Have you remembered anything else?” he asked.

Alison Rothwell looked worn out and worried to death. She wore her hair, unwashed and a little greasy, tied back, emphasizing her broad forehead, a plain white T-shirt and stonewashed designer jeans. She sat with her legs tucked under her, and as she talked, she fiddled with a ring on the little finger of her right hand. “I don’t know,” she said. The lisp made her sound like a little girl.

They sat in a small, cheerful room at the back of the house with ivory-painted walls and Wedgwood blue upholstery. A bookcase stood against one wall, mostly full of paperbacks, their spines a riot of orange, green and black. Against the wall opposite stood an upright piano with a highly lacquered cherry-wood finish. On top of it stood an untidy pile of sheet music. WPC Smithies, who had stayed with the Rothwells, sat discreetly in a corner, notebook open. Phil Richmond was upstairs in Keith Rothwell’s study, clicking away on the computer.

The large bay window, open about a foot to let in the birdsongs and fresh air, looked out over Fortford and the dale beyond. It was a familiar enough view to Banks. He had seen it from “Maggie’s Farm” on the other side of Relton, and from the house of a man called Adam Harkness on the valley bottom. The sight never failed to impress, though, even on a dull day like today, with the gray-brown ruins of Dev-raulx Abbey poking through the trees of its grounds, the village of Lyndgarth clustered around its lopsided green and, towering over the patchwork of pale green fields and dry-stone walls that rose steeply to the heights, the forbidding line of Aldington Edge, a long limestone scar streaked with fissures from top to bottom like gleaming skeleton’s teeth.

“I know it’s painful to remember,” Banks went on, “but we need all the help we can get if we’re to catch these men.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Do you remember hearing any sounds between the time they went outside and when you heard the bang?”

Alison frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“No sounds of a struggle, or screaming?”

“No. It was all so quiet. That’s what I remember.”

“No talking?”

“I didn’t hear any.”

“And you don’t know how long they were out there before the explosion?”

“No. I was scared and I was worried. Mum was sitting facing me. I could see how frightened she was, but I couldn’t do anything. I just felt so powerless.”

“When it was all over, did you hear any sounds then?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Try to remember. Did you hear what direction they went off in?”

“No.”

“Any sounds of a car?”

She paused. “I think I heard a car door shut, but I can’t be sure. I mean, I didn’t hear it drive away, but I think I kept sort of drifting in and out. I think I heard a sound like the slam of a car door in the distance.”

“Do you know which direction it came from?”

“Further up the daleside, I think. Relton way.”

“Good. Now, can you remember anything else about the men?”

“One of them, the one who touched me. I’ve been thinking about it. He had big brown eyes, a sort of light hazel color, and watery. There’s a word for it. Like a dog.”

“Spaniel?”

“Yes. That’s it. Spaniel eyes. Or puppy dog. He had puppy-dog eyes. But they’re usually… you know, they usually make you feel sorry for the person, but these didn’t. They were cruel.”

“Did either of the men say anything else?”

“No.”

“Did they go anywhere else in the house? Any other rooms?”

“No.”

“Did you see them take anything at all?”

Alison shook her head.

“When your father saw them and later went outside with them, how did he seem?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he surprised?”

“When he first came in and they grabbed him, yes.”

“But after?”

“I… I don’t know. He didn’t do anything or say anything. He just stood there.”

“Do you think he recognized the men?”

“How could he? They were all covered up.”

“Did he seem surprised after the immediate shock had worn off?”

“I don’t think he did, no. Just… resigned.”

“Was he expecting them?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Do you think he knew them, knew why they were there?”

“How could he?”

She spoke with such disbelief that Banks wondered if she had noticed that her father really wasn’t so shocked or surprised and it confused her. “Do you think he knew what was happening?” he pressed. “Why it was happening?”

“Maybe. No. I don’t know. He couldn’t possibly, could he?” She screwed up her eyes. “I can’t see it that clearly. I don’t want to see it clearly.”

“All right, Alison. It’s all right. I’m sorry, but I have to ask.”

“I know. I don’t mean to be a cry-baby.” She rubbed her bare arm over her eyes.

“You’re being very brave. Just one more question about what happened and then we’ll move on. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Did your father go quietly or did they have to force him?”

“No, he just walked out with them. He didn’t say anything.”

“Did he look frightened?”

“He didn’t look anything.” She reddened. “And he didn’t do anything. He just left Mum and me all tied up and let them take him and… and kill him like an animal.”

“All right, Alison, calm down. How did you get free from the chair after they’d gone?”

Alison sniffled and blew her nose. “It was a long time,” she said finally. “Hours maybe. Some of the time I just sat there, but not really there, if you know what I mean. I think Mum had fainted. They’d really tied us tight and I couldn’t feel my hands properly.”

As she spoke, she rubbed at her wrists, still ringed by the burn-marks. “In the end, I tipped my chair and crawled over near the table where my mother’s sewing basket was. I knew there were scissors in there. I had to rub my hands for a long time, so they could feel properly, and I don’t know how… but in the end I cut the rope, then I untied Mum.” She shifted her position. “I’m worried about Mum. She’s not herself. She doesn’t want to eat. What’s going to happen to her?”

“I’m all right, Alison, dear. There’s no need to worry.”

The voice came from the doorway, and Banks turned for his first glance of Mrs. Rothwell. She was a tall woman with short gray hair and fine-boned, angular features, the small nose perhaps just a little too sharply chiselled. There seemed an unusually wide space, Banks thought, between her nose and her thin upper lip, which gave her tilted head a haughty, imperious aspect. Banks could see where Alison got her small mouth from.

Her chestnut-brown eyes looked dull. Tranquilizers prescribed by Dr. Burns, Banks guessed. They would help to explain her listless movements, too. Her skin was pale, as if drained of blood, though Banks could tell she had put some make-up on. In fact, she had made a great effort to look her best. She wore black silk slacks over her thin, boyish hips, and a cable-knit jumper in a rainbow pattern, which looked to Banks’s untutored eye like an exclusive design. At least he had never seen one like it before. Even in her sedated grief, there was something controlled, commanding and attention-demanding about her, a kind of tightly reined-in power.

She sat down in the other armchair, crossed her legs and clasped her hands on her lap. Banks noticed the chunky rings on her fingers: diamond clusters, a large ruby and a broad gold wedding band.

Banks introduced himself and expressed his condolences. She inclined her head slightly in acceptance.

“I’m afraid I have some difficult questions for you, Mrs. Rothwell,” he said.

“Not about last night,” she said, one bejewelled hand going to her throat. “I can’t talk about it. I feel faint, my voice goes and I just can’t talk.”

“Mummy,” said Alison. “I’ve told him about… about that. Haven’t I?” And she looked at Banks as if daring him to disagree.

“Yes,” he said. “Actually, it wasn’t that I wanted to ask about specifically. It’s just that we need more information on your husband’s movements and activities. Can you help?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. I’m not usually such a mess.” She touched her hair. “I must look dreadful.”

Banks murmured a compliment. “Did your husband have any enemies that you knew of?” he asked.

“No. None at all. But then he didn’t bore me with the details of his business. I really had no idea what kind of people he dealt with.” Her accent, Banks noticed, was Eastvale filtered through elocution lessons. Elocution lessons. He hadn’t thought people took those in this day and age.

“So he never brought his business home, so to speak?”

“No.”

“Did he travel much?”

“Do you mean abroad?”

“Anywhere.”

“Well, he did go abroad now and then, on business, and of course, we’d holiday in Mexico, Hawaii or Bermuda. He also travelled a lot locally in the course of business. He was away a lot.”

“Where did he go?”

“Oh, all over. Leeds, Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Bristol. Sometimes to London, Europe. He had a very important job. He was a brilliant financial analyst, much in demand. He could pick and choose his clients, could Keith, he didn’t have to take just any old thing that came along.”

“You mentioned financial analysis. What exactly did he do?”

She picked at the wool on her sleeve with long, bony fingers. “As I said, he didn’t tell me much about work, not about the details, anyway. He qualified as a chartered accountant, of course, but that was only part of it. He had a genius for figures. He advised people what to do with their money, helped businesses out of difficulties. I suppose he was a kind of trouble-shooter, if you like. A very exclusive one. He didn’t need any new clients, and people only found out about him by word of mouth.”

That all sounded sufficiently vague to be suspicious to Banks. On the other hand, what did he do? Investigate crimes, yes. But to do so, he chatted with locals over a pint, interviewed bereaved relatives, pored over fingerprints and blood samples. It would all sound rather nebulous and aimless to an outsider.

“And you never met any of his business associates?”

“We had people for dinner occasionally, but we never talked business.”

“Maybe, if you have a moment later, you could make a list of those you entertained most frequently?”

She raised her eyebrows. “If you want.”

“Now, Mrs. Rothwell,” Banks said, wishing he could have a cigarette in what was obviously a non-smoking household, “this next question may strike you as rather indelicate, but were there any problems in the family?”

“Of course not. We’re a happy family. Aren’t we, Alison?”

Alison looked at Banks. “Yes, Mother,” she said.

Banks turned back to Mrs. Rothwell. “Had your husband been behaving at all unusually recently?” he asked. “Had you noticed any changes in him?”

She frowned. “He had been a bit edgy, tense, a bit more preoccupied and secretive than usual. I mean, he was always quiet, but he’d been even more so.”

“For how long?”

She shrugged. “Two or three weeks.”

“But he never told you what was wrong?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

“My husband didn’t appreciate people prying into his private business affairs, Chief Inspector.”

“Not even his wife?”

“I assumed that if and when he wanted to tell me, he would do so.”

“What did you talk about over dinner yesterday?”

She shrugged. “Just the usual things. The children, the house extension we wanted to have done… I don’t know, really. What do you talk about when you’re out for dinner with your wife?”

Good question, Banks thought. It had been so long since he and Sandra had gone out to dinner together that he couldn’t remember what they talked about. “Did you have any idea what he might have been worried about?” he asked.

“No. I suppose it was one of the usual business problems. Keith really cared about his clients.”

“What business problems? I thought he didn’t talk to you about business.”

“He didn’t, Chief Inspector. Please don’t twist what I say. He just made the occasional offhand comment. You know, maybe he’d read something in the Financial Times or something and make a comment. I never understood what he meant. Anyway, I think one of the companies he was trying to help was sinking fast. Things like that always upset him.”

“Do you know which company?”

“No. It’ll be on his computer. He put everything on that computer.” Suddenly, Mrs. Rothwell put the back of one ringed hand to her forehead in what seemed to Banks a gesture from a nineteenth-century melodrama. Her forehead looked clammy. “I’m afraid I can’t talk anymore,” she whispered. “I feel a bit faint and dizzy. I… Alison.”

Alison helped her up and they left the room. Banks glanced over at WPC Smithies. “Have you picked up anything at all from them?” he asked.

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Nothing. I’ll tell you one thing, though, they’re a weird pair. It’s an odd family. I think they’re both retreating from reality, in their own ways, trying to deny what happened, or how it happened. But you can see that for yourself.”

“Yes.”

Banks listened to a clock tick on the mantelpiece. It was one of those timepieces with all its brass and silver innards showing inside a glass dome.

A couple of minutes later, Alison came back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mummy’s still weak and in shock. The doctor gave her some pills.”

“That’s understandable, Alison,” said Banks. “I’d almost finished, anyway. Just one last question. Do you know where your brother is? We’ll have to get in touch with him.”

Alison picked up a postcard from the top of the piano, gave it to Banks and sat down again.

The card showed the San Francisco Golden Gate Bridge, which looked orange to Banks. He flipped it over. Postmarked two weeks ago, it read,

Dear Ali,

Love California, and San Francisco is a great city, but it’s time to move on. I’m even getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road! This sight-seeing’s a tiring business so I’m off to Florida for a couple of weeks just lying in the sun. Ah, what bliss! Also to check out the motion picture conservatory in Sarasota. I’m driving down the coast highway and flying to Tampa from LA on Sunday. More news when I get there. Love to Mum,

Tom

“How long has he been gone?”

“Six weeks. Just over. He left on March 31st.”

“What does he do? What was that about a motion picture conservatory?”

Alison gave a brief smile. “He wants to work in films. He worked in a video shop and saved up. He’s hoping to go to film college in America and learn how to become a director.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-one.”

Banks stood up. “All right, Alison,” he said. “Thanks very much for all your help. WPC Smithies will be staying here for a while, so if you need anyone… And I’ll ask the doctor to pay your mother another visit.”

“Thank you. Please don’t worry about us.”

Banks looked in on Richmond, who sat bathed in the bluish glow of Rothwell’s monitor, oblivious to the world, then went out to his car and lit a cigarette. He rolled the window down and listened to the birds as he smoked. Birds aside, it was bloody quiet up here. How, he wondered, could a teenager like Alison stand the isolation? As WPC Smithies had said, the Rothwells were an odd family.

As he drove along the bumpy track to the Relton road, he slipped in a tape of Dr. John playing solo New Orleans piano music. He had developed a craving for piano music – any kind of piano music – recently. He was even thinking of taking piano lessons; he wanted to learn how to play everything – classical, jazz, blues. The only thing that held him back was that he felt too old to embark on such a venture. His forty-first birthday was coming up in a couple of weeks.

In Relton, a couple of old ladies holding shopping baskets stood chatting outside the butcher’s shop, probably about the murder.

Banks thought again about Alison Rothwell and her mother as he pulled up outside the Black Sheep. What were they holding back? And what was it that bothered him? No matter what Mrs. Rothwell and Alison had said, there was something wrong in that family, and he had a hunch that Tom Rothwell might know what it was. The sooner they contacted him the better.

3

Laurence Pratt delved deep in his bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier VSOP and two snifters.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized to DC Susan Gay, who sat opposite him at the broad teak desk. “It’s not that I’m a secret tippler. I keep it for emergencies, and I’m afraid what you’ve just told me most definitely constitutes one. You’ll join me?”

“No, thank you.”

“Not on duty?”

“Sometimes,” Susan said. “But not today.”

“Very well.” He poured himself a generous measure, swirled it and took a sip. A little color came back to his cheeks. “Ah… that’s better.”

“If we could get back to Mr. Rothwell, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. But you must understand Miss, Miss…?”

“Gay, sir. DC Gay.”

She saw the inadvertent smile flash across his face. People often smiled like that when she introduced herself. “Gay” had been a perfectly good name when she was a kid – her nickname for a while had been “Happy” Gay – but now its meaning was no longer the same. One clever bugger had actually asked, “Did you say AC or DC Gay?” She comforted herself with the thought that he was doing three to five in Strangeways thanks largely to her court evidence.

“Yes,” he went on, a frown quickly displacing the smile. “I’d heard about Keith’s death, of course, on the radio this lunch-time, but they didn’t say how it happened. That’s a bit of a shock, to be honest. You see, I knew Keith quite well. I’m only about three years older than he, and we worked here together for some years.”

“He left the firm five years ago, is that right?”

“About right. A big move like that takes quite a bit of planning, quite a bit of organizing. There were client files to be transferred, that sort of thing. And he had the house to think of, too.”

“He was a partner?”

“Yes. My father, Jeremiah Pratt, was one of the founders of the firm. He’s retired now.”

“I understand the family used to live in Eastvale, is that right?”

“Yes. Quite a nice house out toward the York roundabout. Catterick Street.”

“Why did they move?”

“Mary always fancied living in the country. I don’t know why. She wasn’t any kind of nature girl. I think perhaps she wanted to play Lady of the Manor.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Pratt shrugged. “Just her nature.”

“What about her husband?”

“Keith didn’t mind. I should imagine he liked the solitude. I don’t mean he was exactly antisocial, but he was never a great mixer, not lately, anyway. He travelled a lot, too.”

Pratt was in his mid-forties, Susan guessed, which did indeed make him just a few years older than Keith Rothwell. Quite good-looking, with a strong jaw and gray eyes, he wore his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his mauve and green tie clipped with what looked like a silver American dollar sign. His hairline was receding and what hair remained was gray at the temples. He wore black-framed glasses, which sat about halfway down his nose.

“Did you ever visit him there?”

“Yes. My wife and I dined with the Rothwells on several occasions.”

“Were you friends?”

Pratt took another sip of Cognac, put his hand out and waggled it from side to side. “Hmm. Somewhere between friends and colleagues, I’d say.”

“Why did he leave Hatchard and Pratt?”

Pratt broke eye contact and looked into the liquid he swirled in his snifter. “Ambition, maybe? Straightforward accountancy bored him. He was fond of abstractions, very good with figures. He certainly had a flair for financial management. Very creative.”

“Does that imply fraudulent?”

Pratt looked up at her. She couldn’t read his expression. “I resent that implication,” he said.

“Was there any bad feeling?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“When he left the firm. Had there been any arguments, any problems?”

“Good lord, this was five years ago!”

“Even so.”

Pratt adopted a stiffer tone. “No, of course there hadn’t. Everything was perfectly amicable. We were sorry to lose him, of course, but… ”

“He wasn’t fired or anything?”

“No.”

“Did he take any clients with him?”

Pratt shuffled in his chair. “There will always be clients who feel they owe their loyalty to an individual member of the firm rather than to the firm as a whole.”

“Are you sure this didn’t cause bad feeling?”

“No, of course not. While it’s unprofessional to solicit clients and woo them away, most firms do accept that they will lose some business whenever a popular member leaves to set up on his own. Say, for example, you visit a particular dentist in a group practice. You feel comfortable with him. He understands how you feel about dentists, you feel safe with him. If he left and set up on his own, would you go with him or stay and take your chances?”

Susan smiled. “I see what you mean. Do you think you could provide me with a list of names of the clients he took?”

Pratt chewed his lower lip for a moment, as if debating the ethics of such a request, then said, “I don’t see why not. You could find out from his records anyway.”

“Thank you. He must have made a fair bit of money somehow,” Susan said. “How did he do it?”

Pratt, who if truth be told, Susan thought, suppressing a giggle, might not be entirely happy about his name, either, made a steeple of his hairy hands. “The same way we all do, I assume,” he said. “Hard work. Good investments. Excellent service. Arkbeck Farm was in pretty poor shape when they bought it, you know. It didn’t cost a fortune, and he’d no trouble arranging a fair mortgage. He put a lot into that house over the years.”

Susan looked at her notes and frowned as if she were having trouble reading or understanding them. “I understand Mr. Rothwell actually owned a number of businesses. Do you know anything about this?”

Pratt shook his head. “Not really. I understand he was interested in property development. As I said, Keith was an astute businessman.”

“Did Mrs. Rothwell work?”

“Mary? Good heavens, no! Well, not in the sense that she went out and made money. Mary was a housewife all the way. Well, perhaps ‘house manager’ or ‘lady of leisure’ would be a more appropriate term, as she didn’t actually do the work herself. Except for the garden. You must have seen Arkbeck, how clean it is, how well appointed?”

“I’m afraid I had other things on my mind when I was there, sir,” Susan said, “but I know what you mean.”

Pratt nodded. “For Mary,” he went on, “everything centered around the home, the family and the immediate community. Everything had to be just so, to look just right, and it had to be seen to look that way. I imagine she was a hard taskmaster, or should that be taskmistress? Of course, she didn’t spend all her time in the house. There were the Women’s Institute, the Church committees, the good works and the charities. Mary kept very busy, I can assure you.”

“Good works? Charities?” There was something positively Victorian about this. Susan pictured an earnest woman striding from hovel to hovel in a flurry of garments, long dress trailing in the mud, distributing alms to the peasants and preaching self-improvement.

“Yes. She collected for a number of good causes. You know, the RSPCA, NSPCC, cancer, heart foundation and the like. Nothing political – I mean, no ban the bomb or anything – and nothing controversial, like AIDS research. Just the basics. She was the boss’s daughter, after all. She had certain Conservative standards to keep up.”

“The boss’s daughter?”

“Yes, didn’t you know? Her maiden name was Mary Hatchard. She was old man Hatchard’s daughter. He’s dead now, of course.”

“So Keith Rothwell married the boss’s daugher,” Susan mused aloud. “I don’t suppose that did his career any harm?”

“No, it didn’t. But that was more good luck than good management, if you ask me. Keith didn’t just marry the boss’s daughter, he got her pregnant first, with Tom, as it turns out, then he married her.”

“How did that go over?”

Pratt paused and picked up a paper-clip. “Not very well at first. Old man Hatchard was mad as hell. He kept the lid on it pretty well, of course, and after he’d had time to consider it, I think he was glad to get her off his hands. He could hardly have her married to a mere junior, though, so Keith came up pretty quickly through the ranks to full partner.”

Pratt twisted the paper-clip. He seemed to be enjoying this game, Susan thought. He was holding back, toying with her. She had a sense that if she didn’t ask exactly the right questions, she wouldn’t get the answers she needed. The problem was, she didn’t know what the right questions were.

They sat in his office over Winston’s Tobacconists, looking out on North Market Street, and Susan could hear the muted traffic sounds through the double-glazing. “Look,” Pratt went on, “I realize I’m the one being questioned, but could you tell me how Mary is? And Alison? I do regard myself as something of a friend of the family, and if there’s anything I can do… ”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure they know. Can you think of any reason anyone might have for killing Mr. Rothwell?”

“No, I can’t. Not in the way you described.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I suppose I could imagine a burglar, say, perhaps killing someone who got in the way. You read about it in the papers, especially these days. Or an accident, some kids joyriding. But this…? It sounds like an assassination to me.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“About a month ago. No, earlier. In March, I think. Shortly after St. Patrick’s Day. The wife and I went for dinner. Mary’s a splendid cook.”

“Did they entertain frequently?”

“Not that I know of. They had occasional small dinner parties, maximum six people. Keith didn’t like socializing much, but Mary loved to show off the house, especially if she’d acquired a new piece of furniture or something. So they compromised. Last time it was the kitchen we had to admire. They used to have a country-style one, Aga and all, but someone started poking fun at ‘Aga-louts’ in the papers, so Mary got annoyed and went for the modern look.”

“I see. What about the son, Tom? What do you know of him?”

“Tom? He’s travelling in America, I understand. Good for him. Nothing like travel when you’re young, before you get too tied down. Tom was always a cheerful and polite kid as far as I was concerned.”

“No trouble?”

“Not in any real sense, no. I mean, he wasn’t into drugs or any of that weird stuff. At worst I’d say he was a bit uncertain about what he wanted to do with his life, and his father was perhaps just a little impatient.”

“In what way?”

“He wanted Tom to go into business or law. Something solid and respectable like that.”

“And Tom?”

“Tom’s the artsy type. But he’s a bright lad. With his personality he could go almost anywhere. He just doesn’t know where yet. After he left school, he drifted a bit. Still is doing, it seems.”

“Would you say there was friction between them?”

“You can’t be suggesting-”

“I’m not suggesting anything.” Susan leaned back in the chair. “Look, Mr. Pratt, as far as we know Tom Rothwell is somewhere in the USA. We’re trying to find him, but it could take time. The reason I’m asking you all these questions is because we need to know everything about Keith Rothwell.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. But what with the shock of Keith’s death and you asking about Tom… ”

Susan leaned forward again. “Is there any reason,” she asked, “why you should think I was putting forward Tom as a suspect?”

“Stop trying to read between the lines. There’s nothing written there. It was just the way you were asking about him, that’s all. Tom and his father had the usual father-son arguments, but nothing more.”

“Where did Tom get the money for a trip to America?”

“What? I don’t know. Saved up, I suppose.”

“You say you last saw Keith Rothwell in March?”

“Yes.”

“Have you spoken with him at all since then?”

“No.”

“Did he seem in any way different from usual then? Worried about anything? Nervous?”

“No, not that I can remember. It was a perfectly normal evening. Mary cooked duck à l’orange. Tom dropped in briefly, all excited about his trip. Alison stayed in her room.”

“Did she usually do that?”

“Alison’s a sweet child, but she’s a real loner, very secretive. Takes after her father. She’s a bit of a bookworm, too.”

“What did you talk about that evening?”

“Oh, I can’t remember. The usual stuff. Politics. Europe. The economy. Holiday plans.”

“Who else was there?”

“Just us, this time.”

“And Mr. Rothwell said nothing that caused you any concern?”

“No. He was quiet.”

“Unusually so?”

“He was usually quiet.”

“Secretive?”

Pratt swivelled his chair and gazed out of the window at the upper story of the Victorian community center. Susan followed his gaze. She was surprised to see a number of gargoyles there she had never noticed before.

When he spoke again, Pratt still didn’t look at Susan. She could see him only in profile. “I’ve always felt that about him, yes,” he said. “That’s why I hesitated to call him a close friend. There was always something in reserve.” He turned to face Susan again and placed his hands, palms down, on the desk. “Oh, years ago we’d let loose once in a while, go get blind drunk and not give a damn. Sometimes we’d go fishing together. But over time, Keith sort of reined himself in, cut himself off. I don’t really know how to explain this. It was just a feeling. Keith was a very private person… well, lots of people are… But the thing was, I had no idea what he lived for.”

“Did he suffer from depression? Did you think-”

Pratt waved a hand. “No. No, you’re getting me wrong. He wasn’t suicidal. That’s not what I meant.”

“Can you try and explain?”

“I’ll try. It’s hard, though. I mean, I’d be hard pushed to say what I live for, too. There’s the wife and kids, of course, my pride and joy. And we like to go hang-gliding over Se-merwater on suitable weekends. I collect antiques, I love cricket, and we like to explore new places on our holidays. See what I mean? None of that’s what I actually live for, but it’s all part of it.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, then put them back on again. “I know, I’m getting too philosophical. But I told you it was hard to explain.”

Susan smiled. “I’m still listening.”

“Well, all those are just things, aren’t they? Possessions or activities. Things we do, things we care about. But there’s something behind them all that ties them all together into my life, who I am, what I am. With Keith, you never knew. He was a cipher. For example, I’m sure he loved his family, but he never really showed it or spoke much about it. I don’t know what really mattered to him. He never talked about hobbies or anything like that. I don’t know what he did in his spare time. It’s more than being private or secretive, it’s as if there was a dimension missing, a man with a hole in the middle.” He scratched his temple. “This is ridiculous. Please forgive me. Keith was a perfectly nice bloke. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. But you never really knew what gripped him about life, what his dream was. I mean, mine’s a villa in Portugal, but a dream doesn’t have to be a thing, does it? I don’t know… maybe he valued abstractions too much.”

He paused, as if he had run out of breath and ideas. Susan didn’t really know what to jot down, but she finally settled for “dimension missing… interests and concerns elusive.” It would do. She had a good memory for conversations and could recount verbatim most of what Pratt had said, if Banks wished to hear it.

“Let’s get back to Mr. Rothwell’s work with your firm. Is there anything you can tell me about his… style… shall we say, his business practices?”

“You want to know if Keith was a crook, don’t you?”

She did, of course, though that wasn’t why she was asking. Still, she thought, never look a gift horse in the mouth. She gave him a “you caught me at it” smile. “Well, was he?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Pratt. Surely in your business you must sail a little close to the wind at times?”

“I resent that remark, especially coming from a policeman.”

Susan let that one slip by. “Touché,” she said. Pratt seemed pleased enough with himself. Let him feel he’s winning, she thought, then he’ll tell you anyway, just to show he holds the power to do so. She was still sure he was holding something back. “But seriously, Mr. Pratt,” she went on, “I’m not just playing games, bandying insults. If there was anything at all unusual in Mr. Rothwell’s business dealings, I hardly need tell you it could have a bearing on his murder.”

“Hmm.” Pratt swirled the rest of the brandy and tossed it back. He put the snifter in his “Out” tray, no doubt for the secretary to take and wash. “I stand by what I said,” he went on. “Keith Rothwell never did anything truly illegal that I knew of. Certainly nothing that could be relevant to his death.”

“But…?”

He sighed. “Well, maybe I wasn’t entirely truthful earlier. I suppose I’d better tell you about it, hadn’t I? You’re bound to find out somehow.”

Susan turned her page. “I’m listening,” she said.