Final Account

1

The Black Sheep was the closest Swainsdale had to a well-kept secret. Most tourists were put off by the pub’s external shabbiness. Those who prided themselves on not judging a book by its cover would, more often than not, pop their heads around the door, see the even shabbier interior and leave.

The renowned surliness of the landlord, Larry Grafton, kept them away in droves, too. There was a rumor that Larry had once refused to serve an American tourist with a Glen-morangie and ginger, objecting to the utter lack of taste that led her to ask for such a concoction. Banks believed it.

Larry was Dales born and bred, not one of the new landlords up from London. So many were recent immigrants these days, like Ian Falkland in the Rose and Crown. That was a tourist pub if ever there was one, Banks thought, probably selling more lager and lime, pork scratchings and microwaved curries than anything else.

The Black Sheep didn’t advertise its pub grub, but anyone who knew about it could get as thick and fresh a ham and piccalilli sandwich as ever they’d want from Elsie, Larry’s wife. And on some days, if her arthritis hadn’t been bothering her too much and she felt like cooking, she could do you a fry-up so good you could feel your arteries hardening as you ate.

As usual, the public bar was empty apart from one table of old men playing dominoes and a couple of young farmhands reading the sports news in the Daily Mirror.

As Banks had expected, Pat Clifford also stood propping up the bar. Pat was a hard, stout man with a round head, stubble for hair and a rough, red face burned by the sun and whipped by the wind and rain for fifty years.

“Hello, stranger,” said Pat, as Banks stood next to him. “Long time, no see.”

Banks apologized for his absence and brought up the subject of Keith Rothwell.

“So tha only comes when tha wants summat, is that it?” Pat said. But he said it with a smile, and over the years Banks had learned that Yorkshire folk often take the sting out of their criticisms that way. They put a sting in their compliments, too, on those rare occasions they get around to giving any.

In this case, Banks guessed that Pat wasn’t mortally offended at his protracted absence; he only wanted to make a point of it, let Banks know his feelings, and then get on with things. Banks acknowledged his culpability with a mild protest about the pressures of work, as expected, then listened to a minute or so of Pat’s complaining about how the elderly and isolated were neglected by all and sundry.

When Pat’s glass was empty, an event which occurred with alarming immediacy at the end of the diatribe, Banks’s offer to buy him another was grudgingly accepted. Pat took a couple of sips, put the glass down on the bar and wiped his lips with the back of his grimy hand.

“He came in once or twice, did Mr. Rothwell. Local, like. Nobody objected.”

“How often?”

“Once a week, mebbe. Sometimes twice. Larry-?” And he asked the landlord the same question. Larry, who hardly had a charabanc full of thirsty customers to serve, came over and stood with them. He still treated Banks with a certain amount of disdain – after all, Banks was a southerner and a copper – but he showed respect, too.

Banks had never tried too hard to fit in, to pretend he was one of the crowd like some of the other incomers. He knew there was nothing annoyed a Dalesman so much as pretentiousness, airs and graces, and that there was nothing more contemptible or condescending than a southerner appropriating Dales speech and ways, playing the expert on a place he had only just come to. Banks kept his distance, kept his counsel, and in return he was accorded that particular Yorkshire brand of grudging acceptance.

“Just at lunch-times, like,” Larry said. “Never saw him of an evening. He’d come in for one of Elsie’s sandwiches and always drink half a pint. Just one half, mind you.”

“Did he talk much?”

Larry drifted off to dry some glasses and Pat picked up the threads. “Nay. He weren’t much of a chatterbox, weren’t Mr. Rothwell. Bit of a dry stick, if you ask me.”

“What do you mean? Was he stuck-up?”

“No-o. Just had nowt to talk abaht, that’s all.” He tapped the side of his nose. “If you listen as much as I do,” he said, “you soon find out what interests people. There’s not much when it comes down to it, tha knows.” He started counting on the stubby fingers that stuck out of his cut-off gloves. “Telly, that’s number one. Sport – number two. And sex. That’s number three. After that there’s nobbut money and weather left.”

Banks smiled. “What about politics?” he asked.

Pat pulled a face. “Only when them daft buggers in t’Common Market ’ave been up to summat with their Common Agricultural Policy.” Then he grinned, showing stained, crooked teeth. “Aye, I suppose that’s often enough these days,” he admitted, counting it off. “Politics. Number four.”

“And what did Mr. Rothwell talk about when he was here?” Banks asked.

“Nowt. That’s what I’m telling thee, lad. Oh, I s’pose seeing as he was an accountant, he was interested in money, but he kept that to himself. He’d be standing there, all right, just where you are, munching on his sandwich, supping his half-pint, and nodding in all the right places, but he never had owt to say. It seemed to me as if he were really somewhere else. And he didn’t know ‘Neighbours’ from ‘ Coronation Street,’ if you ask me – or Leeds United from Northampton.”

“There’s not a lot of difference as far as their performances go over the last few weeks, if you ask me, Pat.”

Pat grunted.

“So you didn’t really know Keith Rothwell?” Banks asked.

“No. Nobody did.”

“That’s right, Mr. Banks,” added Larry as he stood by them to pull a pint. “He said he came for the company, what with working alone at home and all that, but I reckon as he came to get away from that there wife of his.” Then he was gone, bearing the pint.

Banks turned to Pat. “What did he mean?”

“Ah, take no notice of him,” Pat said with a dismissive wave in Grafton’s direction. “Mebbe he was a bit henpecked, at that. It must be hard working at home when the wife’s around all the time. Never get a minute’s peace, you wouldn’t. But Larry’s lass, Cathy, did for Mrs. Rothwell now and again, like, and she says she were a bit of an interfering mistress, if you know what I mean. Standing over young Cathy while she worked and saying that weren’t done right, or that needed a bit more elbow grease. I nobbut met Mrs. Rothwell once or twice, but my Grace speaks well of her, and that’s enough for me.”

Banks thought he might have a word with Larry’s lass, Cathy. He noticed Pat’s empty glass. “Another?”

“Oh, aye. Thank you very much.” Banks bought him a pint, but decided to forgo a second himself, much as the idea appealed. “There were one time, when I comes to think on it,” Pat said, “that Mr. Rothwell seemed a bit odd.”

“When was this?”

“Abaht two or three weeks ago. He came in one lunch-time, as usual, like, but he must have had a couple of pints, not ’alves. Anyroad, he got quite chatty, told a couple of jokes, and we all had a good chuckle, didn’t we, Larry?”

“Aye,” shouted Larry from down the bar.

That sounded odd to Banks. According to Mrs. Rothwell, her husband had been tense and edgy over the past three weeks. If he could chat and laugh at the Black Sheep, then maybe the problem had been at home. “Is that all?” he asked.

“All? Well, it were summat for us to see him enjoying himself for once. I’d say that were enough, wouldn’t you?”

“Did he say anything unusual?”

“No. He just acted like an ordinary person. An ordinary happy person.”

“As if he’d received some good news or something?”

“He didn’t say owt about that.”

Banks gave up and moved on. “I know there’s been a bit of ill feeling among the hill-farmers about incomers lately,” he said. “Did any of it spill over to Mr. Rothwell?”

Pat sniffed. “You wouldn’t understand, Mr. Banks,” he said softly, offering an unfiltered cigarette. Banks refused it and lit a Silk Cut. “It’s not that there’s any ill feeling, as such. We just don’t know where we stand, how to plan for the future. One day the government says this, the next day it’s something else. Agricultural Policy… Europe… grugh.” He spat on the floor to show his feelings. Either nobody noticed or the practice was perfectly welcome in the Black Sheep, another reason why people stayed away. “It needs years of experience to do it right, does hill-farming,” Pat went on. “Continuity, passed on from father to son. When too many farms fall to weekenders and holidaymakers, pasture gets abused, walls get neglected. Live and let live, that’s what I say. But we want some respect and some understanding. And right now we’re not getting any.”

“But what about the incomers?”

“Aye, hold thy horses, lad, I’m getting to them. We’re not bloody park-keepers, tha knows. We don’t graft for hours on end in all t’weather God sends keeping stone walls in good repair because we think they look picturesque, tha knows. They’re to keep old Harry Cobb’s sheep off my pasture and to make sure there’s no hanky-panky between his breed and mine.”

Banks nodded. “Fair enough, Pat. But how deep did the feeling go? Keith Rothwell bought that farm five years ago, or thereabouts. I’ve seen what he’s done to it, and it’s not a farm anymore.”

“Aye, well at least Mr. Rothwell’s a Swainsdale lad, even if he did come from Eastvale. Nay, there were no problems. He sold off his land – I got some of it, and so did Frank Rowbottom. If you’re thinking me or Frank did it, then… ”

“No, nothing like that,” Banks said. “I just wanted to get a sense of how Rothwell fitted in with the local scene, if he did.”

“Well, he did and he didn’t,” said Pat. “He was here and he wasn’t, and that’s all I can tell thee. He could tell a joke well enough when he put his mind to it, though.” Pat chuckled at the memory.

As puzzled as he was before, Banks said goodbye and went outside. On the way back, he slipped in a cassette of Busoni’s Bach transcriptions. The precise, ordered music had no influence on the chaos of his thoughts.

2

Back in his office, Banks first glanced at Dr. Glendenning’s post-mortem notes. Generally, there was no such thing as a preliminary post-mortem report, but Dr. Glendenning usually condescended to send over the main points in layman’s language as quickly as possible. He also liked to appear at the scene, but this time he had been staying overnight with friends in Harrogate.

There was nothing in the notes that Banks hadn’t expected. Rothwell hadn’t been poisoned before he was shot; the stomach contents revealed only pasta and red wine. Dr. Glendenning gave cause of death as a shotgun wound to the occipital region, the back of the head, most likely a contact wound given the massive damage to bone and tissue. He also noted that it was lucky they already knew who the victim was, as there wasn’t enough connected bone or tissue left to reconstruct the face, and though the tooth fragments could probably be collected and analyzed, it would take a bloody long time. The blood group was “O,” which matched that supplied by Rothwell’s doctor, as well as that of about half the population.

Rothwell had most likely been killed in the place and position they found him, Dr. Glendenning pointed out, because what blood remained had collected as purplish hypostasis around the upper chest and the ragged edges of the neck. He estimated time of death between eleven and one the previous night.

A cadaveric spasm had caused Rothwell to grab and hold onto a handful of dust at the moment of death, and Banks thought of the T.S. Eliot quotation, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust,” which he had come across as the title of an Evelyn Waugh novel.

Rothwell had been in generally good shape, Dr. Glendenning said, and the only evidence of any ill health was an appendix scar. Rothwell’s doctor, Dr. Hunter, was able to verify that Rothwell had had his appendix removed just over three years ago.

When Banks had finished, he phoned Sandra to say he didn’t know when he would be home. She said that didn’t surprise her. Then he went over to the window and looked down on the cobbled market square, most of which was covered by parked cars. The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock stood at a quarter to four.

Banks lit a cigarette and watched the local merchants taking deliveries and the tourists snapping pictures of the ancient market cross and the Norman church front. It was fine enough weather out there, sports jacket warm, but the gray wash that had come at dawn still obscured the sunshine. On Banks’s Dalesman calendar, the May photograph showed a field of brilliant pink and purple flowers below Great Shunner Fell in Swaledale. So far, the real May had been struggling against showers and cool temperatures.

Sitting at his rattly metal desk, Banks next opened the envelope of Rothwell’s pocket contents and spread them out in front of him.

There were a few business cards in a leather slip-case, describing Rothwell as a “Financial Consultant.” In his wallet were three credit cards, including an American Express Gold; the receipt from Mario’s on the night of his anniversary dinner; receipts from Austick’s bookshop, a computer supplies shop and two restaurants, all from Leeds, and all dated the previous week; and photos of Alison and Mary Rothwell. Happy families indeed. In cash, Rothwell had a hundred and five pounds in his wallet, in new twenties and one crumpled old fiver.

Other pockets revealed a handkerchief, good quality silk and monogrammed “KAR,” like the cufflinks on the body, BMW keys, house keys, a small pack of Rennies, two buttons, a gold Cross fountain pen, an empty leather-bound notebook, and – horror of horrors – a packet of ten Benson and Hedges, six of which had been smoked.

Banks felt a surge of respect for the late Keith Rothwell. But perhaps the cigarettes helped to explain something, too. Banks was certain that Mary Rothwell would never have permitted her husband to pollute the house with his filthy habit. Smoking, then, could be the main reason he liked to sneak off to the Black Sheep or the Rose and Crown every now and then. It certainly wasn’t drinking. A secret smoker, then? Or did she know? He found no gold lighter, only a sulfurous old box of Pilot matches; and Rothwell was the kind of person who put his spent matches back in the box facing the opposite direction from the live ones.

It was almost six when the phone rang: Vic Manson calling from the forensic lab. Vic spent almost as much time with the Scene-of-Crime team from North Yorkshire Headquarters, in Northallerton, as he did at the lab, and though Banks knew Vic was a fingerprints expert, he sometimes wasn’t sure exactly what he did or where he really worked.

“What have you got for us?” Banks asked.

“Hold your horses.”

“Social call, is it, then?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

“The wadding, for a start.”

“What about it?”

“We managed to get some more of the paper unfolded. It wasn’t too badly burned inside. Anyway, the document analysts say it’s good magazine quality, probably German. No prints. Nothing but blurs. It’s not your common-or-garden girlie magazine, but it’s not hard-core perversion either. The fullest picture we could get seemed to be a shaved vagina with a finger touching the clitoris. Bright red nail varnish. The fingernail, that is.”

“That must be the other side of what I saw,” said Banks. “Does it help?”

“It might do. Apparently there are people who have a fetish about shaved vaginas. It’s something to go on, anyway.”

Banks sighed. “Or maybe our killer’s just got a warped sense of humor. We can check with the PNC, anyway, see if there’s been any similar incidents. What about the weapon?”

“Twelve-gauge, double-barrel. Judging by the amount of shot we’ve collected, the bastard who did it must have used both of them.”

“Anything from the house?”

“No prints, if that’s what you mean. They wore gloves. And there was nothing special about the rope they used to tie up the wife and daughter, either. By the way, remember one of the chairs was wet, the one overturned by the table?”

“Yes.”

“It was urine. The poor lass must have been so scared she pissed herself.”

Banks swallowed. That was Alison’s chair. She was the one who had eventually made her way to the sewing basket and toppled her chair. “Any footprints?” he asked.

“We’re still working on it, but don’t hold your breath. The ground had pretty much dried out after last week’s rain.”

“Okay, Vic, thanks for calling. Keep at it and keep me informed, okay?”

“Will do.”

After he had hung up, Banks lit another cigarette and walked over to the window again. Most of the tourists were getting in their cars, removing the crook-locks and driving home. The cobbles, cross and church front looked slate gray in the dull afternoon light. At the far side of the square, the El Toro coffee bar and Joplin ’s newsagent’s seemed to be doing good business.

Banks thought of Alison, who had shown so much courage in telling them about what had happened at Arkbeck Farm. Someone had scared her so much she had sat in her own urine, probably for hours. The idea of her indignity and humiliation made him angry. He vowed he would find whoever was responsible for doing that to her and make damn sure they suffered.

3

The Queen’s Arms was always busy at six o’clock on a Friday, and it was only through good luck and quick reflexes that Banks and Susan Gay managed to grab a copper-topped table by the window when a party of cashiers from the NatWest Bank gathered their things and left.

As happened so often in the Dales, the weather had changed dramatically over a very short period. A light breeze had sprung up and blown away the clouds. Now, the early evening sunlight glowed through the red and amber panes and shot bright rays through the clear ones, lighting on a foaming glass of ale and highlighting the smoke swirling in the air.

The sunlight and smoke reminded Banks of the effect the projection camera created at the cinema when smoking was allowed there. As kids, he and his friends used to put their money together for a packet of five Woodbines, then go to the morning matinee at the Palace: a Three Stooges short, a Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon serial, and a black-and-white western, maybe a Hopalong Cassidy. Slumped down in their seats, they would smoke “wild woodies” until they felt sick. He smiled at the memory and reached for a Silk Cut.

Conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed all around them, and the general mood was ebullient. After all, it was the weekend. For most people in the pub, there would be no work until Monday morning. They could go off shopping to York or Leeds, wallpaper the bedroom, visit Aunt Maisie in Skipton, or just lounge around and watch football or racing on telly. It was Cup Final day tomorrow, Banks remembered. Fat chance he’d get of watching it.

The best he could hope was that he would get home before too late tonight and spend some time with Sandra. It was the ideal opportunity for a bit of bridge-building. Tracy was away in France on a school exchange, and Brian was at Portsmouth Polytechnic, so they had the house to themselves for once. He would be too late for a shared dinner, but maybe a nice bottle of claret, a few Chopin “Nocturnes,” candlelight… then, who knew what might follow?

It was a nice fantasy. But right now he was waiting for Gristhorpe and Richmond, here to combine the pleasure of a pint and a steak-and-kidney pud with the business of swopping notes and fishing for leads at an informal meeting.

Once in a while, through the laughter and the arguments, Banks heard the Rothwell case mentioned. “Did you hear about that terrible murder up near Relton…?” “Hear about that bloke got shot out in the dale? I heard they blew his head right off his shoulders… ” By now, of course, everyone had had a chance to read the Yorkshire Evening Post, and people were only too willing to embroider on the scant details the newspaper gave. Rumor and fantasy were rife. What Gristhorpe hadn’t told the media so far was that Rothwell had been executed “gangland” style, and that the weapon used was a shotgun.

The best the press could manage so far was “LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MURDERED… Not more than a mile above the peaceful Swainsdale village of Fortford, a mild-mannered accountant was shot to death in his own garage in the early hours of this morning…” There followed an appeal for information about “two men in black” and a photograph of Keith Rothwell, looking exactly like a mild-mannered accountant, with his thinning fair hair combed back, showing the slight widow’s peak, his high forehead, slightly prissy lips and the wire-rimmed glasses. The glasses, Banks knew, had been found shattered to pieces along with the other wreckage of Rothwell’s skull.

Banks waved to Gristhorpe and Richmond, who nudged their way through the crowd to join them at the table. While he was on his feet, Richmond went to get a round of drinks and put in the food orders.

“At least we don’t have to worry about civilians overhearing classified information,” Gristhorpe said as he sat down and scraped his stool forward along the worn stone flagging. “I can hardly even hear myself think.”

When Richmond got back with the tray of drinks, Gristhorpe said, “Right, Phil, tell us what you found.”

They huddled close around the table. Richmond took a sip of his St. Clements. “There are several items that have been either encrypted or assigned passwords,” he said. “Some are complete directories, and one’s just a document file in a directory. He’s called it ‘LETTER.’”

“Can you get access?” Gristhorpe asked.

“Not easily, no, sir. Not unless you type the password at the prompt. Believe me, I’ve tried every trick and all I’ve got for my pains is gibberish.”

“All right.” Gristhorpe coughed and waved away Banks’s smoke with an exaggerated gesture. “Let’s assume he had some special reason for keeping these items secret. That means we’re definitely interested. You said you couldn’t gain access easily, but is there a way?”

Richmond cleared his throat. “Well, yes there is. Actually, there are two ways.”

“Come on, then, lad. Don’t keep us in suspense.”

“We could bring an expert. I mean a real expert, like someone who writes the programs.”

“Aye, and the other option?”

“Well, it’s not much known, for obvious reasons, but I went to a seminar once and the lecturer told me something that struck me as very odd.”

“What?”

“Well, there’s a company that sells by-pass programs for various software security systems.”

“That would probably be cheaper and quicker, wouldn’t it?” said Gristhorpe. “Can you get hold of a copy?”

“Yes, sir. But it’s not cheap. Actually, it’s quite expensive.”

“How much?”

“About two hundred quid.”

Gristhorpe whistled between his teeth, then he said, “We don’t have a lot of choice, do we? Go ahead, order one.”

“I already have done, sir.”

“And?”

“They’re based in Akron, Ohio, but they told me there’s a distributor in Taunton, Devon, who has some in stock. It could take a while to get it up here.”

“Tell the buggers to send it by courier, then. We might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Lord knows what the DCC will have to say come accounting time.”

“Maybe if it helps us solve the case,” Banks chipped in, “he’ll increase our budget.”

Gristhorpe laughed. “In a pig’s arse, he will. Go on, Phil.”

“That’s all, really,” said Richmond. “In the meantime, I’ll keep trying and see what I can do. People sometimes write their passwords down in case they forget them. If Rothwell did, the only problem is finding out where and in what form.”

“Interesting,” Banks said. “I’ve got one of those plastic cards, the ones you use to get money at the hole in the wall. I keep the number written in my address book disguised as part of a telephone number in case I forget it.”

“Exactly,” said Richmond.

“Short of trying every name and number in Rothwell’s address book,” Gristhorpe said, “is there any quick way of doing this?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Richmond said. “But often the password is a name the user has strong affinities with.”

“‘Rosebud’?” Banks suggested.

“Right,” said Richmond. “That sort of thing. Maybe something from his childhood.”

“‘Woodbines,’” said Banks. “Sorry, Phil, just thinking out loud.”

“But it could be anything. The name of a family member, for example. Or a random arrangement of letters, spaces, numbers and punctuation marks. It doesn’t have to make any sense at all.”

“Bloody hell.” Gristhorpe ran his hand through his unruly thatch of gray hair.

“All I can say is leave it with me, sir. I’ll do what I can. And I’ll ask the software distributor to put a rush on it.”

“All right. Susan? Anything from Hatchard and Pratt?”

Susan leaned forward to make herself heard. Just as she was about to start, Cyril called out their food number, and Richmond and Banks went through to bring back the trays. After a few mouthfuls, Susan started again. “Yes,” she said, dabbing at the side of her mouth with a napkin. “As it turns out, Rothwell was asked to leave the firm.”

“Asked to leave?” Gristhorpe echoed. “Does that mean fired?”

“Not exactly, sir. He was a partner. You can’t just fire partners. He was also married to the boss’s daughter. Mary Rothwell’s maiden name is Hatchard. He was asked to resign. They didn’t want a fuss.”

“Interesting,” said Gristhorpe. “What was it all about, then?”

Susan ate another mouthful of her Cornish pasty, then washed it down with a sip of Britvic orange and pushed her plate aside. “Laurence Pratt was reluctant to tell me about it,” she said, “but I think he knew he’d be in more trouble if we found out some other way. It seems Rothwell was caught padding the time sheets. It’s not a rare fiddle, according to Pratt. And he doesn’t regard it as strictly illegal, but it is unethical, and it’s bad luck for anyone who gets caught. Rothwell got off lucky.”

“What happened?” asked Gristhorpe.

“This was about five years ago. Rothwell was doing a lot of work for a large company. Pratt wouldn’t tell me who it was, but I don’t think that really matters. The point is that Pratt’s father was looking over the billings and noticed that Rothwell had doubled up on his hours here and there, at times he couldn’t have been working on their account because he’d been on another job, or out of town.”

“What did he do? Isn’t there some regulatory board he should have been reported to?”

“Yes, sir, there is. But, remember, Rothwell was married to Hatchard’s daughter, Mary. They’d been together nearly sixteen years by then, had two kids. Old man Hatchard would hardly want his son-in-law struck off and his family name dragged through the mud, which is probably what would have happened if Rothwell had been reported. I also got the impression that it might have been Mary’s demands that set Rothwell padding his accounts in the first place. Nothing was directly stated, you understand, sir, just hinted. Imagine the headlines: ‘Accountant fired for padding books to keep boss’s daughter in the manner to which she was accustomed.’ Hardly bears thinking about, does it? Anyway, Laurence Pratt and Rothwell were quite close friends then, so Pratt interceded and stuck up for him. Rothwell was lucky. He had a lot going for him. And there’s another reason they didn’t want a hue and cry.”

“Which is?”

“Confidence and confidentiality, sir. If it got out to the large company that Rothwell was fiddling, then it would put the partnership in an awkward position. Much better they don’t find out and Rothwell simply decides to move on. Keep it in the family. They’d never question the bills, or miss the money.”

“I see.” Gristhorpe rubbed his whiskery chin.

“It’s something that could have led to a motive, isn’t it, sir? Greed, dishonesty.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “It is that. Which makes me think even more that these secret files might prove interesting reading.” He tapped the table-top. “Good work, Susan. Let’s make Rothwell’s business affairs a major line of enquiry. I’ll get in touch with the Fraud Squad. I’ve heard from the antiterrorist squad, by the way, and they’ve come up with nothing so far. They want to be kept up to date, of course, but I think we can rule out Rothwell dealing arms or money to the IRA. Anything to add, Alan?”

“I think we should follow up on the wadding. There could be a porn connection.”

“Rothwell in the porn business?”

“It’s possible. After all, he had plenty of money, didn’t he? He must have got it from somewhere. I’m not suggesting he was a front player, one who got his hands dirty. Maybe he just made some investments or handled finances. Take the lid off that can of worms – video nasties, prostitution and the like – and it wouldn’t surprise me to find murder. Perhaps the wadding was a kind of signature, a symbol.”

“It sounds a bit too fanciful to me,” said Gristhorpe, “but I take your point. It’s all tied together, anyway, isn’t it? If he was in the porn business, then that makes porn part of his business affairs. We’ll follow up on it.”

“DS Hatchley’s coming back on Monday,” said Banks. “I think he’d be a good man for the job. Remember he spent a while working on the Vice Squad for West Yorkshire? Besides, he’d enjoy it.”

Gristhorpe snorted. “I suppose he would. But keep him on a tight leash. He’s like a bloody bull in a china shop.”

Banks grinned. He knew that Gristhorpe and Hatchley didn’t get along. Jim Hatchley was a big, bluff, burly, boozy, roast-beef sort of Yorkshireman, a rugby prop forward until cigarettes and drink took their toll. More at home playing darts in the public bar than chatting in the lounge, he was the kind of person everyone underestimated, and that often worked to the advantage of the Eastvale CID. And he also had a valuable, county-wide network of low-life, quasi-criminal informers that nobody had been able to penetrate.

“The Rothwells are an interesting family,” Banks went on after a sip of Theakston’s. “Mrs. Rothwell assured me everything was fine and dandy on the domestic front, but methought the lady did protest too much. I wonder how much communication there really was between them all. It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but there’s something bothering me. I think the son, Tom, might have something to do with it.”

“I got that impression, too,” said Susan. “It all looks fine on the surface, but I’d like to know what life at Arkbeck Farm was like. After I’d talked to Laurence Pratt, I got to thinking that if Tom was the reason Keith and Mary Rothwell had to get married, and Rothwell was unhappy in his marriage, then he might blame Tom. Irrational, of course, but things happen like that.”

“I’d leave the psychology to Jenny Fuller,” said Gristhorpe.

Susan reddened.

“Susan’s right,” said Banks. “The sooner we find Tom Rothwell, the better.”

Gristhorpe shrugged. “It’s up to the Florida police now. We’ve passed on all the information we’ve got. Come on, Alan, surely you don’t think the wife and daughter had anything to do with it?”

“It would be hard to believe, wouldn’t it? On the other hand, we’ve only their word for what happened. Nobody else saw the two men in black. What if Alison and her mother did want rid of Rothwell for some reason?”

“Next you’ll be telling me the wife and daughter were making porno films for Rothwell. You talked to Alison. You could see the lass was upset.”

“Alison might not have had anything to do with it.”

“You mean Mrs. Rothwell? Wasn’t she in shock?”

“So I’m told. I didn’t get to see her until late this morning. That gave her plenty of time to compose herself, work up an act.”

“But the SOC team went through the place as thoroughly as they usually do, hayloft and all. They couldn’t find any traces of a weapon.”

“I’m not saying she shot him.”

“What then? She hired a couple of killers to do it for her?”

“I don’t know. She could certainly afford it. I suppose I’m playing devil’s advocate, trying to look at it from all angles. I still maintain they’re an odd family. Alison was genuinely terrified, I know that. But there’s something not quite right about them all, and I’d like to know what that is. I knew when I drove away from Arkbeck Farm that something I’d seen there was bothering me, nagging away, but I didn’t know what it was until a short while ago.”

“And?” asked Gristhorpe.

“It was Tom’s postcard from California. It was addressed to Alison – he called her Ali – and at the end he wrote, ‘Love to Mum.’ There was no mention of his father.”

“Hmm,” said Gristhorpe. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Maybe not. But that’s not all. When I looked through Rothwell’s wallet a while back, I found photos of Mary and Alison, but none of Tom. Not one.”