Final Account

1

The Merrion Centre was one of the first indoor shopping malls in Britain. Built on the northern edge of Leeds city center in 1964, it now seems something of an antique, a monument to the heady sixties’ days of slum clearance, tower blocks and council estates.

Covered on top, but open to the wind at the sides, it also suffers competition from a number of more recent, fully enclosed, central shopping centers, such as the St. John’s Centre, directly across Merrion Street, and the plush dark green and brass luxury of the Schofields Centre, right on The Headrow.

Still, the Merrion Centre does have a large Morrison’s supermarket, Le Phonographique discotheque – the longest surviving disco in Leeds – a number of small specialty shops, a couple of pubs, a flea market and the Classical Record Shop, which is how Banks had come to know the place quite well. And on a warm, windless May afternoon it can be pleasant enough.

Banks found Clegg’s Wines and Spirits easily enough. He had phoned Melissa Clegg an hour or so earlier, still smarting over his acrimonious parting with Pamela Jeffreys in the park, and she had told him she could spare a little time to talk. It was odd, he thought, that she hadn’t seemed overly curious about his call. He had said that it concerned her husband, yet she had asked for no details.

He opened the door and found himself in a small shop cluttered with bottles and cases. There were a couple of bins of specials on the floor by the door – mostly Bulgarian, Romanian and South African varietals, and some yellow “marked down” cards on a few of the racks that lined the walls to his right and left, including a Rioja, a Côtes du Rhône and a claret.

Banks looked at the racks and thought he might take something home for dinner, assuming that he and Sandra ever got the chance to sit down to dinner together again, and assuming that she wanted to. Perhaps they could have that wine, candlelight and Chopin evening he had had to cancel when the Rothwell enquiry got in the way.

Behind the counter ranged the bottles of single malt Scotch: Knockando, Blair Athol, Talisker, Glendronach. Evocative names, but he mustn’t look too closely. He had a weakness for single malt that Sandra said hit them too hard in the pocket. Besides, he still had a drop of Laphroaig left at home.

The spotty young man behind the counter smiled. “Can I help you, sir?” He wore a candy-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his tie loose at the neck, the way Banks always wore his own when he could get away with it. His black hair had so much gel or mousse on that it looked like an oil slick.

“Boss around?” Banks asked, showing his card.

“In the back.” He lifted up the counter flap and Banks went through. Stepping over and around cases of wine, he walked along a narrow corridor, then saw on his left a tiny office with the door open. A woman sat at the desk talking on the phone. It sounded to Banks as if she were complaining over non-delivery of several cases of Hungarian Pinot Noir.

When she saw him, she waved him in and pointed to a chair piled high with papers. Banks moved them to the edge of the desk and she grinned at him over the mouthpiece. There were no windows, and it was stuffy in the back room, despite the whirring fan. The office smelled of freshly cut wood. Banks took his jacket off and hung it over the back of the chair. He could feel the steady draft of the fan on the left side of his face.

Finally, she put the phone down and rolled her eyes. “Some suppliers… ”

She was wearing a yellow sun-dress with thin straps that left most of her nicely tanned and freckled shoulders and throat bare. About forty, Banks guessed, she looked as if she watched what she ate and exercised regularly, tennis probably. Her straight blonde hair, parted in the middle, hung just above her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones. It was a cheerful face, one to which a smile was no stranger, and the youthful, uneven fringe suited her. But Banks also noticed marks of stress and strain in the wrinkles under her blue-gray eyes and around her slightly puckered mouth. A pair of no-nonsense glasses with tortoiseshell frames dangled on a cord around her neck.

“Your phone call piqued my curiosity,” she said, leaning back in her chair and linking her hands behind her head. Banks noticed the shadow of stubble under her arms. “What has Danny-boy been up to now?”

“I’m sorry?” said Banks. “I don’t follow.”

“Didn’t Betty tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Oh, God, that woman. Gormless. About Danny and me. We’re separated. Have been for about two years now. It was all perfectly amicable, of course.”

Of course, Banks thought. How often had he heard that? If it was all so bloody amicable, he wondered, then why aren’t you still together? “I didn’t know,” he said.

“Then I’m sorry you’re probably on a wild goose chase.” She changed her position, resting her hands on the desk and playing with a rubber band. There were no rings on her fingers. “Anyway, I’m still intrigued,” she said. “I am still fond of Danny. I would be concerned if I thought anything had happened to him. It hasn’t, has it?”

“Do you still see one another?”

“From time to time.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Hmm… ” She pursed her lips and thought. “A couple of months ago. We had lunch together at Whitelocks.”

“How did he seem?”

“Fine.” She stretched the rubber band tight. “Look, you’ve got me worried. All this interest in Danny all of a sudden. First those clients of his. Now you.”

Banks pricked up his ears. “What clients?”

“On Saturday. Saturday afternoon. Just a couple of businessmen wondering if I knew where he was.”

“Did they know you were separated?”

“Yes. They said it was a long shot and they were sorry to bother me but they’d had an appointment scheduled with him that morning and he hadn’t shown up. He’d mentioned me and the shop at some time or other, of course. He often does, by way of sending me business. What a sweetheart. Anyway, they asked if I had any idea where he was, if he’d suddenly decided to go away for the weekend. As if I’d know. It all seemed innocent enough. Is something wrong?”

“What did they look like?”

She described the same two men who had visited Betty Moorhead. It wouldn’t have been difficult for them to find out about Melissa’s shop – perhaps even Betty had told them – and if they were looking for Clegg, it was reasonable to assume that his ex-wife might know where he was. She must have convinced them quickly that she neither knew nor cared.

The rubber band snapped. “Look,” she said, “I’ve a right to know if something’s happened to Danny, haven’t I?”

“We don’t know if anything has happened to him,” Banks said. “He’s just gone missing.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “So that’s all.”

Banks frowned. “His secretary seems worried enough. She says it’s unusual.”

“Oh, Betty’s a nice enough girl, but she is a bit of an alarmist. Danny always did have an eye for the ladies. That’s one reason we’re no longer together. I should imagine if he’s gone missing, then something came up, so to speak.” She grinned, showing slightly overlapping front teeth.

“Wouldn’t he at least let his secretary know where he was?”

“I’ll admit that is a bit unusual. While Danny was never exactly tied to his desk, he didn’t like to be too far from the action. You know the type, always on his car phone to the office. Who knows? Maybe he’s having a mid-life crisis. Maybe he and his bit of crumpet have gone somewhere where there are no telephones. He’s such a romantic, is Danny.”

The phone rang and Mrs. Clegg excused herself for a moment. Banks caught her half of the conversation about an order of méthode champenoise. A couple of minutes later she put the phone down. “Sorry. Where were we?”

“Mrs. Clegg, we think your husband might have been mixed up in some shady dealings and that might have had something to do with his disappearance.”

She laughed. “Shady dealings? That hardly surprises me.”

“Do you know anything about his business activities?”

“No. But dishonest in love… ” She let the thought trail, then shrugged. “Danny never was one of the most ethical, or faithful, of people. Careful, usually, yes, but hardly ethical.”

“Would you say he was the type to get mixed up in something illegal?”

She thought for a moment, frowning, then answered. “Yes. Yes, I think so. If he thought the returns were high enough.”

“Is he a greedy man?”

“No-o. Not in so many words, no. I wouldn’t call him greedy. He just likes to get what he wants. Women. Money. Whatever. It’s more a matter of power, manipulation. He just likes to win.”

“What about the risk?”

She tipped her head to one side. “There’s always some risk, isn’t there, Chief Inspector? If something’s worth having. Danny’s not a coward, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did you know Keith Rothwell?”

“Yes. Not well, but I had met him. Poor man. I read about him in the paper. Terrible. You’re not suggesting there’s any link between his murder and Danny’s disappearance, are you?”

She’s quicker on the ball than Betty Moorhead, Banks thought. “We don’t know. I don’t suppose you’d be in a position to enlighten us about their business dealings?”

“Sorry. No. I haven’t seen Keith since Danny and I split up. Even then I’d just bump into him at the office now and then, or when he helped with my taxes.”

“So you’ve no idea what kinds of dealings they were involved in?”

“No. As I said, Keith Rothwell did my accounts a couple of times – you know, the wine business – when Dan and I were together, before things became awkward and our personal life got in the way. He was a damn good accountant. He saved me a lot of money from the Inland Revenue – all above board. Now, it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out that if the two of them were in business together it probably involved tax havens of one kind or another, and that they both probably did quite well from it.”

“Have you ever heard of a man called Robert Calvert?”

“Calvert? No. I can’t say I have. Should I have? Look, I’m really sorry I can’t help you, Chief Inspector. And I certainly didn’t mean to sound callous at all. But knowing Danny, I’m sure he’s popped off to Paris for the weekend with some floozie or other and just got too over-excited to remember to let anyone know. He’ll turn up.”

Banks stood up. “I hope you’re right, Mrs. Clegg. And if he gets in touch, please let us know.” He gave her his card. She stood up as he left the office. He turned in the doorway and smiled. “One more thing.”

“Yes.”

“Could you recommend a decent claret for dinner, not too pricey?”

“Of course. If you’re not absolutely stuck on Bordeaux, try a bottle of the Chateau de la Liquiere. It ’s from Faugères, in Languedoc. Very popular region these days. Lots of character.” She smiled. “And you can even afford it on a policeman’s salary.”

After Banks thanked her, he made his way back down the corridor, dodging the wine cases, and bought the bottle she had suggested. Not an entirely wasted visit, he thought. At least he’d got a decent bottle of wine out of it. And then there was the Classical Record Shop just around the corner. He couldn’t pass so closely without going in. Besides, he needed balm for his wounds. He was still feeling annoyed with himself after the way he had messed things up with Pamela Jeffreys. The new CD of the Khachaturian Piano Concerto, if they had it, might just help make him feel better.

As he walked outside with his bottle of wine, he felt a large hand clap down on his shoulder.

“Well, if it isn’t my old mate, Banksy,” a voice said in his ear.

Banks spun round and saw the source of the voice: Detective Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess, from Scotland Yard. What the hell was he doing here?

“I hope you haven’t been accepting bribes,” Burgess said, pointing to the wine. Then he put his arm around Banks’s shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “We need to go somewhere and have a little chat.”

2

Laurence Pratt was waiting in his office, again with his shirtsleeves rolled up, black-framed glasses about halfway down his nose, fingers forming a steeple on the neat desk in front of him. His white shirt was more dazzling than any Susan had seen in a detergent advert. Susan felt stifled. The temperature outside was in the twenties, and the window was closed.

Pratt seemed less easy in his manner this time, Susan observed, and she guessed it was because he had given too much away on her last visit. This was going to be a tough one, she thought, taking her notebook and pen out of her handbag. They had discovered a lot more about Keith Rothwell since Friday, and this time, she didn’t want to give too much away.

Susan opened her notebook, resisting the impulse to fan her face with it, and unclipped her pen. “The last time I talked to you, Mr. Pratt,” she began, “you told me you saw the Rothwells for the last time in March.”

“That’s right. Carla and I were out to Arkbeck for dinner. Duck à l’orange, if I remember correctly.”

“And the new kitchen.”

“Ah, yes. We all admired the new kitchen.”

“Can you be a bit more precise about the date?”

Pratt frowned and pulled at his lower lip. “Not exactly. It was just after St. Patrick’s Day, I think. Hang on a sec.” He fished in his briefcase by the side of the desk and pulled out a Filofax. “Be lost without it,” he grinned. “Even in the computer age. I mean, you don’t want to turn the computer on every time you need an address, do you?” As he talked, he flipped through the pages. “Ah, there it is.” He held up the open page for Susan to see. “March 19. Dinner with Keith and Mary.”

“And you said Tom dropped in to talk about his trip?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“What? Oh, I see. From his room, I suppose. At least I think he’d been up there. He just came in to say hello while we were having cocktails. Is he back from America, by the way?”

No harm in telling a family friend that, Susan thought. “He’s on his way,” she said. “What was the atmosphere like between Tom and his father that night?”

“They didn’t talk, as I remember.”

“Did you notice any antagonism or tension between them?”

“I wouldn’t say that, no. I told you before that their relationship was strained because Tom drifted off the course his father had set for him.”

“Was anything said about that on the night you were there?”

“No, I’m certain of it. They didn’t talk to one another at all. Tom was excited about going to America. I think he’d been upstairs poring over a map, planning his route.”

“And Keith Rothwell said nothing during your little chat?”

“No. He just sat there rather po-faced. Now you mention it, that was a bit odd. I mean, you’d hardly call old Keith a live wire these days, but he’d usually take a bit more interest than he did that night. Especially as his son was off on a big adventure.”

“So his behavior was strange?”

“A little unusual, on reflection, yes.”

“What about Tom? Did he say anything to or about his father?”

Pratt shook his head slowly. Susan noticed a few beads of sweat around his temples where his hairline was receding. She could feel her own sweat tickling her ribs as it slid down her side. So much for the expensive extra-dry, long-lasting antiperspirant she had put on after her morning shower. This didn’t happen to the high-powered women executives and airline pilots in the television adverts. On the other hand, they didn’t have to deal with the return of Sergeant Hatchley. It had taken her a good five minutes to stop shaking after he had left the office.

She asked Pratt to open the window. He complied, but it didn’t do much good. The air outside was still and hot. Even the gargoyles on the upper walls of the community center looked grumpy and sweaty.

“Did Mr. Rothwell ever express any interest in pornography?”

Pratt raised his eyebrows. “Good lord. How do you mean? As a business venture or for personal consumption?”

“Either.”

“Not in my presence. As I said, I don’t know about the extent of his business interests, but he always struck me as rather… say… sexless. When we were younger, of course, we’d chase the lasses, but since his marriage… ”

“Have you ever met a solicitor called Daniel Clegg?”

“No. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Are you sure he practices in Eastvale?”

“You’ve never met him?”

“I told you, I’ve never even heard of him. Why do you ask? Is there some-”

“Did Mr. Rothwell ever mention him?”

“Is there some connection?”

“Did Mr. Rothwell ever mention him?”

Pratt stared at Susan for about fifteen long seconds, then said, “No, not that I recall.”

Susan ran the back of her hand across her moist brow. She was beginning to feel a little dizzy. “What about Robert Calvert?”

“Never heard of him, either. Is this another business colleague of Keith’s? I told you we never talked about his business. He played his cards close to his chest.”

“Did he ever mention a woman called Pamela Jeffreys?”

Pratt raised an eyebrow. “A woman? Keith? Another woman? Good lord, no. I told you he didn’t strike me as the type. Not these days, anyway. Besides, Mary would have killed him. Oh, my God… ”

“It’s all right, Mr. Pratt,” Susan said. “Slip of the tongue. Jealous type, is she?”

He pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “Mary? Well, I’d guess so, yes.”

“But you don’t know for certain?”

“No. It’s just the impression she gives. How everything centered around Keith, the house, the family. If anything came along to jeopardize that, threaten it, then she’d be a formidable enemy. Possessive, selfish, I’d say, definitely. Is that the same thing?”

Susan closed her notebook and stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Pratt. Thank you very much. Again, you’ve been most helpful.” Then she hurried out of the hot, stuffy office before she fainted.

3

They walked down to Stumps, under the museum, and made their way to the bar, where Burgess ordered a pint of McEwan’s lager and Banks a pint of bitter. It wasn’t Theakston’s, but it would have to do.

As it was a warm day, they took their drinks outside and found a free table. There was a broad, tiled area between the museum-library complex and the buses roaring by on The Headrow, and pedestrians hurried back and forth, some heading for the Court Centre or the Town Hall and some taking shortcuts to Calverley Street and the Civic Hall. A group of people stood playing chess with oversize figures on a board drawn on the tiles. Scaffolding covered the front of one of the nineteenth-century buildings across The Headrow, Banks noticed. Another renovation.

Banks felt both puzzled and apprehensive at Burgess’s arrival on the scene. The last time they had locked horns was over the killing of a policeman at an antigovernment demonstration in Eastvale back in the Thatcher era.

Burgess had fitted in just fine back then. An East Ender, son of a barrow boy, he had fought his way up from the bottom with a fierce mixture of ego, ambition, cunning and a total disregard for the rules most people played by. He also felt no sympathy for those who had been unable to do likewise. Now, at about Banks’s age, he was a Detective Superintendent working for a Scotland Yard department that was not quite Special Branch and not quite M15, but close enough to both to give Banks the willies.

In a period when a fully functioning human heart was regarded as a severe disability, he had been one of the new, golden breed of working-class Conservatives, up there in the firmament of the new Britain alongside the bright young things in the City, the insider traders and their like. Cops and criminals: it didn’t seem to make a lot of difference, as long as you were successful. But then, it never did to some people.

Nobody could gainsay Burgess’s abilities – intelligence and physical courage being foremost among them – but “The end justifies the means” could have been written just for him. The “end” was some vague sort of loyalty to whatever the people in power wanted done for the preservation of order, as long as the people in power weren’t liberals or socialists, of course; and as for the “means,” the sky was the limit.

Maybe he had changed, Banks wondered. After all the recent inquiries and commissions, a policeman could surely no longer walk into a pub, pick up the first group of Irish people he saw and throw them in jail as terrorists, could he? Or walk down Brixton Road and arrest the first black person he saw running? According to the public-relations people, today’s policeman was a cross between Santa Claus and a hotel manager.

On the other hand, perhaps that was only according to the PR people: truth in advertising, caveat emptor and the rest. Besides, if there was one thing not likely to make the slightest impression on Burgess’s obsidian consciousness, it was political correctness.

Banks lit a cigarette and held out his lighter as Burgess fired up one of his Tom Thumb cigars. He was still in good shape, though filling out a bit around the belly. He had a square jaw and slightly crooked teeth. His black, slicked-back hair was turning silver at the temples and sideboards, and the bags under his seen-it-all gray eyes looked as if they had taken on a bit more weight since Banks had last seen him. About six feet tall, casually dressed in black leather jacket, open-neck shirt and gray cords, he was still handsome enough to turn the heads of a few thirtyish women, and had a reputation as something of a rake. It wasn’t entirely unfounded, Banks had discovered the last time they worked together.

Banks reached for his pint. “To what do I owe the honor?” he asked. He had never dignified Burgess with the “sir” his rank demanded, and he was damned if he was about to start now.

Burgess swigged some lager, swished it around his mouth and swallowed.

“Well?” said Banks. “Enough bloody theatrics, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’d missed you?”

“Get on with it.”

“Right. Thought not. Ever heard of a place called St. Corona?”

“Of course. It’s a Caribbean island, been in the news a bit lately.”

“Clever boy. That’s the one. Population about four point eight million. Area about seven thousand square miles. Chief resources, bauxite, limestone, aluminum, sugar cane, plus various fruits and spices, fish and a bit of gold, silver and nickel. A lot of tourism, too, or there used to be.”

“So you’ve been studying Whitaker’s Almanac,” said Banks. “Now what the bloody hell is this all about?”

A tipsy youth bumped into the table and spilled some of Burgess’s lager. The youth stopped to apologize, but the look Burgess gave him sent him stumbling off into the bright afternoon sunlight before he could get the words out.

“Fucking lager lout,” Burgess muttered, wiping the beer off the table-top with a handkerchief. “Gone to the dogs, this country. Where was I? Oh, yes. St. Corona. Imports just about everything you need to live, including the machinery to make it. Lots of television sets, radios, fridges, washing machines.” He paused and whistled between his teeth as a young redhead in a mini-skirt walked by. “Now that’s not bad,” he said. “Which reminds me, have you rogered that young redhead in Eastvale yet? You know, the psychologist.” He flicked the stub of his cigar toward the gutter; it hit the wall just above with a shower of sparks.

Burgess meant Jenny Fuller, as he knew damn well. Banks managed a smile, remembering what happened the last time those two met. “St. Corona,” he said. “You were saying?”

Burgess pouted. “You’re no fun. Know who the president is?”

“What is this, bloody ‘Mastermind’? Martin Churchill. Now, if you’ve got something to tell me, get it off your chest and let me go home. It’s been a long day.”

“Back to that lovely wife of yours, eh? Sandra, isn’t it? All right, all right. St. Corona is a republic, and you’re right, Martin Churchill is president for life. Good name for the job, don’t you think?”

“I’ve read about him.”

“Yes, well, the poor sod’s a bit beleaguered these days, what with the opposition parties raking up the muck and the independence and liberation movements going from strength to strength.” He sighed. “I don’t know. It seems people just don’t believe in a good old benevolent dictatorship anymore.”

“Benevolent, my arse,” said Banks. “He’s been bleeding the country dry for ten years and now they’re closing in on him. What am I supposed to do, cry?”

Burgess glared at Banks through squinting eyes. “Still the bloody pinko, huh? Still the limp-wristed, knee-jerking liberal?” He sighed. “Somehow, Banks, I hadn’t expected you to change. That’s partly why I’m here. Anyway, whatever you or I might think about it, the powers that be decided it was a good idea to have a stable government in that part of the world, someone we could trust. Of course, it doesn’t seem quite so important now, with the Russkies swapping their rusty old atomic warheads for turnips, but other threats exist. Anyway, Britain, France, Canada, the States and a few others pumped millions into St. Corona over the years, so you can estimate how important it is to us.”

Banks listened intently. There could be no rushing Burgess; he would get where he was going in his own sweet time.

“Churchill’s finished,” Burgess went on with a sweeping hand gesture. “It’s just a matter of time. Weeks… months. He knows it. We know it. The only thing now is for him to get out alive with his family while he still can and take up life in exile.”

“And he wants to come here?”

Burgess looked around at the chess players and The Headrow. “Well, I don’t think he’s got the north of England in mind specifically, but you’re on the right track. Maybe a nice little retirement villa in Devon or Cornwall, the English Riviera. Somewhere where the weather’s nice. Cultivate his herbaceous borders. Live out his days in the contemplation of nature. Prepare himself for the life hereafter. Make his peace with the Almighty. That kind of thing. Somewhere he won’t do any more harm.” Burgess lit another little cigar and spat out a flake of loose tobacco. “The Yanks have said no, but then they’ve got a good record of turning their backs on their mates. The French are dithering and jabbering and waving their arms about, as usual. They’d probably sneak him in the back door like the good little hypocrites they are, if they had any real incentive left. And the Canadians… well, they’re just too fucking moral for their own good. The bottom line, Banks, is that there’s a lot of pressure on our government to take him in, as quietly as possible, of course.”

“Sneak him in the back door, you mean, like the hypocritical French?”

“If you like.”

“His human rights record is appalling,” Banks said. “The infant mortality rate in St. Corona is over fifteen percent, for a start. Life expectancy isn’t much more than fifty for a man and sixty for a woman.”

“Oh, dear, dear. You’ve been reading The Guardian again, haven’t you, Banks?”

“And other papers. The story’s the same.”

“Well, you should know better than to believe all you read in the papers, shouldn’t you?” Burgess looked around conspiratorially and lowered his voice. Nobody seemed in the least bit interested in them. Laughter and fragments of conversation filled the air. “Have you ever wondered,” he said, “why women always seem to have a higher life expectancy rate than men? Don’t they have as many bad habits as we do? Maybe they just don’t work as hard, don’t suffer as much stress? Maybe it’s all that slimming and aerobics, eh? Maybe there’s something in it.

“Anyway, back to Mr. Churchill’s predicament. And this is classified, by the way. There are some people in power who want him here, who feel we owe him, and there are some who don’t, who feel he’s a low-life scumbag and deserves to die as slowly and painfully as possible.” As usual, Burgess liked to show off his American slang. He went to the States often, on “courses.”

“Oh, come off it,” said Banks. “If they want him here it’s not out of any sense of duty, it’s because he’s got something they want, or because he’s got something on them.”

Burgess scratched his cheek. “Cynic,” he said. “But you’re partly right. He’s not a nice man. As far as I can gather he’s a glutton, a boor, a murderer and a rapist, sodomy preferred. But that’s not the issue at all. The problem is that we educated him, made him what he is. Eton and Cambridge. He read law there. Did you know that? He went through school and university with a lot of important people, Banks. Cabinet ministers, bankers, power brokers, backroom boys. You know how people can behave indiscreetly when they’re young? Do things they wouldn’t want to come back and haunt them when they’re in the public eye? And we’re talking about people who have the power to loosen the government purse strings now and then, whenever St. Corona asks for more aid. And rumor has it that he’s also got quite a nice little savings account that won’t do our economy any harm at all.”

“Let me guess,” said Banks. “Laundered money?”

Burgess raised his eyebrows. “Well, of course. Which brings me to the murder of Keith Rothwell. You are senior field investigator, I understand?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why I thought I’d better deal with you in person. I know you, Banks. You’re still a pinko liberal, as you’ve proved time and time again. In fact, as soon as they told me you were on the case, I thought, ‘Oh, fuck we’re in trouble.’ You’ve no respect for the venerable institutions of government, or for the necessity of secrecy in some of their workings. You’ve got no respect for tradition and you don’t give a toss about preserving the natural order of things. You probably don’t even stand up for ‘God Save the Queen.’ In short, you’re a bloody bolshie troublemaker and a menace to national security.”

Banks smiled. “Thanks for the compliment,” he said. “But I wouldn’t go quite that far.”

Burgess grinned. “Maybe I exaggerate. But you get my point?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. That’s why I’m going to tell you something very, very important and very, very secret, and I’m going to trust you with it. We’ve been keeping an eye on the St. Corona situation, and anything that could possibly have to do with Martin Churchill gets flagged. Now, we just got a report from your Fraud Squad late yesterday evening that they found something on Keith Rothwell’s computer that indicates he may have been laundering money for Martin Churchill. Lots of trips to the Channel Islands and the Caribbean. Some very dodgy bank accounts. Some very dodgy banks, too, for that matter. Anyway, there’s a pattern and a time period that matches exactly the sort of thing we’ve been looking for. We’ve known this was going on for some time, but until now we hadn’t a clue who was doing it. There’s no proof it was Rothwell, yet – the Fraud Squad still has a lot of work to do, chasing down transactions and what have you – but if I’m right, then we’re talking about a lot of money. Something in the region of thirty or forty million pounds over three or four years. Mostly money that was originally provided as aid by leading western nations. It’s the same kind of thing Baby Doc did in Haiti.”

“And you think this might have something to do with Rothwell’s murder?”

Burgess shook his head. “I don’t really know, but the odds are that there’s some kind of connection, don’t you think? Especially considering the way he was killed. I mean, it was hardly a domestic, was it?”

“Possibly,” Banks agreed. “Do you have any leads on the killers?”

“No more than you. I’m only suggesting that Churchill might be behind them.”

“And if he is?”

“Watch your back.”

Banks thought about that for a moment. He wasn’t sure who constituted the greatest threat to his exposed back, Churchill or Burgess. “I must say this is pretty quick work on your part,” he said.

Burgess shrugged. “Like I said, orders to flag. When I called your station, Superintendent Gristhorpe told me where you were. I missed you at the solicitor’s office, but the secretary told me you were coming here.”

“What’s Daniel Clegg’s connection with all this?”

“We don’t know yet. We don’t even know if there is one. I only just found out about his disappearance. It’s early days yet.”

“Two other men have been looking for him, too. One black, one white. Are they your lot?”

Burgess frowned. “No, they’re nothing to do with me.”

“Know anything about them?”

“No.”

He was lying, Banks was certain. “So why are you here?” he asked. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Just carry on as normal. I simply wanted to warn you to tread very carefully, that’s all, that things might be more complicated than they appear on the surface. And to let you know there’s help available if you want it, of course. Naturally, if you get close to uncovering the killers’ identities, I’d be interested in talking to them.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m interested in everything to do with Martin Churchill, as I told you.” Burgess looked at his watch. “Good lord, is that the time already?” he said, then knocked back the rest of his pint, winked and stood up. “Got to be off now. Be seeing you.” And he strutted off over the square toward Park Row.

Banks lit a cigarette and brooded over the meeting as he finished his pint, wondering what the hell the bastard was up to. He didn’t trust Burgess as far as he could throw him, and he was convinced that all that stuff about offering help and giving a friendly warning was rubbish. Burgess was up to something.

At a guess, he wanted to be one of the first to get to the killers so he could find a way of hushing them up. The last thing he would want was a big story about Churchill hiring assassins to murder a Yorkshire accountant splashed all over the press. Churchill might well be up to much worse things on St. Corona, but this was England, after all.

Still, no matter what Burgess suspected, and whether or not Martin Churchill was behind it all, Banks still had two killers to find, locals by the sound of them, and he wasn’t going to do that by sitting around in Stumps fretting about Dirty Dick Burgess.

4

Banks didn’t expect to find anything new in Calvert’s Headingley flat, but for some reason he felt the need to revisit the place after he had picked up the Khachaturian compact disc.

West Yorkshire police had talked to the other tenants, who all said they knew nothing about Mr. Calvert or Keith Rothwell: they never really saw much of him; he was out a lot; and, yes, now you mention it, there was a resemblance, but it was only a newspaper photo and Mr. Calvert didn’t look quite the same; besides, Calvert wasn’t an Eastvale accountant, was he? He lived in Leeds. Couldn’t argue with that. Banks headed upstairs.

The only immediate difference he noticed was the thin layer of fingerprint powder on surfaces of metal or glass: around the gas fireplace, on the glass-topped coffee-table and the TV set.

This time, Banks examined the books more closely. There weren’t many, and most of them were the usual bestseller list paperbacks: Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler, Ken Follett, Robert Ludlum. There was also some espionage fiction – Len Deighton, John le Carré, Adam Hall, Ian Fleming – plus a couple of Agatha Christies and an oddly out-of-place copy of Middlemarch, which looked unread. Hardly surprising, Banks thought, having given up on even the television adaptation. The only other books were Palgrave’s Golden Treasury, the first part of William Manchester’s Churchill biography and a Concise Oxford Dictionary.

The small compact disc collection concentrated entirely on jazz, mostly Kenny Ball, Acker Bilk and a few collections of big-band music. Banks noticed some decent stuff: Louis, Bix, Johnny Dodds, Bud Powell. On the whole, though, judging from the Monet print over the fireplace, the Palgrave and the music, Robert Calvert had agreed with Philip Larkin about the evils of Parker, Pound and Picasso.

In the bedroom, all the papers had been removed from the desk, as had the wallet with the Calvert identification and credit card. The Fraud Squad would be working already on Calvert’s financial profile, now they knew that he and Rothwell were one and the same. The magazines and coins were still there, the bed still unmade.

Why had Rothwell needed Calvert? Banks wondered. Simple escapism? According to what everyone said, he was a different person altogether at Arkbeck Farm and in the wider community of Swainsdale. Most people there spoke of him as a rather dull chap, maybe a bit henpecked.

Then there was Robert Calvert, the dancing, gambling, laughing, fun-loving Lothario and dreamer. The man who had attracted and bedded the beautiful Pamela Jeffreys. The man who squeezed his toothpaste tube in the middle.

So which was the real Keith Rothwell? Both or neither? In a sense, Banks guessed, he needed both worlds. Did that make him a Jekyll and Hyde figure? Did it mean he was mad? Banks didn’t think so.

He remembered Susan’s account of her interview with Laurence Pratt, in which Pratt had indicated that Rothwell had changed over the years, cut himself off, penned himself in. Perhaps he had once been the kind of person who liked gambling, dancing and drinking. Then he had been pushed into marriage with the boss’s daughter, and marriage had changed him. It happened often enough; people settled down. But, for some reason, Rothwell had felt the need for an outlet, one that would not interfere with his family life, or with his local image as a respectable, decent citizen.

Banks could think of one good reason why it was important for Rothwell to maintain this fiction: Rothwell was a crook. He certainly didn’t want to draw attention to himself by high living. As Calvert, he could relive his youth as much as he wished and enjoy the proceeds of his money-laundering. Perfect.

Did Mary Rothwell know about her husband’s other life? She had probably suspected something was wrong time and time again over the last few years, but denied and repressed the suspicions in order to maintain the illusion of happy, affluent family values in the community. She probably needed to believe in the lies as much as her husband needed to live them.

But you can only maintain an illusion for so long, Banks thought, then cracks appear and the truth seeps in. You can ignore that for a long time, too, but ultimately the wound begins to fester and infect everything. That’s when the bad things start to happen. Did Alison know? Or Tom? It would be interesting to meet the lad.

He looked through the wardrobe and dresser drawers again. Most of Calvert’s clothes were still there, though the condoms had gone. Genuine scientific testing, Banks wondered, or a Scene-of-Crime Officer with a hot date and no time to get to the chemist’s?

He looked under chairs, under the bed, on top of the wardrobe, in the cistern, and in all the usual hiding places before he realized that Vic Manson and his lads had probably already done most of that, even though the flat wasn’t a crime scene per se, and that he didn’t know what he was looking for anyway. He paused by the front window, which looked out onto a tree-lined side-street off Otley Road.

Fool, he told himself. He had been looking for Keith Rothwell in Robert Calvert’s flat. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere; he was just a slab of chilled meat waiting for a man with his collar on the wrong way around to chant a few meaningless words that might just ease the living’s fear of death until the next time it touched too close to home for comfort.

As he glanced out of the window, he glimpsed two men in suits across the street looking up at him. They were partially obscured by trees, but he could see that one was black, the other white.

He hurried down to the street. When he got there, nobody was about except a young man washing his car three houses down.

Banks approached him and showed his identification. The man wiped the sweat off his brow and looked up at Banks, shielding his eyes from the glare. Sunlight winked on the bubbles in his bucket of soapy water.

“Did you see a couple of blokes in business suits pass by a few minutes ago?” Banks asked.

“Yeah,” said the man. “Yeah I did. I thought it was a bit odd the way they stopped and looked up at that house. To be honest, though, the way they were dressed I thought they were probably coppers.”

Banks thanked him and went back to the car. So he wasn’t getting paranoid. How did the saying go? Just because you think they’re out there following you, it doesn’t mean they aren’t.