Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 14

The following morning, Banks left Annie to dig up as much background as she could on the Elmet Hill Neighbourhood Watch and its members and took Gerry with him to St Botolph’s. While it seemed unlikely that a member of a Neighbourhood Watch group would murder an interloper, it wasn’t entirely impossible, Banks thought; especially if tensions were running high in the area, as they perhaps were after the burglaries and the sexual assault on Lisa Bartlett. Any members of the Watch Annie discovered to have criminal records would certainly be brought in for questioning.

Banks took the road north-west out of Eastvale, skirting the top of Elmet Hill, and turned off at the second exit of the big roundabout at the edge of town, which led deeper into the dale, to Lyndgarth and beyond. It was a B-road, which meant the surface wasn’t always smooth, and in places it was so narrow that there was a need for passing places. Luckily, they encountered little traffic coming from the other direction. Trees lined the road in a variety of gnarly shapes and sizes. As he drove, Banks played a selection of Vivaldi arias sung by Cecilia Bartoli, and Gerry seemed happy to sit back in silence and enjoy the music flowing over her.

Banks had been asked so many times why he didn’t have lower ranking members of his team drive him around, and he always answered that he preferred to drive himself. It was partly a control issue — he didn’t fully trust anyone else — and partly because the Porsche inherited from his brother had come to fit him like an old glove, despite the various insurance forms and waivers he had to sign before being allowed to use his own car at work rather than some wreck from the police garage. This way, if he got involved in a police chase and smashed it up, the county wouldn’t be liable.

Several miles beyond Lyndgarth they crested a rise and came out from the obscuring shade of roadside trees to see St Botolph’s spread out in a natural trough of land like some fairy-tale castle held in the palm of a giant’s hand. The school was a rambling Victorian construction, though on a relatively small scale, built in 1866 of local limestone, complete with turrets and gables. The grounds were extensive, scattered with numerous buildings, both original and more modern additions, including dormitories, stables, storage areas and a chapel with lancet stained-glass windows. There were also the inevitable green swathes of playing fields with rugby posts, and smaller pitches, clearly intended for cricket, along with tennis courts. All in all, it was quite a sight, and Banks stopped in a lay-by for a few moments to let Gerry take it all in.

‘Not seen it before?’ he asked.

‘No, guv. It’s like something out of Brideshead Revisited. You know, on the TV, when Charles Ryder first sees Brideshead.’

‘I didn’t know you were a fan.’

‘I’m working my way through great box sets. It was on the list.’

‘That was filmed at Castle Howard, you know.’

‘I know. I’ve always wanted to visit, but it’s prohibitively expensive.’

‘Well, St Botolph’s isn’t quite as magnificent, but it’s free. Unless you want to be a pupil there, of course.’

‘No, thanks. I’ve had my fill of posh schools.’

‘Of course. I remember. Merchant Taylors’, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you still a lowly DC.’

Gerry laughed. ‘That’s all right, guv. I’ve still got my sights on the chief constable’s job.’

Banks gave a mock shudder. ‘I couldn’t imagine anything worse.’ He drove out of the lay-by and wound his way down the road to the school, surrounded by open fields and moorland on both sides, all under a great blue dome of sky scattered with fluffy white clouds. As they floated over, the clouds cast shadows, which seemed to chase one another across the landscape.

Banks parked outside the main building. ‘The head said he’d meet us in his office,’ he said. ‘It’s on the second floor.’

It was exam time, so there weren’t the usual number of pupils dashing about the high-ceilinged corridors, or up and down the broad marble staircase. One or two young boys paused to stare at them and whisper as they passed. Probably, Banks thought, having highly erotic thoughts about Gerry, with her coltish figure and flowing red hair. Their footsteps echoed as they walked up to the second floor, where they found someone who looked like a teacher to direct them to the head’s office. Once there, they knocked and entered a reception area where a young woman with a stuffy formal manner asked them to be seated and wait, that Mr Bowen would be with them soon.

It didn’t take long before they were summoned to go in. Though it had happened before in the course of his investigations, Banks had never been quite able to separate these official visits to the headmaster’s office from those he had been required to make as a pupil at his local grammar school, after passing the 13+ examination and finding himself transferred from the secondary modern and all his friends. He still felt that same sense of trepidation, the quickening heartbeat, even an anticipatory tingling around the buttocks at the thought of the caning to come. Of course, schools didn’t do such barbaric things any more, but the memory remained — the music teacher with his slipper called ‘Johan Sebastian’; the divinity teacher who always said, ‘This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you’ before every thrashing; the art teacher who took a run like a fast bowler before letting rip. Bastards all. And no doubt dead bastards by now.

But Roger Bowen was hardly so frightening. He was young, for a start, and quite handsome, with a fine head of thick brown hair and not a trace of grey. Banks put him in his late thirties at most. He also had an affable manner and a sporty air about him — more cricketer, perhaps, than rugby player — and a strong handshake, neither too firm nor too limp and clammy. He wore a white shirt and what looked like an old school tie, but there were no gowns or mortarboards in sight. The mullioned sash window was open several inches, letting in a light breeze, a whiff of scented spring air, the thwack of leather on willow and the shouts from those pupils lucky enough to be practising out in the nets instead of writing A-levels. Bowen bade them sit and sent for tea, then leaned back in his chair with his hands linked behind his head.

‘So what can I do for you?’ he asked. ‘You were suitably non-committal on the telephone.’

‘Occupational habit,’ said Banks.

‘Well, I know I haven’t committed any crimes, so unless things are going to take a positively Kafkaesque turn, I will assume that you want to see me about some aspect of the school. A pupil, perhaps?’

‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mr Bowen. It’s about Christopher Myers. He is a pupil here, right?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course he is. But I’m puzzled. What could Chris possibly have done that merits police involvement?’

‘It would be best if I didn’t talk about that just for the moment.’

‘You’re fishing?’

‘We call it looking for evidence.’

‘Ah. Semantics.’

‘Mr Myers is helping us with our enquiries,’ said Gerry.

Bowen laughed, and even Banks managed a smile. ‘Got it in one, DC Masterson,’ he said.

‘Well, in that case,’ Bowen went on, ‘I’m still not sure how I can help you, but ask away.’

‘Has Myers ever been in trouble?’

‘No more than any other boy his age. The usual adolescent pranks.’

‘Smoking behind the cycle sheds?’

‘I’m afraid our cycle sheds don’t offer that much cover. Besides, you’d be surprised how many young people just don’t seem to smoke these days.’

‘Not cigarettes, at any rate.’

‘We don’t tolerate drugs here, Superintendent.’

‘According to our information, Myers was issued with a stern warning last year after being discovered at a party where drugs and alcohol were present. He was seventeen at the time.’

‘That did get back to me, and I certainly had words with him, as I’m certain his father did. I repeat, though, we don’t tolerate drugs here at St Botolph’s, and there have been no issues along those lines involving Chris Myers.’

‘Anybody else?’

‘That would be between myself and their parents.’

‘Me and his or her parents,’ said Banks.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Don’t mind me. Semantics again. I’m just old-fashioned. I even use the subjunctive on occasion.’

Bowen smiled. ‘A regular Philip Marlowe.’

‘One of my heroes. OK, so Myers hasn’t been involved in drugs here. Is there anything else we should know? Does he get into fights, for example?’

Bowen frowned. ‘Not that I know of. I’m not saying we don’t have any fights here. Of course, it happens. Boys will be boys and all that. But not Myers.’

‘Any trouble with weapons? Knives, especially.’

‘With Myers?’

‘Anyone.’

‘No. Naturally, they’re not allowed on school premises, and I’m happy to report that we’ve had no incidents, and I have never had to confiscate one. None of the other masters have, either, as far as I know.’

‘Would they tell you?’

‘Anything like that would have to be reported.’

‘To the police, too?’

‘Definitely. If we thought crime was involved. Possessing a dangerous weapon would be very high on our list of reportable offences.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Is there anything else?’

Banks glanced at Gerry. ‘We’re trying to get a general sense of what Chris Myers is like,’ she said. ‘What kind of boy he is. We were thinking this would be a good place to start.’

Bowen’s tone changed when he spoke to Gerry, much as his facial expression did when he looked at her. Definitely something there, thought Banks.

‘On the whole I’d say he’s pretty normal,’ Bowen said.

‘Good at sports?’

‘Reasonably. He’s not much of a rugby player, but then, neither was I. If I had to pick his sport, I’d opt for tennis. Not Wimbledon quality, mind you, but definitely passable.’

‘And academically?’

‘He’s bright. Could apply himself more, but that’s hard when you’re eighteen and your hormones are raging. Terrible time in life to be doing exams, I’d have thought.’

Gerry laughed. ‘At least there are no girls here to distract him.’

‘Yes,’ said Bowen. ‘I thought that was rather a pity when I first came, but I suppose I’ve got used to it by now. I’m still not sure it’s entirely healthy, but I doubt it does any lasting harm. After all, Myers is a day boy, so what he gets up to when he goes home is out of our control. No doubt there are parties and girls.’

‘Does he have a girlfriend?’ Banks asked.

‘I have no idea about his private life,’ said Bowen. ‘I should imagine he’s much like any other young lad in that respect.’

‘Is he gay?’

‘Not to my knowledge. But you’d really have to ask him that question.’

‘Is he headed for Oxford?’ Gerry asked, picking up the questioning again.

‘It depends. He has an offer, but it’s contingent on his getting three A*s. He’ll have to buck his ideas up a bit for that result, and he doesn’t have much time left.’

‘So all in all, you’d say Chris Myers was a well-balanced boy, pretty typical for his age, maybe brighter than most, and with a promising future ahead of him?’

‘That would just about cover it,’ said Bowen.

‘You sound a little hesitant there,’ said Banks. ‘After all, you’ve just given the lad a glowing reference.’

‘Actually, those were your words.’

‘But you agreed,’ Banks said.

‘Up to a point. I mean, nobody’s perfect. Chris can be disobedient. He sometimes talks back to teachers, plays truant on occasion and, well, there was that drugs incident, even if it did take place out of school.’

‘What about bullying?’ Banks asked.

‘It happens. I won’t deny it. But we try and nip it in the bud if we can.’

‘Myers?’

Bowen shook his head. ‘No. Chris is neither a bully nor the victim of bullying.’

‘What about dishonesty? Plagiarism, cheating in exams, that sort of thing. What do you think of him morally?’

‘That’s a lot of questions,’ said Bowen. ‘As far as I know, he’s neither a cheat nor a plagiarist. My staff and I are quite aware that students can purchase essays over the Internet, for example, so we’re always on the lookout for anything that seems inauthentic. But I think you would be aware of it yourself, if you were a teacher. It’s usually not difficult to tell if the work a student presents isn’t his own. Chris has a perfectly fluent, though somewhat pedestrian, writing style. His spelling is usually correct — though that may well be due to a good spellcheck programme — and he is not without original ideas. I’m not making out he’s a genius or anything, but he has a good mind when he decides to use it.’ Bowen smiled to himself. ‘You might say that laziness is one of his less admirable attributes. But he usually gets the work done and does it well. Otherwise, there would be no possibility of his taking a place at Oxford.’ He put his hands palms down on the desk and half stood. ‘And there,’ he announced, ‘I have to leave things. I have a class in fifteen minutes, and it wouldn’t do for the head to be late.’

Banks and Gerry stood and thanked him for his time. At the door, Gerry paused. ‘I got the impression when you endorsed the superintendent’s summary of Christopher’s character, that you weren’t entirely comfortable with it. Was there something he omitted? Something he got wrong?’

‘You’re very perceptive, DC Masterson,’ Bowen said, then to Banks, ‘You’d better watch her. She’ll go far.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Banks. ‘Private school education. Cambridge. Chief constable next stop. I have no doubts.’

Bowen looked at Gerry again and raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed. I’m even more impressed.’

Gerry blushed and struggled for composure. ‘Is there anything to it?’ she asked. ‘Did we miss something?’

Bowen sat down again, rather heavily this time. ‘I’m probably speaking out of turn here,’ he said, ‘though I’m fully aware there’s no binding confidentiality agreement between teachers and students. It’s not so much Chris who worries me, as much as the company he keeps.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ asked Banks.

‘Jason Bartlett. They’re very close friends. Chris gives him a lift to and from school, as Jason doesn’t own a car, and the public transport situation is horrendous. And Jason, of course, is nowhere near as bright as Christopher.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Banks asked.

‘Nothing specific. Just that I think Jason is becoming a bad influence. I know the boy has had problems at home. His sister... Terrible business. And that has really affected his exam prospects. There’s another slightly worrying aspect to his development, too. You know we have a school magazine? No? Well, we do. Not so long ago Jason Bartlett submitted an article for publication. It was rejected, and I was urged to read a copy by the editor. To put it in a nutshell, it was a scurrilous, racist diatribe. Against foreigners in general, but mostly against the more visible groups. Claiming they’re no better than animals and are all sexual predators. Giving examples like Rochdale and Rotherham. You may or may not know it, but we have a rather large percentage of foreign students here at St Botolph’s, and such an article would have been most offensive or upsetting had they seen it.’

‘I see,’ said Banks. ‘Have there been any incidents involving Bartlett and his views? Has he been involved in any propagation of hate literature, for example?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Bowen. ‘And I think I would know.’

‘Any specific targets? Names?’

‘No. The article was the first I knew of it, and it was general in scope. You could see the influence of certain far-right views. English Defence League, UKIP, Yaxley-Lennon, that sort of thing. Second-hand ideas. Not something we encourage around here, as you might imagine. It was also unexpected. According to his form master and other teachers, he’s very quiet in class.’

‘Has Myers ever echoed any of these ideas?’

‘No. Not as far as I know. Not in public, at any rate.’

‘Can I see a copy of the article?’

‘You can take it with you,’ said Bowen, going over to his filing cabinet and rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. He handed it to Banks.

Banks nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Bowen. You’ve been most helpful. We’ll let you get to your class now.’

On the way back to the car, Gerry said, ‘You didn’t have to tell him that, guv. About me going to a private school. And Cambridge.’

‘You shouldn’t be afraid to blow your own trumpet, Gerry. After all, it’ll be your main occupation should you ever rise to the heady rank of chief constable. Besides, I think you made an impression there. Much longer and I guarantee the good headmaster would have asked for your telephone number.’

Gerry didn’t do or say anything, but Banks could tell she wanted to nudge him hard with her elbow.

The whole Bartlett family was sitting around the television watching Emmerdale when Banks arrived that evening after teatime, having spent most of the afternoon reading over the article Jason had written and talking with various contacts about some of the racist ideas he had expressed. The family was clearly annoyed at being interrupted, but Gus turned the volume down and seemed resigned to answering a few questions.

‘Mostly it’s Jason I’d like to talk to,’ said Banks.

‘What have I done?’ said Jason. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Nobody’s saying you have,’ said Banks. ‘I just want a word, that’s all.’

‘We’re all staying,’ said Gus.

Banks nodded. ‘Very well. Suit yourselves.’ So they all settled back in their chairs and waited. Emmerdale went on with the sound turned down.

Jason looked both furtive and distracted. ‘I’ve got an exam tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. ‘So please hurry up. I’ve got revision to do.’

‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

‘Media Studies.’

‘Ah. Watching television.’

‘Shows how much you know.’

‘Jason!’ said his mother. ‘Manners.’

‘Well, he was making fun of me.’

‘It was a joke,’ said Banks. ‘Obviously in poor taste. I’m sorry.’

Jason said nothing.

Banks turned to Gus Bartlett. ‘I understand you work with Granville Myers on the Neighbourhood Watch?’ he said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I was wondering if any of you out there noticed anything odd on the Sunday night before last, when the Syrian boy, Samir, was killed. Do you have written records, reports and so on?’

‘We do,’ said Bartlett. ‘But Sally Villiers keeps those. She’s a secretary at the town hall, for the council, like, and she’s skilled at that sort of thing.’

‘Do you submit incident reports?’ Banks smiled. ‘If it’s anything like us, you’d have to write even the slightest detail up in triplicate.’

Bartlett laughed. ‘No. It’s not that bureaucratic. But we do keep records. Incident reports, as you say. I mean, a good deal of our job is intelligence. Not so much catching criminals in the act as keeping an eye on neighbourhood trends, suspicious strangers hanging about, that sort of thing.’

‘Do you photograph them?’

‘Sometimes. Some of our members do, yes.’

‘Get a lot of strangers?’

‘Not many. No.’

‘What about recently? Before the Sunday in question. Just from memory.’

‘None I can think of, no.’

‘And that evening?’

‘I’d have to check, but I don’t think there was anyone from the Watch out that night. Sundays are usually pretty quiet.’

‘Burglars’ night off?’

Bartlett laughed. ‘I see what you mean. But it’s true. We’ve rarely had any kind of incident on a Sunday evening.’

‘So nobody was out on patrol that night?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure you weren’t in the park with Granville Myers?’

‘I... no. As I said, we didn’t go out Sunday night.’

‘Ever had any incidents down in the park?’

‘That’s not really part of our territory.’

‘It seems like the ideal place for people up to no good to hang out. Hey, Jason?’

‘Why look at me?’

‘You know. Lads get up to all sorts. I did, myself. Smoking. Maybe sharing a bottle of whisky. You know the sort of thing.’

‘No.’

‘So, Mr Bartlett, you never had any trouble down there?’

‘As I said, we don’t patrol the park, specifically, but if anyone had seen or heard anything, I’d certainly know about it.’

‘Lisa? I know the memory might be painful for you, but do you know anything about what goes on in the park?’

Lisa shook her head. ‘I was on the shortcut through the car park at The Oak to the hill. I didn’t walk through the park. I never do. It’s too scary after dark.’

‘Why?’

She hugged herself as if she were cold. ‘No reason. It’s just a scary park, that’s all.’

‘But if nothing ever happened there...?’

‘I wouldn’t walk through there alone. That’s all.’

‘OK.’ Banks leaned forward and looked at Jason. ‘We think that Samir, the Syrian boy, ran from Hollyfield Lane up to the park on the night he was killed, but we don’t have any reports of him going anywhere else after that. It’s a bit of a puzzle. Can you help us?’

Jason just shrugged and averted his eyes. His father said, ‘But he must have gone to the East Side Estate. Isn’t that where his body was found?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘But that doesn’t mean he was killed there. Besides, it’s quite a long walk from here.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s a matter of timing. Do you have a car, Jason?’

‘No.’

‘That’s right. Mr Bowen told us. But Chris Myers does, doesn’t he? Your best mate. He gives you a lift to school and back.’

‘So what? And why have you been talking to Bowen about me? What’s he got to say?’

‘We’ll get to that later,’ said Banks. ‘In the meantime, we think Samir’s body was dumped on the East Side Estate. Most likely by car.’

‘Now, wait a minute,’ said Gus Bartlett. ‘You’re not accusing our Jason of this murder, are you?’

Banks glanced from one to the other. ‘I’m not quite sure yet,’ he said. ‘We’re still waiting on the lab results of traces we found in the park. At the scene. I have a suspicion it might be one or the other of the boys, though. Unless you also smoke marijuana.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Gus Bartlett.

‘Not at all. Obviously, the killer wanted us to think Samir had been killed on the East Side Estate, that it was just the kind of place where a boy like him might have lived and died. The thing is, nobody’s ever seen him there. Nobody knew him.’ He turned to Jason again. ‘He was thirteen,’ he said. ‘He left his family in Syria because they could only afford to pay the smugglers for one passage. The idea was that when he got here, he would find an aunt and uncle, get work and send money home. But it didn’t happen like that. God only knows what privations he suffered on the journey — kids like him go through everything, from rape to robbery — but he made it, having walked over a good part of the continent. It took him months. He found a group of smugglers who got him into this country, but by then he’d lost his relatives’ address, and he had no money left. They kept him a virtual prisoner in Birmingham, in slavery, working off his debt. He got away and fell in with a bad crowd in Leeds, got involved in selling drugs. He was no angel. But he was only thirteen and a long way from home. He was still saving money to get his family over. And guess what? His family were all dead. Killed in a bomb attack not long after Samir left. And the irony was that he never knew. He never knew he was selling drugs for nothing.’

‘That’s a very sad tale,’ said Gus Bartlett, ‘but I don’t see what it has to do with us.’

Banks looked directly at Jason. ‘Does that really make Samir “no better than an animal”, Jason?’ he asked.

Jason reddened and turned away. Everyone else seemed nonplussed by the question. Clearly, Jason had not apprised his parents of his racist views.

Banks stood up. ‘Ask your son,’ he said to Gus Bartlett. ‘He knows what I’m talking about.’

He noticed that Lisa was crying.

‘It is a sad story, isn’t it, Lisa?’ he said. ‘Anyway, I must be off. We’ve had a lot of developments down at the park today. I don’t know if you’ve seen our forensic officers at work, but pretty soon we’ll have a DNA profile of the killer, then all we have to do is match it up with one of our suspects.’ He looked at Jason again, but the boy’s eyes were still averted.

‘Well, I wish you luck, Superintendent,’ said Gus Bartlett, ‘but I assure you it’s got nothing to do with us.’

‘I do hope not,’ said Banks. ‘And thank you. We’ll need all the luck we can get. Bye, then. Bye, Lisa. Mrs Bartlett. Bye, Jason.’

But Jason didn’t look up or mumble a goodbye in return. He seemed lost in his own world.

When Banks got back to Newhope Cottage after talking to the Bartletts that evening, he found a note from the courier company to the effect that there was a package too large for his letterbox waiting for him round the back. Curious, he walked around to the wooden chest he had been having packages left in for years and found that whatever was in it was so big it wouldn’t shut properly.

He carried the large, well-wrapped box into the front room and started to remove the wrapping. It seemed to take for ever, and he had to fetch a box-cutter from the kitchen drawer, but he knew what it was before he managed to cut off the last strip of cardboard and saw the envelope taped to the case. He opened it up and pulled out the card, which read:

A guitar. But not just any guitar. When he opened up the case, he saw it was a Martin D-28, just about the best acoustic guitar on the market. He took it out and held it in his hands. Then he strummed it and found, naturally, that it was out of tune. That would be the first job.

There was a care package of extras with it, and Banks found spare strings, plectrums, a cleaning cloth and an electronic gizmo you attached to the neck, which told you the note of each string as you tuned it. He found something else, too: a copy of Bert Weedon’s Play in a Day, the legendary manual used by Eric Clapton, George Harrison, Pete Townshend and John Lennon, among others. Not that Banks imagined he would ever be able to play as well as any of them, but at least he would get the same start.

He had tears in his eyes as he stroked the smooth wood and rested it on his knee. He had been quite resigned to buying his own guitar — and it certainly wouldn’t have been a Martin — but this was a wonderful gesture from his son, and it almost overwhelmed him. It wasn’t even his birthday for another two weeks, but that didn’t matter. No doubt Brian wanted to get it to him before he bought an inferior model for himself.

The guitar put the Hollyfield case quite out of his mind as he tried to work out how to use the gizmo to tune it. He remembered that strings were supposed to be EADGBE, which was a good start, and soon found that if he tightened or loosened each string in turn, the electronic tuner showed him what note he was playing.

He had managed to tune the first three strings when his phone rang. He cursed, but when he saw it was Gerry, he put the guitar aside. He had been expecting her to ring. ‘Yes, Gerry? How did it go?’ he asked.

‘Just as you expected, guv.’

‘Excellent.’

‘You were right. It wasn’t long after you left that Jason Bartlett came out of the house, made a quick call on his mobile and then met up with Chris Myers at the end of his street.’

‘So it’s the kids, not the parents. Well, well. Where did they go? The park’s still taped off and under guard, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. They went to The Oak, sat in the beer garden, had quite a long natter.’

‘Any sign of Lisa or the parents? Granville Myers?’

‘None. Just Chris and Jason. I couldn’t hear what was going on — I didn’t dare get too close for fear they’d notice me — but they seemed to be arguing on the way down there. It looked as if Jason was panicking and Chris was trying to calm him down. There was a bit of arm-waving, and at one point they stopped while Chris held Jason by the shoulders, gave him a good shake and seemed to be trying to make a point. But I couldn’t get any closer, guv. They know who I am. They’d have spotted me.’

‘That’s OK. I think we’d better make our move first thing in the morning, though, don’t you?’ said Banks. ‘Give them both a chance to spend a sleepless night with their consciences, if they have any, then bring them both in. With any luck, we should have some lab results from Jazz by then. Even if we don’t, I can’t risk either of them making a run for it. Or give them time to clean up the car any more than they probably have done already. Let’s put an officer on watching the Myers garage, just in case. We’ll want their computers and mobiles, too. There should at least be evidence of Jason’s racist activities in his Internet browser usage. I think we’ve got enough to get the boys talking if we employ a bit of creativity here and there, push them to the edge. One of them is bound to crack. We’ll need to arrange for duty solicitors to be available if we don’t want any delays, too. OK?’

‘Right you are, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘I’ll get right on it.’

‘And Gerry?’

‘Guv?’

‘Good work. Soon as you’ve got things arranged, get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it.’