Final Account

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

“We’ve found out who she is. Her name’s Julia Marshall and she lives in Adel. That’s in north Leeds. She’s a schoolteacher. We got a couple of phone calls from colleagues. Apparently, she was a quiet person, shy and private.”

“Was?”

“Well, I shouldn’t say that, really, sir, but it’s just that she’s disappeared. That’s all we know so far. I just think we should find her, that’s all,” she said. “Talk to her friends. I don’t really know why. It’s just a feeling. She might know something.”

“I think you’re right,” said Banks. “It’s a loose end I’d like to see tied up as well. There are too many bloody disappearances in this case for my liking. Is there anything else?”

“No. But it’s not over yet, is it, sir?”

“No, Susan, I don’t think it is. Thanks for telling me. We’ll follow up on it first thing tomorrow. For now, we’d better get back to the party or Phil will think we don’t love him.”

Banks walked back to the bar and lit a cigarette. The music had changed; now it was the Swinging Blue Jeans doing “Hippy, Hippy Shake” and some of the younger members of the department were dancing.

Banks thought about Tom Rothwell and his father. Susan had been sharp to pick up on that. It didn’t make sense, given Rothwell’s other interests, that he should be so genuinely upset that his son didn’t want to be an accountant or a lawyer. On the other hand, perhaps nothing was more of an anathema, an insult, to a confirmed heterosexual philanderer than a gay son.

“Penny for them?” Sandra said.

“What? Oh, nothing. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“It’s over, Alan. Leave it be. It’s another feather in your cap. You can’t solve the whole world’s problems.”

“It feels more like a lead weight than a feather. I think I’ll have another drink.” He turned and ordered another pint. Sandra had a gin and tonic. “You’re right, of course,” he said, standing the drink on the bar. “We’ve done the best we can.”

“You’ve done all you can. It’s being pipped at the post by Dirty Dick that really gets your goat, isn’t it?” Sandra taunted. “You two have got some kind of macho personal vendetta going, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I won’t say it’s a good feeling, knowing the bastard’s got his way.”

“You did what you could, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you still think Burgess has won this time, and it pisses you off, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. Yes. Yes, it bloody well does. Sandra, the man had someone shot.”

“A cold-blooded murderer. Besides, you don’t know that.”

“You mean I can’t prove it. And we’re not here to play vigilantes. If Burgess had Jameson shot, you can be damn sure it wasn’t just an eye for an eye. He was making certain he didn’t talk.”

“Men,” said Sandra, turning to her drink with a long-suffering sigh. Gristhorpe, who had been listening from the other side, laughed and nudged Banks in the ribs. “Better listen to her,” he said. “I can understand how you feel, but there’s no more you can do, and there’s no point making some kind of competition out of it.”

“I know that. It’s not that. It’s… oh, maybe Sandra’s right and it is macho stuff. I don’t know.”

At that moment, Sergeant Rowe, who had been manning the front desk across the street, pushed through the crowd of drinkers and said to Banks, “Phone call, sir. He says it’s important. Must talk to you in person.”

Banks put his pint glass back on the bar. “Shit. Did he say who?”

“No.”

“All right.” He turned to Sandra and pointed at his pint. “Guard that drink with your life. Back in a few minutes.”

He couldn’t ignore the call; it might be an informer with important information. Irritated, nonetheless, he crossed Market Street and went into the Tudor-fronted police station.

“You can take it in here, sir,” said Rowe, pointing to an empty ground-floor office.

Banks went in and picked up the receiver. “Hello. Banks here.”

“Ah, Banks,” said the familiar voice. “It’s Superintendent Burgess here. Remember me? What do you want first, the good news or the bad?”

Speak of the devil. Banks felt his jaw clench and his stomach start to churn. “Just tell me,” he said as calmly as he could.

“Okay. You know those two goons, the ones that beat up the tart of color?”

“Yes. Have you got them?”

“We-ell, not exactly.”

“What then?”

“They got away, slipped through our net. That’s the bad news.”

“Where did they go?”

“Back home, of course. St. Corona. That’s the good news.”

“What’s so good about that?”

“Seems they didn’t realize they’d become persona non grata there, or whatever the plural of that is.”

“And?”

“Well, I have it on good authority that they’ve both been eating glass.”

“They’re dead?”

“Of course they’re bloody dead. I doubt they’d survive a diet like that.”

“How do you know this?”

“I told you. Good authority. It’s the real McCoy. No reason to doubt the source.”

“Why?”

“Ours is not to reason why, Banks. Let’s just say that their bungling around England drawing attention to themselves didn’t help much. Things are in a delicate balance.”

“Did you know in advance that they were out of favor? Did you let them slip out of the country, knowing what would happen? Did you even try to find them?”

“Oh, Banks. You disappoint me. How could you even think something like that of me?”

“Easy. The same way I think you sent Spike and Shandy down to Kensington to make damn sure Arthur Jameson didn’t survive to say anything embarrassing in court.”

“I told you, Jameson wasn’t in my brief.”

“I know what you told me. I also know what happened in that hotel room. They shot the bastard down, Burgess, and you’re responsible.”

“Superintendent Burgess, to you. And he shot first is what I heard. That’s the official version, at any rate, and I don’t see any reason not to believe it. As our cousins over the pond would say, it was a ‘righteous shoot.’”

“Bollocks. They shot him twice then fired off a round from his gun to make it look like he fired first. Apart from the shots, do you know what gave them away?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“They left the gun in his hand for me to see. Procedure is that you disarm a suspect first thing, whether you think he’s dead or not.”

“Well, hurray for you, Sherlock. Don’t you think they might have got careless in the heat of the moment?”