Blood At The Root

She turned away. “We get along just fine.”

Susan and Steven Fox came back from the garage. “It’s there all right,” Susan said. “A green Clio. I took the number. And no keys.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Fox asked. “If Jason wasn’t in a car crash, did he hit someone? Was there an accident?”

“No,” said Banks. “He didn’t hit anyone.” He sighed and looked at the map over the fireplace. He couldn’t really hold back telling them any longer. The best he could do was play up the uncertainty aspect. “I don’t want to alarm you,” he said, “but a boy was killed last night, probably in a fight. DC Gay showed you the artist’s impression, and someone suggested it might resemble Jason. That’s why we need to know his movements and whereabouts.”

Banks waited for the outburst, but it didn’t come. Instead, Mrs. Fox shook her head and said, “It can’t be our Jason. He wouldn’t get into fights or anything like that. And you can’t really tell from the picture, can you?”

Banks agreed. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “He’s probably gone off somewhere for the weekend with his mates without telling you. Kids. No consideration sometimes, have they? Would Jason do something like that?”

Mrs. Fox nodded. “Oh, yes. Never tells us owt, our Jason, does he, Steven?”

“That’s right,” Mr. Fox agreed. But Banks could tell from his tone that he wasn’t quite as convinced as his wife about Jason’s not being the victim. He wondered why. In his experience, mothers often held more illusions about their children than fathers did.

“Does Jason have any friends on the estate he might have gone out with?” Banks asked. “Anyone local?”

Mrs. Fox looked at her husband before answering. “No,” she said. “See, we’ve only been living in Eastvale for three years. Since we moved from Halifax. Besides, Jason doesn’t drink. Well, not hardly.”

“When did he get this job in Leeds?”

“Just before we moved.”

“I see,” said Banks. “So he hasn’t really spent much time here, had time to settle in and make friends?”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Fox.

“Does he have any other relations in the area he might have gone to visit? An uncle, perhaps, someone like that?”

“Only my dad,” said Mrs. Fox. “That’s why we moved here, really, to be nearer my dad. My mam died two years ago, and he’s not getting any younger.”

“Where does he live?”

“Up in Lyndgarth, so he’s not far away, in case of emergencies, like. Eastvale was the closest town Steven could get a transfer.”

“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Fox?”

“Building society. Abbey National. That big branch on York Road, just north of the market square.”

Banks nodded. “I know the one. Look, it’s just a thought, but does Jason spend much time with his grandfather? Might he be stopping with him?”

Mrs. Fox shook her head. “He’d have let us know, Dad would. He’s got a telephone. Didn’t want one, but we insisted. Besides, Jason’s car…”

“Would your father know anything more about Jason’s friends and his habits?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Fox, fidgeting with her wedding ring. “They used to be close when Jason were a young lad, but you know what it’s like when kids grow up.” She shrugged.

Banks did. He well remembered preferring the company of his grandparents to that of his mother and father when he was young. They were more indulgent with him, for a start, and would often give him a tanner for sweets – which he’d usually spend on sherbet, gobstoppers and a three-penny lucky bag. He also liked his grandfather’s pipe rack, the smell of tobacco around the dark-paneled house, the tarnished silver cigarette case with the dint where a German bullet had hit it, saving his grandfather’s life – or so his grandfather had told him. He had loved the stories about the war – not the second, but the first – and his grandfather had even let him wear his old gas mask, which smelled of rubber and dust. They had spent days walking by the River Nene, standing by the railway tracks to watch the sleek, streamlined Flying Scotsman go by. But all that had changed when Banks entered his teens, and he felt especially guilty about not seeing his granddad for a whole year before the old man died while Banks was at college in London.

“Are there any other family members?” he asked. “Brothers or sisters?”

“Only Maureen, my daughter. She’s just turned eighteen.”

“Where is she?”

“Nurses’ training school, up in Newcastle.”

“Would she be able to help us with any of Jason’s friends?”

“No. They’re not particularly close. Never were. Different as chalk and cheese.”

Banks glanced over at Susan and indicated she should put her notebook away. “Would you mind if we had a quick look at Jason’s room?” he asked. “Just to see if there’s anything up there that might help us find out what he was doing last night?”

Steven Fox stood up and walked toward the stairs. “I’ll show you.”

The tidiness of the room surprised Banks. He didn’t know why – stereotyping, no doubt – but he’d been expecting the typical teenager’s room, like his son Brian’s, which usually looked as if it had just been hit by a tornado. But Jason’s bed was made, sheets so tightly stretched across the mattress you could bounce a coin on them, and if he had dirty washing lying around, as Brian always had, then Banks couldn’t see it.

Against one of the walls stood shelving similar to that downstairs, also stacked with long-playing records and several rows of 45s.

“Jason likes music, I see,” Banks said.

“Actually, they’re mine,” said Steven Fox, walking over and running his long fingers over a row of LPs. “My collection. Jason says it’s okay to use the wall space because he’s not here that often. It’s mostly sixties stuff. I started collecting in 1962, when ‘Love Me Do’ came out. I’ve got everything The Beatles ever recorded, all originals, all in mint condition. And not only The Beatles. I’ve got all The Rolling Stones, Grateful Dead, Doors, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, The Searchers… If you can get it on vinyl, I’ve got it. But I don’t suppose you’re interested in all that.”

Banks was interested in Mr. Fox’s record collection, and on another occasion he would have been more than happy to look over the titles. Just because he loved opera and classical music in general didn’t mean he looked down on rock, jazz or blues – only on country and western and brass bands. This latter opinion was regarded as a serious lapse of taste in Yorkshire, Banks was well aware, but he felt that anyone who had had to endure an evening of brass-band renditions of Mozart arias, as he once had, was more than entitled to it.

Apart from Steven Fox’s record collection, the room was strangely Spartan, almost an ascetic’s cell, and even on such a warm day it seemed to emanate the chill of the cloister. There was only one framed print on the wall, and it showed a group of three naked women. According to the title, they were supposed to be Norse goddesses, but they looked more like bored housewives to Banks. There was no television or video, no stereo and no books. Maybe he kept most of his things in his flat in Leeds.

Steven Fox stood in the doorway as Banks and Susan started poking around the spotless corners. The dresser drawers were full of underclothes and casual wear – jeans, sweatshirts, T-shirts. By the side of the bed lay a set of weights. Banks could just about lift them, but he didn’t fancy doing fifty bench presses.

In the wardrobe, he found Jason’s football strip, a couple of very conservative suits, both navy blue, and some white dress shirts and sober ties. And that was it. So much for any clues about Jason Fox’s life and friends.

Back downstairs, Mrs. Fox was pacing the living room, gnawing at her knuckles. Banks could tell she was no longer able to keep at bay the terrible realization that something bad might have happened to her son. After all, Jason hadn’t come home, his car was still in the garage, and now the police were in her house. A part of Banks hoped, for her sake, that the victim wasn’t Jason. But there was only one way to find that out for certain.

TWO