Blood At The Root

they sort of nodded at each other. Very quick, like, and expressionless. I thought it was a bit weird at the time, then I forgot about it.”

“Who nodded at whom?”

“The kid who confessed. He nodded at one of the Jamaicans. Like I said, I thought it was odd because he was with the bloke who called me a ‘Paki bastard’ and there he was, on nodding terms with a Rasta.”

“So this was after your little conflict with Jason Fox?”

“Yes.”

“That makes sense,” Banks muttered, mostly to himself. “You were very nicely set up.”

“Come again?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud.” Banks followed George back into the shop. “Thanks for your time, Mohammed.” He became aware of Shazia Mahmood glaring at him as he walked out onto the street.

For a moment, Banks just stood there on Gallows View as the chaotic thoughts settled into some sort of pattern, like iron filings when you hold a magnet under them. Motcombe’s drug deal with the Turk and Devon, using Mark Wood as a go-between. Mark Wood’s Jamaican wife, Mark’s connection with a reggae band and with drug dealing. Scattered Dreams. That signal between Wood and the drug dealer. Jason’s death warrant. There was a pattern all right, but now he had to come up with a way of proving it.

Banks set off toward King Street. A pneumatic drill from the building site broke the silence and sent a pack of scavenging sparrows spiraling off into the sky.

FOURTEEN

I

“Ken, you’re a mate,” said Banks, “so I want to let you know before you agree to anything that I’m under suspension.”

“Bloody hell!” Blackstone nearly spilled his drink. It was Thursday lunchtime, and they were in the City of Mabgate, a pub near Millgarth, finishing bowls of chili. “What’s it all about?” Blackstone asked when he’d recovered his equilibrium.

Banks told him.

Blackstone shook his head. “They can’t make it stick,” he said. “It sounds like a personal vendetta to me.”

“It is. But don’t underestimate personal vendettas, Ken. Especially when Chief Constable Jimmy Riddle’s the one carrying them out. And for the record, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else around here where I was over the weekend. It could mean real trouble for Craig McKeracher.”

Blackstone tilted his head and squinted at Banks. “Are you hinting that one of our lads is bent?”

Banks sighed. “Look, there’s no evidence, but it seems clear that someone, most likely someone from West Yorkshire, is doing a few little favors for Neville Motcombe and his league of merry men.”

Blackstone’s expression hardened. “Are you certain?”

“No, not certain. It just seems to be the most obvious explanation. As far as I know, so far it’s just been a matter of accessing criminal records. If you use the PNC, you wouldn’t have to be in West Yorkshire to do that, I’ll admit, but that’s where Motcombe lives. Logical deduction.”

“Brilliant, my dear Holmes,” said Blackstone. “But ve haff vays of finding out who’s been using the PNC, and what they’ve been looking for. I’ll catch the bastard and have his bollocks for golf balls.”

“Maybe it’s a ‘her’?”

“Maybe. But how many women do you find hanging around with these white-power groups? Not a lot. It inclines me to believe they’ve got more sense.”

“Well, not many of them like playing soldiers, that’s for certain. I don’t know what odds I’d take against how many of them actually agree with some of the stuff Motcombe’s lot comes out with, though. Anyway, can I ask you one more favor, Ken?”

“Go ahead. You’re doing pretty well for a suspended copper so far.”

“Thanks. Don’t move on the mole until I’ve played out my hand.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason I asked you to keep quiet about Amsterdam. It could jeopardize Craig’s cover as Rupert Francis. Or even his life. I don’t think Motcombe’s the forgiving sort.”

Blackstone squirmed and scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. My lips are sealed. Want to tell me more?”

Banks told him about Motcombe’s gangs of steamers and muggers, then about the Turkish connection and the possible heroin deal with Devon, the deal that Mark Wood was to play such a big part in. Blackstone listened without comment, shaking his head every now and then.

“That’s quite a conspiracy,” he said finally. “It makes me wonder about this suspension business. Do you think there’s anything more to it?”

“Like what?”

Blackstone paused a moment. “More sinister. Remember when John Stalker got taken off that investigation into the RUC’s shoot-to-kill policy in Northern Ireland a few years back?”

“Yes.”

“I seem to remember they mocked up some story about him consorting with criminals just to shut him up and stop him embarrassing them. It was all political.”

Banks shook his head. “A week or two ago I might have been paranoid enough to agree with you,” he said. “The old conspiracy theory has its appeal. Especially when Dirty Dick Burgess appeared on the scene. And it wouldn’t have surprised me if Jimmy Riddle had been in the BNP at the very least. But I don’t think so. Whatever he is, Riddle isn’t a card-carrying fascist. He’s just a pushy, bullheaded arse-hole, a frustrated headmaster with a mean streak. Put him on the inner-city streets where the real coppers work and he’d shit himself in five minutes.”

“Maybe so. But you’re certain there’s nothing more to it?”

“Pretty much. He’s been looking for an excuse to nobble me ever since he took the job, and now he thinks he’s found it.”

“Okay. So how can I help?”

“I’m going to ask you a couple more favors and I want to give you the chance to say no. I don’t want you to stick your neck out for me. I’m giving you fair warning.”

Blackstone paused, then said, “Go ahead. I’ll tell you if I don’t want to hear any more. Or when.”

“Fair enough.” Banks lit a cigarette. “The way I see it, though, is that most of what’s going on here is on your patch anyway, so you can regard me as informant, consultant, whatever the hell you like, as far as official records go.”

Blackstone laughed. “Clever bugger. Thought it all out, haven’t you? You’d have made a good lawyer. All right. I’m interested. I only hope you don’t expect paying, that’s all.”

Banks smiled. “This is for free, Ken. First off, I’d like to know whether a solicitor called Giles Varney has ever acted for Neville Motcombe. There might be some record in the paperwork on that receiving charge. Or, better still, last Thursday, after that fracas at Frank Hepplethwaite’s funeral. Someone got Motcombe out of Halifax nick pretty damn quickly.”

Blackstone got his notebook out. “How d’you spell that?”

Banks spelled “Varney” for him.

Blackstone smiled. “Well, that ought to be easy enough to do without compromising my career.”

“The next request might be a bit tougher, and I’ll understand if you say no. There was a band from Leeds playing at the Jubilee in Eastvale on the Saturday Jason Fox was killed. They’re called Scattered Dreams. Someone who was there told me that there were a couple of Jamaicans dealing small quantities of hash, crack and Ecstasy. Apparently, they might have been with the band in some capacity. Roadies, hangers-on, what have you.”