Blood At The Root

Wood swallowed. “Frankie and Wes were waiting at the other end of the ginnel, as we’d arranged, and when I hit Jason with the bottle they came forward and started booting him. I kicked him a couple of times, to make it look like I was with them all the way. But only a couple of times. And not very hard. He-” Wood stopped for a moment and put his head in his hands. “Christ, he begged us to stop. I just thought about Connor and the damp walls and the yobs that taunt Sheri, call her a black bitch and threaten to gang-bang her every time she goes to the shops. I didn’t think about Jason lying there till it was too late. You have to believe me, I didn’t mean to kill him. It was Wes and Frankie. They’re fucking maniacs. They’d been out in the van smoking crack.”

“All right, Mark,” said Banks. “Calm down. Tell me, what happened when we first arrested you? Why did you change your story?”

Mark shifted in his chair. “Well, the evidence. It was getting pretty strong against me. I was up shit creek. So when Varney took me aside, I phoned Motcombe and basically explained the situation.”

“What did he say?”

“To tell you it was just a fight between the two of us, to leave him out of it, and he’d see I got the best legal help available. He’d also take care of Sheri and Connor financially while I was inside, if it came to that. What a laugh, Motcombe taking care of a black woman and a mixed-race kid.”

“But he didn’t know that.”

“No. And I didn’t tell him.”

“Have you talked to him from jail?”

“A couple of times. But even then he seemed very nervous.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Getting my story right when it came to court.”

“Did you talk to Devon?”

“No. He’s keeping a low profile. I phoned my brother-in-law, though, Wes.”

“What did you talk to him about?”

“I told him who Mr. H was, where he lived. Just in case something went wrong and Motcombe didn’t keep up his end of the bargain. You know, like maybe when he did find out Sheri’s black and all, then he wouldn’t help them. I needed some sort of insurance.”

“Okay, Mark, I need to know just one more thing before we start taking fresh statements and making this all official.”

“Yes?”

“Will you testify that Neville Motcombe instigated this conspiracy to murder Jason Fox?”

Wood’s lips curled. “Motcombe? Bloody right I will. No way that bastard’s going to get away with it.”

“And Devon?”

Mark looked away. “I don’t know. That’s different. I’d need some sort-”

“We’ll see you and family are protected, Mark, like I told you earlier.”

“I’ll think about it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Banks smiled. “I think that just about wraps it up for now. Thanks, Mark, you’ve been a great help.”

“What happens to me now?”

“You make your official statement, then you go back to Armley. Eventually, there’ll be committal proceedings and a trial, but we’ll cross those bridges when we get to them. In the meantime, we’ll make sure you’re protected.” Banks looked at his watch. Just after three-thirty. Then he turned to Ken Blackstone. “For the moment, though, I think it’s about time we paid Mr. Motcombe another visit.”

IV

Leaving one of Blackstone’s most trusted DCs to take Mark Wood’s official statement, Banks and Blackstone set off in the Cavalier for Motcombe’s house. Most of the journey, they talked about getting enough evidence together for the CPS to take on Motcombe.

“I’m still not sure about this,” Banks said, driving along through Pudsey. “I can’t help feeling I’m jumping the gun. How bloody long’s Motcombe likely to get for conspiracy to commit murder? That’s assuming we can prove it. Giles Varney will whittle it down to conspiracy to assault, if he’s got any brains. We might be better off leaving him to the Drugs Squad. He’d get longer for dealing heroin. And I promised Craig McKeracher I’d wait till I had something really solid before I moved in.”

Ken Blackstone shook his head. “At this point, I don’t think we have much choice. We’ve got evidence we have to act on. Mark Wood has actually named Motcombe as one of the blokes who requested Jason Fox’s murder. Now Wood’s blurted it all out, we have to go ahead. I don’t think he’ll get such a light sentence. And this way we also get Wes and Frankie in the bargain, and maybe even Devon, too. That’d be a real plus.”

“Maybe so,” said Banks. “I hope you’re right.”

“Besides,” Blackstone added, “I’d say we’re best getting Motcombe off the streets as soon as possible. And none of what we’re doing blows Craig McKeracher’s cover. What we’ve got all came from Mark Wood.”

Banks turned down the hill to Motcombe’s house and they got out of the car. The sky was clear and the country-side shone green and gold and silver. A chill wind from the valley whistled around their ears as they stood and knocked at the front door.

No answer.

“What’s that noise?” Blackstone asked.

Straining his ears, Banks could detect a faint whining above the sound of the wind. “Sounds like an electric drill or something. He must be down in the workshop. That’s why he can’t hear us.”

“Let’s try the back.”

They walked around to the back of the house, which over-looked the valley and parkland. The sound of the drill was louder now.

Banks hammered on the back door. Still nothing. Just on the off chance, he tried the doorknob. It opened.

“Mr. Motcombe!” he called out as the two of them walked down the stairs to the workshop. “We’re coming in.” He began to feel a slight shiver of trepidation. It looked dark at the bottom, and they could be walking into a trap. Motcombe could have a Kalishnikov or an Uzi with him. He might be hiding in a dark corner ready to start blasting away at them.

But still they advanced slowly toward where the sound was coming from. Then Banks noticed something odd. The high-pitched whine the drill was making hadn’t changed the entire time they’d been there. Surely if Motcombe was working on something and really couldn’t hear them, there would be variations in the pitch of the drill – when he stuck it into a piece of wood, for example. And if he was making so much noise when he worked, he would hardly leave the back door unlocked so that anyone could walk in, would he? Banks felt the back of his neck tingle.

At last, they approached the workroom and pushed the door open slowly on the brightly lit room.

Motcombe was there all right.

His body hung at an awkward angle, naked to the waist, his polo-neck tunic hanging in shreds around his hips as if it had been ripped or cut off. His left wrist had been wedged in a vise, which had been tightened until the bones cracked and poked through the flesh. Blood caked the oiled metal. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with iron filings, shaved wood and linseed oil. And cordite. The room felt crowded, claustrophobic, even with only the two of them there. Three, if you counted the dead man.

The drill lay on the workbench. Banks didn’t want to touch it, but he wanted the sound to stop. He went over to the wall and pulled out the plug, using a handkerchief carefully, and hoping he wasn’t smudging any valuable prints. Old habits die hard. Somehow, he doubted that there would be any. People who do things like this don’t leave fingerprints.

The scene was a gruesome one. More so because of the unnaturally bright lights that Motcombe had rigged up so he could see clearly what he was working on. What Banks at first took to be bullet holes in Motcombe’s chest and stomach turned out, on further examination, to be spots where the drill had been inserted. When the bit