brighter, reflecting in twisted sheets of incandescent light
among the puddles. It was the time of day Banks loved
most, not being much of a morning-person, but his
epiphany was interrupted by a knock at the office door,
shortly followed by PC Tolliver and DC Susan Gay
211
leading in an agitated Les Poole.
“Found him at the Crown and Anchor, sir,” explained Tolliver. “Sorry it took so long. It’s not one of his usual haunts.”
“Bit up-market for you, isn’t it, Les?” Banks said. “Come into some money lately?”
Poole just grunted and worked at his Elvis Presley sneer. Tolliver left and Susan Gay sat down in the chair beside the door, getting out her notebook and pen. Banks gestured for Poole to sit opposite him at the desk. Poole was wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a turquoise T-shirt, taut over his bulging stomach. Even from across the desk, Banks could smell the beer on his breath.
“Now then, Les,” he said, “you might be wondering why we’ve dragged you away from the pub this evening?”
Les Poole shifted in his chair and said nothing; his features settled in a sullen and hard-done-by expression.
“Well, Les?”
“Dunno.”
“Have a guess.”
“You found out something about Gemma?”
“Wrong. I’m working on another case now, Les. The super’s taken that one over.”
Poole shrugged. “Dunno then. Look, shouldn’t I have a brief?”
“Up to you. We haven’t charged you with anything yet. You’re just helping us with our enquiries.”
“Still … what do you want?”
“Information.”
“About what?”
“Can you read, Les?”
“Course I can.”
“Read the papers?”
“Now and then. Sporting pages mostly. I mean, most
of your actual news is bad, isn’t it? Why bother depressing yourself, I always say.”
Banks scratched the thin scar beside his right eye. “Quite. How about the telly? That nice new one you’ve got.”
Poole half rose. “Now look, if this is about that?”
“Relax, Les. Sit down. It’s not about the Fletcher’s warehouse job, the one you were going to tell me you know nothing about. Though we might get back to that a bit later. No, this is much more serious.”
Poole sat down and folded his arms. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Then let me make it clear. I can do it in two words, Les: Carl Johnson. Remember, the bloke I asked you about a couple of days ago, the one you said you’d never heard of?”
“Who?”
“You heard.”
“So what. I still don’t know no Ben Johnson.”
“It’s Carl, Les. As in Carl Lewis. Better pay more attention to those sporting pages, hadn’t you? And I think it was a bit too much of a slip to be convincing. Don’t you, Susan?”
Banks looked over Poole’s shoulder at Susan Gay, who sat by the door. She nodded. Poole glanced around and glared at her, then turned back, tilted his head to one side and pretended to examine the calendar on the office wall, a scene of the waterfalls at Aysgarth in full spate.
“According to the governor of Armley Jail,” Susan said, reading from her notes to give the statement authority, “a Mr Leslie Poole shared a cell with a Mr Carl Johnson for six months about four years ago.”
“Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it, Les?” Banks said.
Poole looked up defiantly. “What if it is? I can’t be expected to remember everyone I meet, can I?”
“Have we refreshed your memory?”
“Yeah, well … now you mention it. But it was a different bloke. Same name, all right, but a different bloke.”
“Different from whom?”
