Final Account

hardly imagine her mucking out the byre or feeding the pigs. He couldn’t imagine her handing a child a warm porcelain egg, either.

“Do come in,” Mary Rothwell said, opening the door. Banks followed her to the split-level living room. Today she wore a white shirt that buttoned on the “man’s” side and a loose gray skirt that reached her ankles. Alison lay sprawled on the sofa reading.

On the way to Arkbeck Farm, he had considered what to say to them regarding his talk with Pamela Jeffreys in Leeds, but he hadn’t come up with any clear plan. Vic Manson hadn’t got back to him yet about the prints, so he still couldn’t be absolutely certain that Robert Calvert and Keith Rothwell were the same person. Best play it by ear, he decided.

“How are you doing?” he asked Mary Rothwell.

“Could be worse,” she replied. He noticed her eyes were baggy under the make-up. “I haven’t been sleeping well, despite the pills, and I’m a mass of nerves, but if I keep myself busy, time passes. I have the funeral to organize. Please, sit down.”

Banks had come partly to explain that a van was on its way to pick up Keith Rothwell’s computer disks and business files and spirit them off to the Fraud Squad’s headquarters in Northallerton, where a team of suits would pore over them for months, maybe years, costing the taxpayers millions. He didn’t put it like that, of course. Just as he had finished explaining, he heard the van pull up out front.

He went to the front door and directed the men to Rothwell’s office, then returned to the living room, shutting the door firmly behind him. It was dark in the room, and a little chilly, despite the fine weather outside. “They shouldn’t bother us,” he said. “Perhaps a little music?”

Mary Rothwell nodded and turned on the radio. Engelbert Humperdinck came on, singing “Release Me.” Banks often regretted that humans hadn’t been born with the capacity to close their ears as they did their eyes. He did his best, anyway, and reflected that it was all in a good cause, blanking out the sounds of Keith Rothwell’s office being dismantled and carried away.

“Have you found Tom?” Mary Rothwell said, sitting down. She sat at the edge of the armchair, Banks noticed, and twisted her hands in her lap, a mass of gold and precious stones. She seemed so stiff he wished someone would give her a massage. Her skin, he felt, would be brittle as lacquered hair to the touch.

Banks explained that they had tracked down the car rental agency he had used and that it wouldn’t be long before someone spotted the car.

“He should be home,” she said. “We need him. There’s the funeral… all the arrangements…”

“We’re doing our best, Mrs. Rothwell.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“It’s all right. Are you up to answering a few more questions?”

“I suppose so. As long as you don’t want to talk about what I went through the other night. I couldn’t bear that.” Her eyes moved in the direction of the garage and Banks could see the fear and horror flood into them.

“No, not that.” She would have to talk about it sometime, Banks almost told her, but not now, not yet. “It’s Mr. Rothwell I want to talk about. We need a better idea of how he spent his time.”

“Well, it’s hard to say, really,” she began. “When he was here, he was up in his office most of the time. I could hear him clicking away on the computer.”

“Did you ever hear him on the phone?”

“He had his own line up there. I didn’t listen in, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. But sometimes you just can’t help overhearing something, anything.”

“No. He always kept the door shut. I could hear his voice, like I could hear the keyboard, but it was muffled, even if I was passing by the office.”

“So you never knew who he was talking to or what he was saying?”

“No.”

“Did he have many calls in the days leading up to his death?”

“Not so much as I noticed. No more than usual. I could always hear it ring, you see, even from downstairs.” She stood up. “Would you like a cup of tea? I can-”

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Banks said. He didn’t want her crossing the path of the removal team. For one thing, it would upset and distract her, and for another she would start telling them off about trailing dirt in and out.

She walked over to the fireplace, straightened a porcelain figurine, then came and sat down in the same position. Alison went on reading her book. It was Villette, by Charlotte Bronte, Banks noticed. Surely a bit heavy for a fifteen-year-old?

“I understand your husband would drop in at the Black Sheep or the Rose and Crown now and then?” Banks asked.

“Yes. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he liked to get out of the house for an hour or so. You do when you work at home, don’t you? You get to feel all cooped up. He’d usually walk there and back. It was good exercise. Businessmen often don’t exercise enough, do they, living such sedentary lives, but Keith believed in keeping in good shape. He swam regularly, too, in Eastvale, and he would sometimes go for long runs.” She started picking pieces of imaginary lint from her skirt. Banks heard a thud from the staircase, and this time he couldn’t stop her from dashing to the door and yanking it open.

“Watch what you’re doing, you clumsy little man!” she said. “Just look at this. You’ve gouged a hole in my wall. The plaster’s fallen off. You’ll have to pay for that, you know. I’ll be talking to your superior.” She popped her head back around the door and said, “I’ll make that tea now, shall I?” then disappeared into the kitchen.

Banks, still sitting, noticed Alison look up and raise her eyes. “She’s been like this since yesterday,” she said. “Can’t sit still. It’s even worse than usual.”

“She’s upset,” Banks said. “It’s her way of dealing with it.”

“Or not dealing with it. I saw him too, you know. Do you think I can forget so easily?”

“You’ve got to talk to each other,” Banks said. He noticed the book was shaking in her hands and she was making an effort to keep it still.

“If Tom doesn’t come home soon, I’m going to run away,” she said. “I can’t stand it any longer. She’s always going on about something or other and running about like a headless chi-” She put her hand to her mouth. “My God, what a thing to say. I’m awful, aren’t I? Oh, I hope Tom comes back soon. He must or I’ll go mad. We’ll both go mad.”

A bit melodramatic, Banks thought, but perhaps to be expected from a young girl on a steady diet of Charlotte Bronte.

Mary Rothwell came in bearing a tea tray and wearing a brave smile. Alison picked up her book again and lapsed into moody silence while her mother poured the tea into delicate china cups with hand- painted roses on the sides and gold around the rims. Banks always felt clumsy and nervous drinking from such fine china; he was afraid he would drop the cup or break off the flimsy handle while lifting it to his mouth.

“Why are they taking all Keith’s files anyway?” Mary Rothwell asked.

“We’re beginning to think that your husband might have been involved in some shady financial dealings,” Banks explained. “And they could have something to do with his murder.”

“Shady?” She said it as Lady Bracknell said, “A handbag?”

“He might not have known what he was involved in,” Banks lied. “It’s just a line of enquiry we have to follow.”

“I can assure you that my husband was as honest as the day is long.”

“Mrs. Rothwell, can you tell me anything about what your husband did when he was travelling on business?”

“How would I know? I wasn’t there.”

“Which hotels did he stay in? You must have phoned him.”