screen:
“What the hell is all that about?” Banks asked.
“It looks like financial records for the last quarter of 1992,” Gristhorpe said. “Companies, banks, dates, maybe numbered accounts. Keep going, Phil. Try that ‘LETTER’ file you mentioned.”
Richmond highlighted the locked file, tapped at the keyboard again, and the file appeared unscrambled, for all to see.
It was a letter, dated May 1 and addressed to a Mr. Daniel Clegg, Solicitor, of Park Square, Leeds, and on first glance, it seemed innocuous enough:
“That’s it?” Gristhorpe asked. “Are you sure you didn’t lose anything?”
Richmond returned to the keyboard to check, then shook his head. “No, sir. That’s it.”
Banks backed toward the door. “Interesting,” he said. “I wonder what ‘information’ that was?” He looked at Gristhorpe, who said, “Get it printed out, will you, Phil, before it disappears into the bloody ether.”
Chapter 6
1
In Park Square on that fine Monday morning in May, with the pink and white blossoms still on the trees, Banks could easily have imagined himself a Regency dandy out for a stroll while composing a satire upon the Prince’s latest folly.
Opposite the Town Hall and the Court Center, but hidden behind Westgate, Park Square is one of the few examples of elegant, late-eighteenth-century Leeds remaining. Unlike most of the fashionable West End squares, it survived Benjamin Gott’s Bean Ing Mills, an enormous steam-powered woollen factory which literally smoked out the middle classes and sent them scurrying north to the fresher air of Headingley, Chapel Allerton and Roundhay, away from the soot and smoke carried over the town on the prevailing westerly winds.
Banks faced the terrace of nicely restored two- and three-story Georgian houses, built of red brick and yellow sandstone, with their black iron railings, Queen Anne pediments and classical-style doorways with columns and entablatures. Very impressive, he thought, finding the right house. As expected, it was just the kind of place to have several polished brass nameplates beside the door, one of which read “Daniel Clegg, Solicitor.”
A list on the wall inside the open front door told him that the office he wanted was on the first floor. He walked up, saw the name on the frosted-glass door, then knocked and entered.
He found himself in a dim anteroom that smelled vaguely of paint, where a woman sat behind a desk sorting through a stack of letters. When he came in, he noticed a look of fear flash through her eyes, quickly replaced by one of suspicion. “Can I help you?” she asked, as if she didn’t really want to.
She was about thirty, Banks guessed, with curly brown hair, a thin, olive-complexioned face and a rather long nose. Her pale green eyes were pink around the rims. She wore a loose fawn cardigan over her white blouse, despite the heat. Banks introduced himself and showed his card. “I’d like to see Mr. Clegg,” he said. “Is he around?”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No.” It sounded like “dough.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“ Elizabeth. Elizabeth Moorhead. I’m Mr. Clegg’s secretary. Everyone calls me Betty.” She took a crumpled paper tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and blew her nose. “Cold,” she said. “Godda cold. In May. Can you believe it? I hate summer colds.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Clegg, Betty,” Banks said again. “Is there a problem?”
“I should say so.”
“Can I help?”
She drew back a bit, as if still deciding whether to trust him. “What do you want him for?”
Banks hesitated for a moment, then told her. At least he would get some kind of reaction. “I wanted to ask a few questions about Keith Rothwell.”
Her brow wrinkled in a frown. “Mr. Rothwell? Yes, of course. Poor Mr. Rothwell. He and Mr. Clegg had some business together now and then. I read about him in the papers. It was terrible what happened.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Mr. Rothwell? No, not at all, not really. But he’d been here, in this office. I mean, I knew him to say hello to.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Just last week, it was. Tuesday or Wednesday, I think. He was standing right there where you are now. Isn’t it terrible?”
Banks agreed that it was. “Can you try and remember which day it was? It could be important.”
She muttered to herself about appointments and flipped through a heavy book on her desk. Finally, she said, “It was Wednesday, just before I finished for the day at five. Mr. Rothwell didn’t have an appointment, but I remember because it was just after Mr. Hoskins left a client. Mr. Rothwell had to wait out here a few moments and we chatted about how lovely the gardens are at this time of year.”
“That’s all you talked about?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Then Mr. Clegg came out and they went off.”
“Do you know where?”
“No, but I think they went for a drink. They had business to discuss.”
So Rothwell had visited Clegg in Leeds the day before his murder, almost two weeks after the letter ending their association. Why? It certainly hadn’t been noted in his appointment book. “How did Mr. Rothwell seem?” he asked.
“No different from usual.”
“And Mr. Clegg?”
“Fine. Why are you asking?”
“Did you notice any tension between them?”
“No.”
