Final Account

“Did he ever talk to you about business?”

“No.”

“Did you ever meet any of his business associates?”

“Only if they came over to dinner. And even then, I wasn’t generally invited.” Tom looked at his mother. “I had to find something else to do for the evening. Which usually wasn’t much trouble.” He glanced over at Susan, and Banks sensed a softening in his expression as he did so. He seemed interested in her presence, curious about her.

The radio had been playing a request program quietly in the background, and Banks suddenly picked out the haunting chorus of Delibes’s “Viens, Mallika… Dome epais,” popularized as the “Rower Duet” by a television advert. Even trivialization couldn’t mar its beauty and clarity. After pausing for a moment, he went on.

“When did you leave for your holiday?”

“March,” he said. “The thirty-first. But I don’t see-”

“What about your job?”

“What job?”

“The one in the video shop in Eastvale.”

“Oh, that. I packed it in.”

“What kind of videos did they deal in?”

“All sorts. Why?”

“Under-the-counter stuff?”

“Oh, come off it, Chief Inspector. Suddenly my father’s a crook and I’m a porn merchant? You should be writing for television.” Alison looked up from her book and giggled. Tom smiled at her, obviously pleased with his insolence. “It was called Monster Videos, that place in the arcade by the bus station. Ask them if you don’t believe me.”

“Why did you leave?” Banks pressed on.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was hardly a fast track to a career.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I’m going to film school in the States.”

“I see.”

“I want to be a movie director.”

“Was that what your father wanted?”

“I don’t see that what he wanted has anything to do with it.”

It was there, the rancor, Banks thought. Time to push a little harder. “It’s just that I understood you had a falling out over your career choice. I gather he wanted you to become an accountant or a lawyer but he thought you preferred to be an idle, shiftless sod.”

“How dare you?” Mary Rothwell jumped to her feet.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Tom sneered. “Sit down. It’s all part of their game. They only say things like that to needle you into saying something you’ll regret. Just ignore it.” He looked at Susan again, as if expecting her to defend Banks, but she said nothing. He seemed disappointed.

Mary Rothwell sat down again slowly. Alison, at the other side of Tom, glanced up from Villette again for a couple of seconds, raised the corners of her lips in what passed for a smile, then went back to her book.

“Well?” said Banks.

“Well what?”

“What is it that I might needle you into regretting you said?”

“Clever. It was just a figure of speech.”

“All right. Did you and your father have such an argument?”

“You must know as well as I do,” Tom said, “that fathers and sons have their disagreements. Sure, Dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but I had my own ideas. He’s not big on the arts, isn’t Dad, except when it’s good for business to get tickets for the opera or the theater or something to impress his clients.”

“Where did you travel in America?”

“All over. New York. Chicago. Los Angeles. San Francisco. Miami. Tampa.”

“How did you get around?”

“Plane and car rental. Where is this-”

“Did you visit the Caribbean? St. Corona?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“How did you finance the trip?”

“What?”

“You heard me. You were over there a month and a half, and you’d still be there now if it weren’t for your father’s death. All that travelling costs money. You can’t have earned that much working in a video shop, especially one that only deals in legal stuff. How could you afford a lengthy trip to America?”

Tom shifted uncomfortably. “My parents helped me out.”

Banks noticed a confused look flit across Mary Rothwell’s face.

“Did you?” Banks asked her.

“Why, yes, of course.”

He could tell from the hesitation that she knew nothing about it. “Do you mean your father helped you?” he asked Tom.

“He was the one with all the money, wasn’t he?”

“So your father financed your trip. How?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did he finance it? Cash? Check?”

“He got me the ticket, some travellers’ checks and a supplementary card on his American Express Gold account. You can check the records, if you haven’t done already.”

Banks whistled between his teeth. “American Express Gold, eh? Not bad.” Judging by the look on Mary Rothwell’s face, it was news to her. Alison didn’t seem to care. She turned a page without looking up. “Why would he do that?” Banks asked.

“I’m his son. It’s the kind of thing parents do, isn’t it? Why not?”

Banks had never spent so much on Brian and Tracy, but then he had never been able to afford it. “Was he usually so generous?” he asked.

“He was never mean.”

Banks paused. When the silence had made Tom restless, he went on. “Just before you went away, you had an argument with your father in which he expressed great disappointment in you. Now, I know why that is. You’ve just told me you didn’t want to follow the career he set out for you. But you also expressed disappointment in him. Why did you do that?”

“I don’t remember any argument.”

“Come on, Tom. You can do better than that.”

Tom looked at Susan again, and Banks noticed a plea for help in his eyes. He looked left and right for support, too, but found none. His mother seemed lost in thought and Alison was still deep in her Charlotte Bronte.

“I’m telling you,” Tom said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why were you disappointed in your father, Tom?”

Tom reddened. “I wasn’t. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did you find out something incriminating about his business dealings?”

“Is that what you think?”

“You’d better tell me, Tom. It could help us a lot. What was he up to?”

Tom seemed to relax. “Nothing. I don’t know. You’re way off beam.”