“Does the name Aston or Afton mean anything to you?”
Banks was sure he saw a flicker of recognition behind Tom’s eyes. Recognition and fear. “No,” Tom said. “Never heard of him.”
Banks decided they would get nothing more out of this situation, not with the whole family closing ranks. It would be best to leave it for now. No doubt, when Banks and Susan left, the Rothwells would fall into an argument, for Mary Rothwell wasn’t looking at all pleased with the return of her prodigal son. Tom could stew over whatever it was that confused him. Plenty of time.
It was a gorgeous morning in the dale. Banks put a Bill Evans solo piano tape in the cassette player as he drove through Fortford, gold and green in the soft, slanting light. To their left, the lush fields of the Leas were full of buttercups, and here and there the fishermen sat, still as statues, lines arcing down into the River Swain.
“What do you think?” he asked Susan.
“He’s lying, sir.”
“That’s obvious enough. But why? What about?”
“I don’t know. Everything. I just got a strange feeling.”
“Me, too. Next time, I think it might be a good idea if you talked to him alone.”
“Maybe I can catch him after the funeral?”
“You were thinking of going? Damn!”
Half a mile before the road widened at the outskirts of Eastvale, a farmer was moving his sheep across from one pasture to another. There was nothing to be done. They simply had to stop until the sheep had gone.
“Stupid creatures,” Banks said.
“I think they’re rather cute, in a silly way,” Susan said. “Anyway, I thought I might go. You never know, the murderers might turn up to pay their respects, like they do in books.”
Banks laughed. “Do you know that actually happened to me once?” he said.
“What?”
“It did. Honest. Down in London. There was a feud between two families, the Kinghorns and the Franklins – none of them exactly intellectual giants – been going on for years. Anyway, old man Franklin gets shot in broad daylight, and there’s half a dozen witnesses say they saw Billy Kinghorn, the eldest son, do it. Only trouble is, Billy does a bunk. Until the funeral, that is. Then there he is, young Billy, black tie, armband and all, face as long as a wet Sunday, come to pay his last respects.”
“What happened?”
“We nabbed him.”
Susan laughed. The sheep kept wandering all over the road, despite the ministrations of an inept collie, which looked a bit too long in the tooth for such exacting work.
“I thought there had to be a reason for going,” Susan said. “Anyway, I quite like funerals. My Auntie Mavis died when I was six and my mum and dad took me to the funeral. It was very impressive, the hymns, the readings. I couldn’t understand a word of it at that age, of course, but it certainly sounded important. Anyway, when we got outside I asked my mum where Auntie Mavis was and she sniffled a bit then said, ‘In Heaven.’ I asked her where that was and she pointed up at the sky. It was a beautiful blue sky, a bit like today, and there was only one cloud in it, a fluffy white one that looked like a teddy bear. From then on I always thought when people died they became clouds in a perfect blue sky. I don’t know… it made me feel happy, somehow. I mean, I know funerals are solemn occasions, but I don’t seem to mind them so much after that.”
The last sheep finally found the gate and scrambled through. The farmer held up his hand in thanks, as if Banks had had any option but to wait, and closed the gate behind him. Banks set off.
“Rather you than me,” he said. “I can’t stand them. Anyway, see if you can take young Tom aside, take him for a drink or something. I’ve a feeling he really wants to tell us what he knows. Did you notice the way he kept looking at you?”
“Yes.”
“Think he fancies you?”
“No,” Susan said, after a pause for thought. “No. Somehow, I don’t think it was that at all.”
2
Banks crunched the last pickled onion of his plowman’s lunch and swilled it down with a mouthful of Theakston’s bitter, then he lit a cigarette. He would have to resort to a Polo mint if he found himself interviewing anyone in the afternoon. Superintendent Gristhorpe sat opposite him in the Queen’s Arms, cradling a half-pint. It was the first time they had been able to get together since Banks had met Burgess.
“So,” Gristhorpe said, “according to Burgess, Rothwell was laundering money for Martin Churchill?”
“Looks that way,” said Banks. “He said he couldn’t be certain but I don’t think he’d come all the way up here if he wasn’t, do you?”
“Knowing how little Burgess thinks of the north, no. But I still don’t think we should overlook the possibility of Rothwell’s involvement in some other kind of organized crime, most likely drugs, prostitution or porn. Even if he were laundering money for Churchill, he could have been into something else dirty too. We can’t assume it was the Churchill link that got him killed until we know a hell of a lot more.”
“I agree,” said Banks.
“Better do as Burgess says and watch your back, though.”
“Don’t worry, sir, I will.”
“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “I’ve just had a meeting with Inspector Macmillan, and he tells me that Daniel Clegg acted as Robert Calvert’s reference for his bank account and his credit card in Leeds. The account has about twenty thousand in it. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Play money,” Banks said.
“Aye. I wouldn’t mind that much to play with, myself. Anyway, according to Inspector Macmillan, the bank employees didn’t recognize Rothwell’s picture as Calvert because they hardly saw him. He used a busy branch in the city center, and the only person who did make the connection when Macmillan pushed it said Calvert looked and dressed so differently she wouldn’t have known.”
“Thank the lord for Pamela Jeffreys, then.”
“Aye, or we might never have known. What does his family have to say?”
Banks sighed and put the edge of his hand to his throat. “I’ve had it up to here with the bloody Rothwells,” he said. “They give a whole new meaning to ‘dysfunctional.’ There’s the victim laundering illegal money and leading a double life just for a hobby. There’s the daughter, who’d rather bury her face in a book than face reality now that the shock and the tiredness have worn off. There’s a son with more than a few guilty secrets hidden away. And then, watching over them all, there’s the Queen Bee, who just wants to keep up the usual upper-middle-class appearances and swears the sun shone out of her husband’s arse.”
“What do you expect her to do, Alan? Her world’s fallen apart. She must be having a hell of a job just holding things together. Have a bit more bloody compassion, lad.”
Banks took a drag at his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve just had it with the bloody Rothwells, that’s all. What do they know? It’s hard to tell. I think the wife suspects something weird was going on, but she doesn’t know what and she doesn’t want to know. She denies it, especially to herself.”
“Could they have any involvement?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Banks said, “and I’ve discussed it with Susan. In the final analysis, I don’t really think so. Mary Rothwell might well hit out at anything that threatens her comfortable world, and if she thought her husband were profiting from porn, for example, I can’t see her just sitting still and accepting it.” He shook his head. “But not this way. This brings her exactly the kind of attention she
