“Hmm. Try this for size,” said Gristhorpe. “One: Let’s assume that Rothwell and Clegg are in the money-laundering business together, for Martin Churchill or whoever.”
Banks nodded. “It makes sense, Clegg being a tax specialist and all.”
“And we’ll leave Robert Calvert out of it, as, say, just a personal aberration on Rothwell’s part, at least for the moment. A red herring, right?”
“Okay.”
“Something goes wrong. Rothwell finds out something that makes him want to get out of it, so he writes to Clegg ending their association.”
“And,” said Banks, “Churchill, or whoever it is they’re working for, doesn’t like this at all.”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“So far. Keep going.”
“Rothwell gets scared. Either he’s been cheating on his masters, and they’ve found out, or they’re afraid he’s getting nervous and is going to blow the whistle. So what do they do?”
“Take out a contract.”
“Right. And that’s the end of Rothwell.”
Gristhorpe paused as a couple of office-workers on a lunch break brushed past them and sat down at the next table. Cyril’s cash register rang up another sale.
“He could have been cheating on them to finance his life as Calvert,” said Banks. “I know we were going to leave him out of the equation, but it fits. He had twenty grand in the bank, you say, and he liked to gamble, according to Pamela Jeffreys.”
“True, but let’s stick to the simple line. What’s important is that Rothwell has become a liability, or a threat, and his masters want him dead. They’ve got enough money to be able to pay for the privilege without getting their own hands dirty. Which brings us to Mr. Daniel Clegg. The killers had a fair bit of information about Rothwell. They seemed to know that he and his wife would be out celebrating their wedding anniversary, for example. Clegg could probably have told them that. They knew Rothwell had a daughter, too, and that she would be at home. She wasn’t ‘part of the deal,’ remember? And they knew where he lived, the layout, everything.”
“Clegg?”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Let’s put it this way. If Rothwell were laundering money for someone, there’d be little, if any, contact between him and his masters, wouldn’t there?”
“That would seem to be one point of a laundering operation,” Banks agreed. “Certainly Tom Rothwell seemed genuinely puzzled when I brought up Martin Churchill.”
“Right. And Clegg was the only other person we suspect was involved, and he had information about Rothwell’s personal life.”
“So you reckon Clegg was behind it?”
“It’s a theory, isn’t it? They weren’t exactly friends, Alan. Not according to what you’ve told me. They were business colleagues. Different thing. It was a matter of you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Strange bedfellows, maybe. And crooked too. It’s an odd thing is a professional gone bad. They talk about bent coppers, but what about bent lawyers, bent accountants, bent doctors? If push came to shove, would you expect one crooked businessman to stick up for another?”
“So you think Clegg was not just involved in the laundering business but in Rothwell’s murder, too?”
“Aye. He could be our link.”
“And his disappearance?”
“Scarpered. He knew what was coming, knew when. Maybe they paid him well. It doesn’t matter whether he was scared of us or them, the result was the same. He took his money and ran, collected two hundred pounds when he passed go, didn’t go to jail. Then his bosses couldn’t get in touch with him, so they sent their two goons to find him. The timing’s right.”
“What about this scenario,” Banks offered. “Maybe Churchill had Clegg killed, too. With Rothwell gone, Clegg might just be a nuisance who knew too much, a loose cannon on the deck. If Churchill is planning on coming here, maybe he wanted a clean break.”
Gristhorpe took a sip of his beer. “Possible, I’ll grant you.”
“You know, it’s just struck me,” said Banks, “but do we know if Clegg ever practiced criminal law?”
“Seems to be the only kind he practiced,” replied Gristhorpe, then held up his hand and grinned as Banks groaned. “All right, all right, Alan. I promise. No more bad lawyer jokes. As far as we know he didn’t. He’s a solicitor, not a barrister, so he didn’t represent clients in court. But people might have come to him, and he could have referred them. Why?”
“I was just wondering where a man like Clegg might meet a killer for hire.”
“Local Conservative Club, probably,” said Gristhorpe. “But I see what you mean. It’s a loose end we’ve got to pursue. If we assume Clegg was involved in arranging for Rothwell’s murder, then we can look through his contacts and his activities to find a link with a couple of likely assassins. We’ve got that and the wadding. Not very much, is it?”
“No,” said Banks. “What if Clegg’s dead?”
“Nothing changes. West Yorkshire police keep looking for a body and we keep nosing around asking questions. We could get in touch with Interpol, see if he’s holed up somewhere in Spain.” He looked at his watch. “Look, Alan, I’d better get finished and be off. I’ve got another meeting with the Chief Constable this afternoon.”
“Okay. I’ll be over in a minute.”
Gristhorpe nodded and left, but no sooner had Banks started to let his imagination work on Clegg meeting two hired guns in a smoky saloon than the superintendent poked his head around the door again. “They think they’ve found the killers’ car,” he said. “Abandoned near Leeds city center. Ken Blackstone asks if you want to go and have a look.”
Banks nodded. “All roads lead to Leeds,” he sighed. “I might as well bloody move there.” And he followed Gristhorpe out.
Chapter 9
1
A tape of Satie’s piano music, especially the “Trois Gymnopedies,” kept Banks calm on his way to Leeds, even though the A1 was busy with juggernauts and commercial travellers driving too fast. He found the car park without too much difficulty; it was an old school playground surrounded by the rubble of demolished buildings just north of the city center.
“Cheers, Alan,” said Detective Inspector Ken Blackstone. “You look like a bloody villain with those sunglasses on. How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain.” Banks shook his hand and took off the dark glasses. He had met Blackstone at a number of courses and functions, and the two of them had always got along well enough. “And how’s West Yorkshire CID?”
“Overworked, as usual. Bit of a bugger, isn’t it?” said Blackstone. “The weather, I mean.”
Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. Sometimes when it itched, it was trying to
