Final Account

damn little cubby-hole for the time being. Mebbe one day we’ll have separate offices. Myself, I can hardly wait. But for now, let’s just keep the window open and make a bit of an effort to get along, all right?”

Susan nodded. She felt all the wind go out of her sails. She swallowed. “All right. Sorry, sir.”

Hatchley swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his hands together. “We’ll say no more, then. Now, about that wadding?”

“Yes, sir?”

Hatchley burped again and put his hamlike hand to his mouth. “Shaved pussies. Smooth and shiny as a baby’s bottom.”

“Yes, sir.” Susan felt herself blush again and hated herself for it. Hatchley smiled at her. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Her spirits sank. She had thought for a moment that he might be getting serious about the case, but here he was simply creating another opportunity to embarrass her.

“Aye. Now, I know that’s not a lot to go on, but at least we know it’s not kiddie porn or the bum brigade. And we’ve got penetration and a clear image of ‘a penis in an excited state,’ as it says in the book, so this is definitely under-the-counter stuff.”

“True, sir.”

“And as far as I can tell,” he went on, “there’s no sign of dogs or cats, either.”

“Sir, can you get to the point?” Susan couldn’t keep the impatience out of her voice.

“Hold your horses, lass.” He started to laugh. “Get that? No animals. Hold your horses? Never mind. The point is, shaved pussies aren’t exactly ten a penny, though if we’d come up with something really kinky it would have made my job a lot easier. I mean, there aren’t many people sell photos of Rottweilers bonking thirteen-year-old girls that we don’t know about.”

“I still don’t see what you’re getting at, sir,” said Susan, a little calmer. She should have known that, if anyone was, Hatchley would be an expert on pornography. “Surely most of that stuff is sent through the mail from abroad, or from London?”

“Not all of it. There’s a fair chance it was bought under the counter somewhere. When I did my stint on Vice with West Yorkshire a few years back, I made one or two useful contacts. Now, if we’re assuming these lads were at all local, the odds are they’re from the city, as there aren’t that many killers-for-hire living in rural areas. Too exposed. That means Leeds, Bradford, Manchester, maybe Newcastle or Liverpool at a stretch. Now if the boss thinks this Clegg chap from Leeds was involved, then Leeds is as good a choice as any, agreed?”

Susan nodded. “Yes. The daughter, Alison, thought the man had a Leeds accent. She could be wrong about that, of course. Not everyone’s accurate on voices. I don’t reckon I could tell the difference. But it looks like they’ve found the car used for the job there. Anyway, as I’ve already told you, West Yorkshire ’s got some men asking around. Have had for days.”

“Well, you know how I hate sitting idle,” Hatchley said. “Guess where I’ve been this lunch-time.”

“The Queen’s Arms, sir?”

Hatchley smiled. “Not far off. We’ll make a detective of you yet, lass. I’ve been having drinks with an old informer of mine in The Oak, that’s what.” He touched the side of his nose. “Lives in Eastvale now, but he used to live in Leeds. Gone straight. See, I thought I probably remembered a few purveyors of this kind of porn – if they’re still around, that is – and it’s odds on that some wet-behind-the-ears young pansy DC fresh from university doesn’t even know they exist. There aren’t as many as you think, you know, at least not selling shaved pussy porn. It is something of a specialist taste. Anyway, there’s still plenty prefer the friendly old corner shop to the impersonal supermarket, if you get my drift. I’m not talking about sex shops – I imagine they’ve all been checked already – just regular newsagents that sell a bit of imported stuff from under the counter along with their Woman’s Weeklys and gardening magazines. Harmless enough. Hardly any reason for our lads to be interested, really. So I asked my old friend.”

“And?”

“Yes. They’re still in business, still selling the same kind of stuff to the same old customers. Some of them, anyway. A couple have retired, some have moved on, and one’s dead. Heart attack. Not business related. The point is, I knew these blokes were a bit bent, but I left them alone. In exchange, they’d pass on the odd tip if anyone came hawking really serious stuff, like kiddie porn or snuff films. Live and let live. Now, what I propose is that you and me go to Leeds and ask a few questions of our own.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange permission from the super and from West Yorkshire CID. Are you game?”

Susan was aware of her jaw dropping. He made sense, all right, and that was the problem. She was about to go on a porn hunt with Sergeant Hatchley, she could feel it in her bones. But it could pay off. If it led to the owner of the wadding, that would be feathers in both their caps. She swallowed.

“It’s a hell of a long shot,” she said.

Hatchley shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. What do you say?”

Susan thought for a moment. “All right,” she said. “But you’ve got to convince Superintendent Gristhorpe.”

“Right, lass,” Hatchley beamed, rubbing his hands together. “You’re on.”

Oh my God, thought Susan, with that sinking feeling. A porn hunt. What have I let myself in for?

3

By the looks of it, the heat had drawn one or two refugees from the Magistrates Court over to the Park Square. Two skinheads, stripped to the waist, dozed on the grass under a tree. One, lying on his back, had tattoos up and down his arms and scars criss-crossing his abdomen, old knife wounds by the look of them; the other, on his stomach, boasted a giant butterfly tattoo between his shoulder-blades.

In Clegg’s offices, Betty Moorhead was still holding the fort and fighting off her cold.

“Oh, Mr. Banks,” she said when he entered the anteroom. “It’s nice to see a friendly face. There’s been nothing but police coming and going since you were last here, and nobody will tell me anything.”

Had she forgotten he was a policeman, too? he wondered. Or was it just that he had been the first to arrive and she had somehow latched onto him as a lifeline?

“Some men in suits took most of his papers,” she went on, “and there’s been others asking questions all day. They’ve got someone keeping an eye on the building as well, in case those two men come back. Then there was that man from Scotland Yard. I don’t know what’s what. They all had identification cards, of course, but I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

Banks smiled. “Don’t worry, Betty,” he said. “I know it sounds complicated, but we’re all working together.”

She nodded and pulled a tissue from the box in front of her and blew her nose; it looked red raw from rubbing. “Is there any news of Mr. Clegg?” she asked.

“Nothing yet. We’re still looking.”

“Did you talk to Melissa?”

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

Banks didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t used to giving out information, just digging it up, but Betty Moorhead was obviously concerned. “She didn’t seem unduly worried,” he said. “She’s sure he’ll turn up.”

Betty’s expression brightened. “Well, then,” she said. “There you are.”

“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions?”

“Oh, no. I’d be happy to be of help.”

“Good.” Banks perched at the edge of her desk and looked around the room. “Sitting