Final Account

report the break-in, but he knew there was nothing they could do. He had no doubts as to who had done it; he just had to find them. Dirty Dick Burgess knew something, Banks believed, but he would talk only when he wanted and tell only as little as he needed.

When Banks had finished the call, he took a bus to Millgarth at the bottom of Eastgate. Over the road, on the site of the demolished Quarry Hill flats, stood the new West Yorkshire Playhouse with its “City of Drama ” sign. It seemed uncannily appropriate, Banks thought, given the events of the past couple of days. Beyond the theater, high on a hill, was Quarry House, new home of the Department of Health and Social Security, and already nicknamed “The Kremlin” by locals.

Ken Blackstone was in his office bent over a stack of paperwork. He pushed the pile aside and gestured for Banks to sit opposite him.

“No earth-shattering developments to report, before you get your hopes up,” he said. “We’re still no closer to finding Clegg or Rothwell’s killers, but there’s a couple of interesting points. First off, you might like to know that the lab boys say the dirt and gravel on the tires of Ronald Hamilton’s Escort match that around Arkbeck Farm. They said a lot of other things about phosphates and sulphides or whatever, which I didn’t understand, but it looks like the car the killers used. Rest of it was clean as a whistle. And airport security at Heathrow have found Clegg’s red Jag in the long-stay car park.”

“Surprise, surprise,” said Banks.

“Indeed. Coffee?”

Bank’s stomach was already grumbling from too much caffeine, so he declined. Blackstone went and poured himself a mug from a machine in the open-plan office and returned to his screened-off corner. There was a buzz of constant noise around them – telephones, computer printers, fax machines, doors opening and closing, and the general banter of a section CID department – but Blackstone seemed to have carved himself a small corner of reasonably quiet calm.

Banks told him about Calvert’s flat.

“Interesting,” said Blackstone. “When do you think that happened?”

“I’d say before they went to Pamela’s,” Banks said. “Finding nothing there would put them in a fine mood for hurting someone. Is there any news from the hospital?”

Blackstone shook his head. “No change. She’s stable, at least.” He frowned at Banks and touched the side of his own cheek. “What about you? And I noticed you limping a bit when you came in.”

“Slipped in the shower. Look, Ken, I might have a lead on one of Rothwell’s killers.” He went on quickly to tell Blackstone what Melissa Clegg had said about the mysterious client with the puppy-dog eyes that Clegg had passed on to Harvey Atkins.

Blackstone put the tip of a yellow pencil to his lower lip. “Hmm… ” he said. “We’re already running a check on all Clegg’s contacts and clients. We can certainly check the court records. At least we’ve got the brief’s name, which helps a bit. Harvey Atkins is certainly no stranger around here. He’s not a bad bloke, as lawyers go. It’s a bit vague, though, isn’t it? About two years ago, she says, something to do with assault, maybe? Do we know if the bloke was convicted?”

Banks shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ll have to depend on the kindness of microchips.”

Blackstone scowled. “Hang on a minute.” He made a quick phone call and set the inquiry in motion. “They say it could take a while,” he said. “It might be a long list.”

Banks nodded. “What do you know about Tahiti?” he asked.

“ Tahiti? That’s where Captain Bligh’s men deserted in the film. It’s part of French Polynesia now, isn’t it?”

“I think so. It’s in the South Pacific at any rate. And Gauguin painted there.”

“Why are you interested?”

Banks told him what Melissa Clegg had said.

“Hmm,” said Blackstone. “It wouldn’t do any harm to put a few inquiries in motion, check on flights, would it? Especially now we’ve found the car at Heathrow. A relative newcomer might stand out there. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“We finished the house-to-house in Pamela Jeffreys’s street. Nothing really, except I think we’ve fixed the time. One neighbor remembered hearing some noise at about nine-fifteen Monday evening, which fits with what the doc said, and with Mr. Judd’s statement.”

Banks nodded.

“The people on the other side were out.”

“These neighbors,” said Banks, “they said they just heard some noise?”

“Yes.”

“Ken, imagine how much noise it must have made when they smashed that stuff. Imagine how Pamela Jeffreys must have screamed for help when she realized what was happening.”

“I know, I know.” Blackstone shook his head and sighed. “I suppose they would have gagged her.”

“Still… ”

“Look, Alan, according to DC Hyatt, who talked to them, they said they thought it was the television at first. He asked them if she usually played her television set so loud, and they said no. Then they said they thought she was having a fight with her boyfriend. He asked them if that was a regular occurrence, too, and again they said no. Then they said, or implied, that dark-skinned people have odd forms of entertaining themselves and that we white folks had best leave them to it.”

“They really said that?”

Blackstone nodded. “Words to that effect. They’re the sort of people who wouldn’t cross the street to piss on an Asian if she was on fire. And they don’t want to get involved.”

“And that’s it?”

“Afraid so.” Blackstone looked at his watch. “I don’t know about you, but I’m a bit peckish. What do you say about lunch, on me?”

Banks didn’t feel especially hungry, but he knew he ought to try to eat something if he were to keep going all day. “All right, you’re on,” he said. “But no curries.”

3

The other shops were not much different from the first: usually with the windows barred or covered in mesh, and usually close to dilapidated, graffiti-scarred corporation estates or surviving pre-war terraces of back-to-backs in areas like Hunslet, Holbeck, Beeston and Kirkstall. One moment the sun was out, the next it looked like rain. Around and around they drove, Hatchley flipping through the A to Z, which had now become so well-thumbed that the pages were falling out, missing turnings, looking for obscure streets. It was all depressing enough to Susan, and a far cry from the nice big semi at the top of the hill in Sheffield where she grew up.

But Hatchley, she noticed, seemed to relish the task, even though after another three visits they had got nowhere. His reputation for laziness, she was beginning to realize, might be unfounded. He certainly didn’t like to waste energy, and usually took the line of least resistance, but he was hardly alone in that.

Susan had known truly lazy policemen – some of them had even made detective sergeant – but none of them were like Hatchley. They simply put in the time until the end of their shift, generally trying to stay out of the way of any situation that might generate paperwork. Hatchley was determined. When he was after something, he didn’t let go until he got it.

The fifth shop was larger and more modern than the others, a kind of mini-market-cum- off-license that sold milk, tinned foods, bread and all sorts of odds and ends as well as booze, newspapers and