Eastvale firm, until he started his own business. Falkland used him for the pub’s accounts. I gather Rothwell saved him a bob or two from the Inland Revenue.” Banks scratched the small scar by his right eye. “There’s a bit more to it than that, though,” he went on. “ Falkland got the impression that Rothwell owned a few businesses as well, and that accountancy was becoming more of a sideline for him. We couldn’t get any more than that, but we’ll be having a close look at his office today.”
Gristhorpe nodded.
“And that’s about it,” Banks said. “The Rothwell family had been living at Arkbeck Farm for almost five years. They used to live in Eastvale.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going out to Arkbeck Farm again after this meeting. I’m hoping Mrs. Rothwell will have recovered enough to tell us something about what happened.”
“Good. Any leads on the two men?”
“Not yet, but Susan spoke to someone who thinks he saw a car.”
Gristhorpe looked at Susan.
“That’s right, sir,” she said. “It was around sunset last night, before it got completely dark. A retired schoolteacher from Fortford was coming back home after visiting his daughter in Pateley Bridge. He said he liked to take the lonely roads over the moors.”
“Where did he see this car?”
“At the edge of the moors above Relton, sir. It was parked in a turn-off, just a dip by the side of the road. I think it used to be an old drover’s track, but it’s not used anymore, and only the bit by the road is clear. The rest has been taken over by moorland. Anyway, sir, the thing is that the way the road curves in a wide semi-circle around the farm, this spot would only be about a quarter of a mile away on foot. Remember that copse opposite the farmhouse? Well, it’s the same one that straggles up the daleside as far as this turn-off. It would provide excellent cover if someone wanted to get to the farm without being seen, and Alison wouldn’t have heard the car approaching if it had been parked way up on the road.”
“Sounds promising,” said Gristhorpe. “Did the witness notice anything about the car?”
“Yes, sir. He said it looked like an old Escort. It was a light color. For some reason he thought pale blue. And there was either rust or mud or grass around the lower chassis.”
“It’s hardly the bloody stretch-limousine you associate with hit men, is it?” Gristhorpe said.
“More of a Yorkshire version,” said Banks.
Gristhorpe laughed. “Aye. Better follow it up, then, Susan. Get a description of the car out. I don’t suppose your retired schoolteacher happened to see two men dressed in black carrying a shotgun, did he?”
Susan grinned. “No, sir.”
“Rothwell didn’t do any farming himself, did he?” Gristhorpe asked Banks.
“No. Only that vegetable patch we saw at the back. He rented out the rest of his land to neighboring farmers. There’s a fellow I know farms up near Relton I want to talk to. Pat Clifford. He should know if there were any problems in that area.”
“Good,” said Gristhorpe. “As you know, a lot of locals don’t like newcomers buying up empty farms and not using them properly.”
Gristhorpe, Banks knew, had lived in the farmhouse above Lyndgarth all his life. Perhaps he had even been born there. He had sold off most of the land after his parents died and kept only enough for a small garden and for his chief off-duty indulgence: a dry-stone wall he worked on periodically, which went nowhere and fenced nothing in.
“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “there’s been some bad feeling. I can’t see a local farmer hiring a couple of killers – people like to take care of their own around these parts – but stranger things have happened. And remember: shotguns are common as cow-clap around farms. Anything on that wadding yet?”
Banks shook his head. “The lab’s still working on it. I’ve already asked West Yorkshire to make a few enquiries at the kind of places that sell that sort of magazine. I talked to Ken Blackstone at Millgarth in Leeds. He’s a DI there and an old mate.”
“Good,” said Gristhorpe, then turned to Richmond. “Phil, why don’t you go up to Arkbeck Farm with Alan and have a look at Rothwell’s computer before you get bogged down managing the office?”
“Yes, sir. Do you think we should have it brought in after I’ve had a quick look?”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Aye, good idea.” He scratched his pock-marked cheek. “Look, Phil, I know you’re supposed to be leaving us for the Yard at the end of the week, but-”
“It’s all right, sir,” Richmond said. “I understand. I’ll stick around as long as you need me.”
“Good lad. Susan, did you find anything interesting in the appointment book?”
Susan Gay shook her head. “Not yet, sir. He had a doctor’s appointment for yesterday morning with Dr. Hunter. I called the office and it appears he kept it. Routine physical. No problems. I’m working my way through. He didn’t write much down – or maybe he kept it on computer – but there’s a few names to check out, mostly local businesses. I must say, though, sir, he didn’t exactly have a full appointment book. There are plenty of empty days.”
“Maybe he didn’t need the money. Maybe he could afford to pick and choose. Have a word with someone at his old firm, Hatchard and Pratt. They’re just on Market Street. They might be able to tell us something about his background.” Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Okay, we’ve all got plenty to do, better get to it.”
2
“I’m afraid my mother’s still in bed,” Alison told Banks at Arkbeck Farm. “I told her you were here… ” She shrugged.
That was odd, Banks thought. Surely a mother would want to comfort her daughter and protect her from prying policemen? “Have you remembered anything else?” he asked.
Alison Rothwell looked worn out and worried to death. She wore her hair, unwashed and a little greasy, tied back, emphasizing her broad forehead, a plain white T-shirt and stonewashed designer jeans. She sat with her legs tucked under her, and as she talked, she fiddled with a ring on the little finger of her right hand. “I don’t know,” she said. The lisp made her sound like a little girl.
They sat in a small, cheerful room at the back of the house with ivory-painted walls and Wedgwood blue upholstery. A bookcase stood against one wall, mostly full of paperbacks, their spines a riot of orange, green and black. Against the wall opposite stood an upright piano with a highly lacquered cherry-wood finish. On top of it stood an untidy pile of sheet music. WPC Smithies, who had stayed with the Rothwells, sat discreetly in a corner, notebook open. Phil Richmond was upstairs in Keith Rothwell’s study, clicking away on the computer.
The large bay window, open about a foot to let in the birdsongs and fresh air, looked out over Fortford and the dale beyond. It was a familiar enough view to Banks. He had seen it from “Maggie’s Farm” on the other side of Relton, and from the house of a man called Adam Harkness on the valley bottom. The sight never failed to impress, though, even on a dull day like today, with the gray-brown ruins of Dev-raulx Abbey poking through the trees of its grounds, the village of Lyndgarth clustered around its lopsided green and, towering over the patchwork of pale green fields and dry-stone walls that rose steeply to the heights, the forbidding line of Aldington Edge, a long limestone scar streaked with fissures from top to bottom like gleaming skeleton’s teeth.
“I know it’s painful to remember,” Banks went on, “but we need all the help we can get if we’re to catch these men.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Do you remember hearing any sounds between the time they went outside and when you heard the bang?”
