Blood At The Root

VII

By the time Banks had finished coordinating with West Yorkshire police, it was late afternoon. He decided to drop by Tracy’s residence and see what she was up to. She had only been at the University of Leeds for a little over two weeks, but already he missed her. Maybe he could take her for a spot of dinner or something. That way he would also avoid the rush-hour traffic on the way home.

And spending time with Tracy might also make him forget about his problems with Sandra for a short while.

When he got to the student residence building beside Woodhouse Moor, he was pleased to find that not just anyone could walk in. You had to know whom you wanted to see. Banks found a porter on duty, showed his identification and said he’d like to visit his daughter.

Impressed with Banks’s credentials, the garrulous porter – who said he had been a policeman himself some years ago, before a leg injury forced him to retire – let him in.

As Banks walked up the two flights of stairs, he wondered if he should have announced himself first. What if Tracy was with a boy or something? Having sex? But he dismissed the idea. He couldn’t imagine his daughter doing that. Either she’d be out at a lecture, or she’d be studying in her room.

When he got to her door, he knocked. He could hear music from down the hall, but not a sound from Tracy’s room itself. He knocked again, more loudly this time. Nothing. He felt disappointed. She must be at a lecture.

Just as he was about to walk away, the adjacent door opened and a young tousle-haired girl stuck her head out. “Oh, sorry,” she said in a husky voice. “I thought you were knocking on my door. Sometimes you can’t tell, if you’ve got some music on or something.” Then her eyes twinkled. “Hey, you weren’t knocking at my door, were you?”

“No,” said Banks.

She made a mock pout. “Pity. You looking for Tracy, then?”

“I’m her father.”

“The detective. She’s talked a lot about you.” The girl twisted a tendril of red hair around her index finger. “I must say, though, she never told me you were quite so dishy. I’m Fiona, by the way. Pleased to meet you.”

She held out her hand and Banks shook it. He felt himself blush. “Any idea where Tracy might be?”

Fiona looked at her watch. “Probably in the Pack Horse with the others, by now,” she said with a sigh. “I’d be there myself, ’cept I’m on antibiotics for my throat, and I’m not supposed to drink. And it’s no fun if you can’t have a real drink.” She wrinkled her nose and smiled. “It’s just up the road. You can’t miss it.”

Banks thanked her and, leaving the car parked where it was, set off on foot. He found the Pack Horse on Wood-house Lane, close to the junction with Clarendon Road, not more than a couple of hundred yards away. He felt too formally dressed for the place, even though he had taken off his tie and was wearing casual trousers and a zippered suede jacket.

The pub had the polished wood, brass and glass look of a real Victorian alehouse; it also seemed to be divided into a maze of rooms, most of them occupied by noisy groups of students. It wasn’t until the third room that Banks found his daughter. She was sitting at a cluttered table with about six or seven other students, a pretty even mix of male and female. The jukebox was playing a Beatles oldie: “Ticket to Ride.”

He could see Tracy in profile, chatting away over the music to a boy beside her. God, she looked so much like Sandra – the blond hair tucked behind her small ears, black eyebrows, tilt of nose and chin, the animated features as she talked. It made his heart ache.

Banks didn’t like the look of the boy beside her. He had one of those expressions that always seem to be sneering at the world: something to do with the twist of the lip and the cast of the eyes. Either Tracy didn’t notice, or it didn’t bother her. Or, worse, she found it attractive.

As she spoke, she waved her hands about, stopping now and then to listen to his response and sip from a pint glass of pale amber liquid, nodding in agreement from time to time. Her drink could have been lager, but Banks thought it was most likely cider. Tracy had always enjoyed nonalcoholic cider when they’d stopped for pub lunches during family holidays in Dorset or the Cotswolds.

But this glass of cider was probably alcoholic. And why not? he told himself. She was old enough. At least she wasn’t smoking.

Then, as he stood there in the doorway, a strange emotion overwhelmed him. As he watched his daughter talk, laugh and drink, oblivious to her father’s proximity, a lump came to his throat, and he realized he had lost her. He couldn’t go over to the table and join the crowd – simply couldn’t do it. He didn’t belong; his presence would only embarrass her. A line had been reached and crossed. Tracy was beyond him now, and things would never be the same. And he wondered if that was the only line that had been crossed lately.

Banks turned away and walked outside. The wind made his eyes water as he went in search of somewhere else to enjoy a quiet smoke and a drink before setting off back home.

VIII

That Tuesday night, the Albion League was holding one of its regular bashes in a small rented warehouse near Shipley. Dim and cavernous, it was the same kind of place people went to for raves, but without the Ecstasy. Here, Craig guessed, the only drugs were the lager that flowed from the kegs like water from a hosepipe, nicotine and, maybe, the odd tab of amphetamine.

But one way or another everyone was pumped up. Guitars, drums and bass crashed at breakneck pace, simple three-chord sequences, interrupted occasionally by a howl of unplanned feedback from the amps. The Albion League themselves were playing tonight, a makeshift white power band consisting of whoever felt like picking up the instruments at the time. At the moment the lead singer was growling,

White is white.

Black is black.

We don’t want ’em.

Send ’em back.

Subtle. Craig wished he could wear earplugs.

From his table, Craig watched Motcombe work the room. He was good, no doubt about it. Slick. There must be at least a couple of hundred people in the place, Craig guessed, and Nev was walking around the tables patting a back here, leaning over for a smile and a word of encouragement there.

It was a miracle he managed to make himself heard with the band making so much bloody noise. Some of the older members, chronically unemployed factory workers and aging skins, had settled into a far corner, as far away from the source of the racket as possible. What did they expect, Craig wondered, the Black Dyke Mills Band playing “Deutschland Uber Alles” or Wagner’s Ring cycle? It was the rock bands that got the kids in, and got the message across through sheer volume and repetition.

The real trouble with this gig, Craig thought as he looked around, was that there was no chance of a bit of nooky. For some reason, girls didn’t have much to do with white power freaks, and most of the kids, in turn, seemed content enough with a celibate existence, fueled by sheer race hatred alone.

The only females Craig could see tonight were a few peroxide scrubbers, like superannuated biker girls, hanging out with the older crowd, and a table of skinny birds with shaved heads and rings through their noses. He sighed and drank some lager. Can’t have everything. A job’s a job.

The music stopped and the singer said they were going to take a short break. Thank God for that, thought Craig. Trying to keep one eye on Motcombe, he turned to the three skins at the table with him.

Christ, he thought, they couldn’t be more than sixteen. One of the Leeds cell leaders had spotted them causing a bit of aggro to a telephone box on their way home from a football match. He had joined in with them, then invited