Blood At The Root

“Then why don’t you move?”

“Too much work to be done here first. One day, perhaps.”

“Did Jason ever mention George?”

“Once or twice, yes.”

“In what context?”

“I honestly don’t remember.”

“But you’d remember if he said he chucked a brick through their window?”

Motcombe smiled. “Oh, yes. But Jason wouldn’t have done a thing like that.”

For what it was worth, it was probably the first positive link between Jason Fox and George Mahmood that Banks had come across so far. But what was it worth? So Jason had noticed George in Eastvale and mentioned him to Motcombe. That didn’t mean George knew Jason was a neo-Nazi.

And everything Motcombe said could have come from the newspapers or television. There had been plenty of local coverage of the detainment and release of the three Asian suspects. Ibrahim Nazur had even appeared on a local breakfast television program complaining about systemic racism.

“What about Asim Nazur?” he asked.

Motcombe shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Kobir Mukhtar?”

Motcombe sighed and shook his head. “Chief Inspector, you have to understand, these do not sound like the kind of people I mix with. I told you I remember Jason mentioned a certain George Mahmood once or twice. That’s all I know.”

“By name?”

“Yes. By name.”

The Mahmood part Jason might have known from the shop sign. But George? How could he have known that? Perhaps from the report in the Eastvale Gazette after the brick-throwing incident. As Banks recollected, George had been mentioned by name then.

If Motcombe was lying, then he was playing it very cautiously, careful not to own to knowing too much, just enough. Obviously a story of a full-blown conspiracy between the three Asians to attack Jason Fox would be even better for propaganda purposes, but it would be much more suspicious. A jet flew across the valley, a bright flash of gray against the gray clouds. Suddenly, someone else walked into the room. “Nev, have you got – Sorry, didn’t know you’d got company. Who’s this?”

“This,” said Motcombe, “is Detective Chief Inspector Banks and Detective Sergeant Hatchley.”

“And now we’ve got that out of the way,” said Banks, “maybe you’d care to tell us who you are?”

“This is Rupert,” said Motcombe. “Rupert Francis. Come in, Rupert. Don’t be shy.”

Rupert came in. He was wearing a khaki apron, the kind Banks had to wear for woodwork classes at school. His hair was cut short, but that was where his resemblance to Jason’s mystery friend ended. In his mid- to late twenties, Banks guessed, Rupert was at least six feet tall, and thin rather than stocky. Also, there was no sign of an earring and, as far as Banks could make out, no hole to hang one from.

“I’m a carpenter, a cabinetmaker,” said Motcombe. “Though it’s more in the form of a hobby than a true occupation, I’m afraid. Anyway, I’ve converted the cellar into a workshop and Rupert helps me out every now and then. He’s very good. I think the traditional values of the craftsman are very important indeed in our society, don’t you?”

Rupert smiled and nodded at Banks and Hatchley. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about Jason Fox,” said Banks. “Didn’t happen to know him, did you?”

“Vaguely. I mean, I saw him around. We weren’t mates or anything.”

“Saw him around here?”

“Down the office. Holbeck. On the computer.”

Banks slipped the drawing from his briefcase again. “Know this lad?”

Rupert shook his head. “Never seen him before. Can I go now? I’m halfway through finishing a surface.”

“Go on,” said Banks, turning to Motcombe again.

“You really must try believing us, Chief Inspector,” he said. “You see-”

Banks stood up. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us? About Jason? About his problem with George Mahmood?”

“No,” said Motcombe. “I’m sorry, but that just about covers it. I told you when you first came that I couldn’t tell you anything that would help.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say you haven’t helped us, Mr. Motcombe,” said Banks. “I wouldn’t say that at all. Sergeant.”

Hatchley put his notebook away and got to his feet.

“Well,” said Motcombe at the door, “I suppose I’ll see you at the funeral?”

Banks turned. “What funeral?”

Motcombe raised his eyebrows. “Why, Jason’s, of course. Tomorrow.” He smiled. “Don’t the police always attend the funerals of murder victims, just in case the killer turns up?”

“Who said anything about murder?”

“I just assumed.”

“You make a lot of assumptions, Mr. Motcombe. As far as we know, it could have been manslaughter. Why are you going?”

“To show support for a fallen colleague. Fallen in the course of our common struggle. And we hope to gain some media coverage. As you said yourself, why waste a golden opportunity to publicize our ideas? There’ll be a small representative presence at the graveside, and we’ll be preparing a special black-border pamphlet for the event.” He smiled. “Don’t you realize it yet, Chief Inspector? Jason is a martyr.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks, turning to leave. “Jason’s just another dead Nazi, that’s all.”

Motcombe tut-tutted. “Really, Chief Inspector.”

At the door, Banks did his Columbo impersonation. “Just one more question, Mr. Motcombe.”

Motcombe sighed and leaned on the doorpost, folding his arms. “Fire away, then, if you must.”

“Where were you on Sunday morning?”

“Sunday morning? Why?”

“Where were you?”

“Here. At home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Is there any reason I have to?”

“Just pursuing inquiries.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t prove it. I was alone. Sadly, my wife and I separated some years ago.”

“Are you sure you didn’t visit number seven Rudmore Terrace in Rawdon?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why should I?”

“Because that was where Jason Fox lived. We have information that two men went there on Sunday morning and cleaned the place out. I was just wondering if one of them happened to be you.”

“I didn’t go there,” Motcombe repeated. “And even if I had done, I wouldn’t have broken any law.”

“These men had a key, Mr. Motcombe. A key, in all likelihood, taken from Jason Fox’s body.”

“I know nothing about that. I have a key, too, though.” He grinned at Banks. “As a matter of fact, I happen to own the house.”

Well, Banks thought, that was one question answered. Motcombe did own property. “But you didn’t go there on Sunday morning?” he said.

“No.”

“Did you give or lend a key to anyone?”

“No.”

“I think you did. I think you sent some of your lads over there to clean up after Jason’s death. I think he had stuff there you didn’t want the police to find.”

“Interesting theory. Such as what?”