Blood At The Root

II

“Ah, Banks. Here you are at last.”

As soon as he heard the voice behind him on his way back to his office from the coffee machine, Banks experienced that sinking feeling. Still, he thought, it had to happen sometime. Might as well get it over with. Gird his loins. At least he was on his own turf.

Their enmity went back for some time; in fact, Banks thought, it probably started the moment they met. Riddle was one of the youngest chief constables in the country, and he had come up the fast way, “accelerated promotion” right from the start. Banks had made DCI fairly young, true, but he had made it the hard way: sheer hard slog, a good case clearance record and a natural talent for detective work. He didn’t belong to any clubs or have any wealthy contacts; nor did he have a university degree. All he had was a diploma in business studies from a polytechnic – and that from the days before they were all turned into second-string universities.

For Riddle, it was all a matter of making the right contacts, mouthing the correct buzzwords; he was a bean- counter, at his happiest looking over budget proposals or putting a positive spin on crime figures on “Look North” or “Calendar.” As far as Banks was concerned, Jimmy Riddle hadn’t done a day’s real policing in his life.

Hand on the doorknob, Banks turned. “Sir?”

Riddle kept advancing on him. “You know what I’m talking about, Banks. Where the hell do you think you’ve been these past few days? Trying to avoid me?”

“Wouldn’t think of such a thing, sir.” Banks opened the door and stood aside to let Riddle in first. The chief constable hesitated for a moment, surprised at the courtesy, then stalked in. As usual, he didn’t sit but started prowling about, touching things, straightening the calendar, eyeing the untidy pile of papers on top of the filing cabinet, looking at everything in that prissy, disapproving way of his.

He was immaculately turned out. He must have a clean uniform for each day, Banks thought, sitting behind his rickety metal desk and reaching for a cigarette. However strict the anti-smoking laws had become lately, they still hadn’t stretched as far as a chief inspector’s own office, where not even the chief constable could stop him.

To his credit, Riddle didn’t try. He didn’t even make his usual protest. Instead, he launched straight into the assault that must have been building pressure inside him since Monday. “What on earth did you think you were doing bringing in those Asian kids and throwing them in the cells?”

“You mean George Mahmood and his mates?”

“You know damn well who I mean.”

“Well, sir,” said Banks, “I had good reason to suspect they were involved in the death of Jason Fox. They’d been seen to have an altercation with him and his pal earlier in the evening at the Jubilee, and when I started to question George Mahmood about what happened, he asked for a solicitor and clammed up.”

Riddle ran his hand over his shiny head. “Did you have to lock all three of them up?”

“I think so, sir. I simply detained them within the strict limits of the PACE directive. None of them would talk to us. As I said, they were reasonable suspects, and I wanted them where I could see them while forensic tests on their clothing were being carried out. At the same time, Detective Sergeant Hatchley was trying to locate any witnesses to the assault.”

“But didn’t you realize what trouble your actions would cause? Didn’t you think, man?”

Banks sipped some coffee and looked up. “Trouble, sir?”

Riddle sighed and leaned against the filing cabinet, elbow on the stack of papers. “You’ve alienated the entire Yorkshire Asian community, Banks. Had you never heard of Ibrahim Nazur? Don’t you realize that harmony of race relations is prioritized in today’s force?”

“Funny, that, sir,” said Banks. “And I thought we were supposed to catch criminals.”

Riddle levered himself away from the cabinet with his elbow and leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, facing Banks. His pate seemed to be pulsing on red alert. “Don’t be bloody clever with me, man. I’ve got my eye on you. One false move, one more slip, the slightest error of judgment, and you’re finished, understand? I’ll have you back in Traffic.”

“Very well, sir,” said Banks. “Does that mean you want me off the case?”

Riddle moved back to the filing cabinet and smiled, flicking a piece of imaginary fluff from his lapel. “Off the case? You should be so lucky. No, Banks, I’m going to leave your chestnuts in the fire a bit longer.”

“So what exactly is it that you want, sir?”

“For a start, I want you to start behaving like a DCI instead of a bloody probational DC. And I want to be informed before you make any move that’s likely to… to embarrass the force in any way. Any move. Is that clear?”

“The last bit is, sir, but-”

“What I mean,” Riddle said, pacing and poking at things again, “is that as an experienced senior police officer, your input might be useful. But let your underlings do the leg-work. Let them go gallivanting off to Leeds chasing wild geese. Don’t think I don’t know why you grab every opportunity to bugger off to Leeds.”

Banks looked Riddle in the eye. “And why is that, sir?”

“That woman. The musician. And don’t tell me you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

“I know exactly who you’re talking about, sir. Her name’s Pamela Jeffreys and she plays viola in the English Northern Philharmonia.”

Riddle waved his hand impatiently. “Whatever. I’m sure you think your private life is none of my business, but it is when you use the force’s time to live it.”

Banks thought for a moment before answering. This was way out of order. Riddle was practically accusing him of having an affair with Pamela Jeffreys and of driving to Leeds during working hours for assignations with her. It was untrue, of course, but any denial at this point would only strengthen Riddle’s conviction. Banks wasn’t sure of the actual guidelines, but he felt this sort of behavior far exceeded the chief constable’s authority. It was a personal attack, despite the cavil about abusing the force’s time.

But what could he do? It was his word against Riddle’s. And Riddle was the CC. So he took it, filed it away, said nothing and determined to get his own back on the bastard one day.

“What would you like me to do, then, sir?” he asked.

“Sit in your office, smoke yourself silly and read reports, the way you’re supposed to. And stay away from the media. Leave them to Superintendent Gristhorpe and myself.”

Banks cringed. He hated it when people used “myself” instead of plain old “me.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I haven’t been anywhere near the media, sir.”

“Well, make sure you don’t.”

“You want me to sit and read reports? That’s it?”

Riddle stopped prowling a moment and faced Banks. “For heaven’s sake, man! You’re a DCI. You’re not supposed to be gadding off all over the place interviewing people. Coordinate. There are plenty more important tasks for you to carry out right here, in your office.”

“Sir?”

“What about the new budget, for a start? You know these days we’ve got to be accountable for every penny we spend. And it’s about time the Annual Policing Plan was prepared for next year. Then there’s the crime statistics. Why is it that when the rest of the country’s experiencing a drop, North Yorkshire’s on the rise? Hey? These are the sort of questions you should be addressing, not driving off to Leeds and treading on people’s toes.”

“Wait a minute, sir,” said Banks. “Whose toes? Don’t tell me Neville Motcombe’s in the lodge as well?”

As soon as the words were out, Banks regretted them. It was all very well to want his own back on Riddle, but this wasn’t the way to do it. He was surprised when Riddle simply stopped his tirade and asked, “Who the hell’s Neville Motcombe when he’s at home?”

Banks hesitated. Having put his foot in his mouth, how could he avoid not shoving it down as far as his lower intestine? And did he care? “He’s an associate of Jason Fox’s. One of the people I was talking to in Leeds yesterday.”

“What does this Motcombe have to do with the lad’s death, if anything?”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t know that he does. It’s just that his name came up in the course of our inquiries and-”

Riddle began pacing again. “Don’t flannel me, Banks. I understand this Jason Fox belonged to some right-wing