Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess in the flesh. A little more flesh than on their previous meeting, by the look of it, most of it on his gut. And his hair was now almost as gray as his cynical eyes. Burgess worked for Special Branch, or something very close to it, and whenever he appeared on the scene Banks knew there would be complications.
“Banks, me old cock sparrow,” said Burgess, putting on the Cockney accent Banks knew he’d lost years ago. Then he clapped Banks on the back and took a chair. “Mind if I join you?”
IV
A steady drizzle had settled in by the time Susan passed the Garforth exit, and she had to switch on her windscreen wipers to clean off all the muck the lorries churned up. Castle-ford wasn’t far, though, and soon the enormous cooling towers of Ferrybridge power station came into sight. She found the road to Ferry Fryston without much trouble and, pulling over into the car park of a large pub to consult her map, pinpointed the street she was looking for.
Mark Wood lived in a “prefab” on one of the early-postwar council estates. These were houses – mostly semis or short terrace blocks – built of concrete prefabricated in the factory, then assembled on the site. In this area, they were built originally to house colliery workers, but since all the local pits had been closed during the Thatcher years, they were up for grabs, a source of cheap housing.
The houses themselves weren’t up to much. They had no central heating, and the walls were damp. In the rain, Susan thought, the concrete looked like porridge.
Susan negotiated her way through the maze of “avenues,” “rises,” “terraces” and “drives” which curved and looped in great profusion, then she spotted Hatchley’s dark-green Astra, just around the corner from Wood’s house, as they had arranged over the phone.
Susan pulled up behind him, turned off her engine, then dashed over and jumped in beside him.
“Sorry if I kept you waiting, Sarge,” she said. “Three-car accident near the York junction.”
“That’s all right,” said Hatchley, stubbing out a cigarette in the already overstuffed ashtray. “Just got here myself. Bugger of a place to find. Bugger of a place to live, too, if you ask me.”
“How shall we play it?”
Hatchley squirmed in his seat and ran his pudgy fingers under the back of his collar, as if to loosen it. “Why don’t you start the questioning?” he said. “It’ll be good experience now you’re going to be a sergeant. I’ll jump in if I think it’s necessary.”
“Fine,” said Susan, smiling to herself. She knew that Hatchley hated carrying out formal interviews unless he was talking either to an informant or a habitual criminal. With Wood, they just didn’t know yet, so Hatchley would let her lead, then he would follow if she got somewhere interesting or fill in the gaps if she missed something.
As it turned out, Hatchley had even more reason for assigning the interview to Susan. When they knocked on the door, a young woman opened it, and Hatchley was useless at interviewing women. Susan finessed their way inside easily enough, showing her warrant card, after learning that Mark had just “nipped out” to the shop for some cigarettes and would be back in a few minutes, Good, she thought; it gave her a chance to talk to the girlfriend alone first.
Inside, the house was clean and tidy enough, but Susan’s sense of smell, always sensitive, reacted at once to the mingled baby odors – warm milk, mushy food and, of course, the whole mess when it all comes out transformed at the other end – plus the kitty litter. Sure enough, a black-and-white cat prowled the room and a baby slept in its cot in the corner, occasionally emitting a tiny sniffle or cry, as if disturbed by dreams. One of the walls was damp, and the wallpaper was peeling off near the ceiling.
“What’s it all about?” the woman asked. “I’m Shirelle. Mark’s wife.”
That was Susan’s first shock. Shirelle was Afro-Caribbean. And she didn’t look a day older than fourteen. She was small in stature, with a flat chest and slim hips, and her pale brown face was framed by long braided black hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Looking at her sitting there in the worn old armchair, it was hard to believe she was old enough to be a mother.
“We’ve just a few questions to ask your Mark, love,” said Susan, in as reassuring a tone as she could manage. When Shirelle didn’t answer, she went on, “Maybe you can help. Do you know Jason Fox?”
She frowned. “No. I’ve never met him. Mark mentioned him once or twice. They work together. But he’s never brought him here.”
I’m not surprised, Susan thought. “Did Mark ever tell you anything about him?”
“Like what?”
“What he’s like, how they get on, that sort of thing.”
“Well, I don’t think Mark likes him all that much. They haven’t been working together for long, and I think Mark’s going to break with him. Apparently, this Jason has some peculiar ideas about immigrants and stuff.”
You could say that again. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I’m not an immigrant. I was born here.”
“How long have they been working together?”
“A few months.”
“How did they meet?”
“They were both doing a computer course in Leeds at the same time, and neither of them could get a job after. I think this Jason had a bit of money to put into starting a business. Mark was top of the class, so Jason asked if he wanted to join him. Like I say, I don’t think Mark’s going to stick with him. It’s just a start, that’s all. It’s hard to get started when you don’t have the experience.”
“How’s the business doing?” Susan asked.
Shirelle looked around her and snorted. “What do
The cat tried to climb on Susan’s knee, but she pushed it away. “It’s not that I don’t like cats, Shirelle,” she said, “but I’m allergic to them.”
Shirelle nodded. “Tina, come here!” she said.
But the cat, as cats do, gave her a you-must-be-joking look and ignored her. Finally, Shirelle shot forward, scooped up Tina and deposited her in the next room, closing the door.
“Thanks,” said Susan. “Have you heard of the Albion League?”
Shirelle shook her head. “What’s that when it’s at home?”
“Do you know where Mark was last Saturday night?”
Shirelle glanced away for just long enough that Susan knew she was going to tell a lie. Why? Had her husband told her to? Or did she want to avoid trouble with the police? With some people, it was habitual. Whatever the reason, as soon as she said, “He was here. At home,” Susan asked her to think carefully about her answer.
“What time do you mean?” Shirelle asked, after a few moments’ hesitation. “Because he might, you know, have nipped down the pub for a jar or two with his mates.”
“Which pub would that be?”
“Hare and Hounds. At the corner. That’s his local.” Shirelle seemed distracted by Sergeant Hatchley, who had said nothing so far, but just sat next to Susan on the sofa watching the whole proceedings, still as a statue, occasionally nodding encouragement and making a note in his black book. She kept looking at him, then turned her large, frightened eyes away, back to Susan.
“And if we were to ask there, at this Hare and Hounds,” Susan said, “then they’d remember Mark from last Saturday night, would they?”
“I… I don’t-”
At that moment the front door opened and a male voice called out, “Sheri? Sheri?”
Then Mark Wood entered the room: stocky build, muscular, short hair, loop earring and all. Early twenties. The man in the picture.
“Hello, Mark,” said Susan. “We’ve been wanting a word with you ever since last Saturday.”
When Mark saw Susan and Hatchley he stopped in his tracks and his jaw went slack. “Who…?” But it was
