Blood At The Root

“I just talked to her. She’s a bit confused right now, but she’ll be okay.”

“Great. What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know. She says she needs some time away.”

“She’ll come back, Dad, you’ll see.”

“I hope so.”

“Just wait and see. She’s just having a mid-life crisis, that’s all. She’ll get over it.”

Kids. Banks couldn’t help but smile. “Right. And how are you?”

“Fine.”

“How’s your classes?”

“All right. Hey, Dad, the band’s got a couple of gigs coming up next weekend. Paying gigs.” Brian played in a local blues band. Banks thought he was a pretty good guitar player.

“That’s great. Just don’t let it get in the way of your studies.”

“I won’t. Don’t worry. Gotta go now, or I’ll be late for the lecture.”

“When are you coming up?”

“I’ll try to get up to see you before Christmas. Okay?”

“Fine. If money’s a problem, I’ll pay for your ticket.”

“Thanks, Dad, that’d be a great help. Gotta go.”

“Good-bye.”

“Bye, Dad. And hang in there.”

Hang in there. Like a kid from some American television program. Banks smiled as he hung up. Well, that was enough family business for the moment, he thought. He knew he should phone his own parents and tell them what had happened, but he couldn’t face them yet. They’d be really upset. All these years they had loved Sandra like the daughter they had never had. If anyone was likely to blame him for what had happened, it would be his own parents, not Sandra’s, he thought ironically. No, best wait. Maybe Sandra would come up with Tracy at the weekend, then he wouldn’t have to tell them anything.

He poured some more coffee and put on the Beatles CD that he’d bought in Leeds yesterday. It was the second of the three anthologies, and he’d been thinking of buying it ever since it came out. He went straight to the second disc: outtakes from “Strawberry Fields Forever.” His favorite. Singing along, he tidied up a little, but soon started to feel restless and caged. Somehow, it didn’t feel right to be home during the daytime, watching neighbors walk back and forth with shopping and the unemployed bank clerk across the street wash his car for the second time in a week.

It was time for action. He picked up the telephone, dialed the station and asked to be put through to DC Susan Gay’s extension.

She answered on the second ring.

“Susan?” Banks said. “It’s me.”

“Sir? Are you… Is everything all right?”

He was sure she meant it, but her voice sounded tight and cool. “I’m fine. Is Jim there?”

“No, he’s out on the East Side Estate. Another break-in.”

“The super?”

“Away at Bramshill.”

“Good. Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound like it did. Look, I know I shouldn’t ask you this, but do you think you could do me a favor?”

“Sir?”

“I need to look over the stuff on the Jason Fox case again. All of it – from the crime-scene photographs to Mark Wood’s statements. Can you help?”

“Can I ask why you’re still interested, sir?”

“Because I’m not satisfied. Will you help me?”

There was a long pause, then Susan said, “Why don’t you come to the station?”

“Is that a good idea?”

“It’s pretty quiet here right now. The super’s going to be away for a couple of weeks.”

“Well, if you’re certain. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

Banks heard a sound like a harsh cough or bark at the other end. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Frog in my throat. That’s all. It’s okay, sir. Really it is.”

“Are you sure? If Jimmy Riddle turns up-”

“If Jimmy Riddle turns up, I’m buggered. I know that. But there’s far too much stuff to photocopy. And that would look suspicious, especially the way you have to account for every penny you spend around here these days. I’ll take the risk if you will, sir.”

“All right.”

“But I’d still like to know why you’re not satisfied.”

“I’ll tell you about it when I know more myself. At the moment it’s mostly just a feeling. That and a few bits of information about Mark Wood I picked up in Amsterdam.”

“Why don’t you just come to the station as soon as you can, then. I’ll be waiting.” And she hung up hurriedly.

Banks grabbed his coat and left the house. It was another sunny day, with a little high cloud and a slight chilly edge. The leaves had turned a little more than last week, and some were beginning to fall already.

He needed the exercise, so he decided to walk. He plugged in his earphones and turned the Walkman on: Billie Holiday singing “Strange Fruit.”

He walked along Market Street past the roundabout, the zebra crossing, garage and school, the local shopping center with its Safeway supermarket and collection of smaller shops and banks. There was a lot of traffic on Market Street today and the acrid smell of petrol and diesel fumes mingled with dry, dusty air.

He paused across from the Jubilee, whose large stone-and-red-brick frontage curved around the junction of Market Street and Sebastopol Terrace. That was where Jason Fox had spent his last evening on earth before being dispatched to whatever circle of hell was reserved for racists. Why on earth did it matter who had killed him, or why? Banks wondered as he walked on. Wasn’t it good enough that he was dead? Was it only Banks’s insatiable bloody curiosity that made it so important, or was there some absolute standard of justice and truth to be served?

Banks had no answer. All he knew was that if he didn’t get to spin it out until he thought it was all over, then it would stay with him like a sore that won’t heal. And he knew that, in some way, it was the murder of Frank Hepplethwaite he was out to avenge, not Jason Fox’s.

One or two pairs of curious eyes followed him up the stairs at the station, but nobody said anything. Susan was in her office waiting for him with a thick pile of papers in front of her.

“I feel like a schoolboy sneaking a look at naughty pictures,” Banks said. “Can I take them to my office?”

“Of course,” said Susan. “You don’t have to ask my permission.” She stood up.

“Look, I appreciate this.”

“No problem.”

“Susan, is-”

“Sorry, sir. I’ve got to go.”

She dashed out and left him standing in her office. Well, he thought, it didn’t take long to become a pariah around here, did it? But he could hardly blame Susan for wanting to put a bit of distance between them. Not after all that had happened. And she had put herself out to help him.

Checking to see that the coast was clear, he tiptoed across the corridor to his own office with the papers and shut the door behind him. Nothing had changed. Even the desk was still at the same odd angle after Riddle had fallen back on it. Embarrassed at the memory of what he’d done, Banks straightened it, sat down with the pile of papers, packet of cigarettes and ashtray beside him, window a couple of inches open, and settled in to read.

II