Blood At The Root

What the hell am I doing here? Susan wondered, as Banks stood aside and held the door of the Duck and Drake open for her. Why did I agree to this? I must be insane.

The Duck and Drake was a small hideaway in Skinner’s Yard, one of the many alleys off King Street. Wedged between an antiquarian bookshop and the Victoria wineshop, it had a narrow frontage and not much more room inside. One advantage was that it was one of the few pubs that still had a snug, a tiny room handy for private conversations. The doorway was so low that even Banks had to stoop. Inside, the snug was all dark wood beams and whitewashed stone walls hung with brass ornaments. An old black-leaded fireplace took up almost one entire wall. Above it ran a long wooden mantelpiece with a few tattered leather-bound books.

They had the snug to themselves. Banks bought the drinks and sat against the wall, opposite her, a small table between them.

Sipping her St. Clement’s, Susan could hear the occasional kerchunk of the fruit machine and chink of the cash register coming from the other rooms. If they wanted the barman’s attention, they had to ring a little bell on the bar. It was an altogether too intimate and cozy setup for Susan, but there was nothing she could do about it. Banks had been right in that the Queen’s Arms was far too public a place for them to meet. And he was clearly oblivious to her discomfort, drinking his Sam Smith’s Old Brewery Bitter and chewing on a cheese-and-onion sandwich. Susan had no appetite at all. Between mouthfuls, he told her about what he had discovered in Amsterdam.

Susan listened, frowning and biting her lower lip in concentration. When Banks had finished, she said, “It makes sense, sir, but how does it change things? We already know Mark Wood killed Jason. He admitted it.”

Banks finished his sandwich, sipped some Sam Smith’s and reached for his cigarettes.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve just read through his statements. The kid’s a pathological liar. He’s confessed to manslaughter, but if I’m right, it was murder. Premeditated murder.”

“I don’t see how you can prove that.”

“There’s the rub. According to the postmortem report, Jason Fox was hit on the back of the head with the beer bottle, right?”

Susan nodded. “That’s where Dr. Glendenning found the most damage to the skull, and the glass fragments.”

“But in his statement, Mark Wood said he hit Jason on the side of the head.”

“I noticed that,” said Susan, “but, quite honestly, sir, I didn’t think much of it. He was confused, under pressure. Basically, he was saying he just lashed out.”

“Yes, I understand that. The point is, that doesn’t happen in a fight.”

“Sir?”

“Stand up.”

Banks edged out from the bench. The room itself was just about high enough for him to stand up in. There was no one else around. Susan got to her feet and stood facing him, almost close enough to feel the warmth of his body.

She concentrated on the demonstration, focusing on little details. He didn’t look well, she noticed. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his face was pale. There was also a deep sadness in him that she had never noticed before.

“Pretend to hit me on the back of the head with an imaginary beer bottle,” he said.

“I can’t, sir,” Susan said. “Not from this angle. Jason must have had his back to Wood, walking either in front of or beside him. Or he must at least have been partly turned sideways.”

“Like this?” Banks turned sideways.

“Yes, sir.”

Banks went back to his seat and lit a cigarette. “Been in many fights?” he asked.

“No, sir. But that-”

“Let me finish. I have. At school. And, believe me, you would never get your opponent to stand in that position. Not willingly. Not unless you’d hit him with your fist first and knocked him sideways.”

“Maybe that’s what happened?”

Banks shook his head again. “Listen to what you’re saying, Susan. To do that, he’d have to have been holding the beer bottle in the same hand he punched Fox with and then swung back very quickly and hit him before he moved. Even if he had the beer bottle in the other hand and switched after he’d hit him, it still doesn’t make sense. And remember, Jason was no slouch when it came to physical strength. You’d need every advantage to get the better of him. Let me ask you a question.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Mark Wood bruised in any way? Did he have a black eye or a cauliflower ear?”

“No.”

“You’d expect something like that, wouldn’t you, if he’d been in an actual fight? Especially with as tough a customer as Jason Fox. Are you telling me Jason didn’t even get one punch in?”

“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps he hit Wood in the body, where it wouldn’t show, and not in the face? I mean, we didn’t do a strip search or anything.”

Banks shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s just not on. I had another good look at the crime-scene photographs as well, and I reread Dr. Glendenning’s postmortem report. It just couldn’t have happened the way Mark Wood said it did.”

“Well,” Susan said slowly, “Superintendent Gristhorpe wasn’t entirely convinced, either. But Mark said Jason Fox was goading him about his wife and kid. They needn’t have faced off to start fighting. Mark probably just lashed out when he’d had enough. I suppose you saw it for yourself in the statement, but when we pushed Wood on exactly how and when it happened, he said it was all a blur, he couldn’t remember.”

“How very convenient. He also denied emptying Jason Fox’s pockets. Two loose ends.”

“That’s the thing that bothered me most, sir. But we just assumed that either he lied because it would look bad for him, too deliberate, stopping to empty Jason’s pockets instead of running off in a panic. Or maybe someone else came along later and robbed Fox while he was lying there.”

“I’d go for the first explanation, myself. It just didn’t fit with the scenario he was painting for you. But why take his keys as well, unless they might have led to easier identification? I think whoever did this wanted to keep the victim’s identity from us until they had a chance to clear out the Rawdon house of any dodgy files or notes he might have kept there, and they weren’t taking any chances.”

“We just thought that if some opportunist came along and did it, he simply took everything. You know, just sort of scooped it all up quickly without pausing to separate the keys from the loose change.” Susan shrugged. “Chief Constable Riddle didn’t seem to be worried by any of this. And by then we had him breathing right down our necks.”

“It’s still two loose ends too many for me.”

“Then I don’t know where that leaves us, sir. What about motive?”

Banks told her about Mark’s connection with Mot-combe’s drug deal, and Jason’s disapproval.

“So you think Motcombe’s behind it?” she said.

“I do. But proving it is another matter. Officially the case is closed. You got an easy conviction. That pleased Jimmy Riddle. That and the opportunity to suspend me. I made a mistake there. I didn’t expect you’d solve the case so quickly that he’d be buzzing round the station all weekend. To be honest, I didn’t expect he’d find out where I’d gone.”

“Sir,” Susan blurted out, feeling her heart lurch into her throat. “Can I tell you something?”

Banks frowned and lit another cigarette. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

Susan chewed on her lip for a while, just looking at him, unsure now whether she dare speak out or not. Then she took a deep breath and told him all about Gavin’s betrayal.

When she had finished, Banks just sat quietly staring down at the table. She was afraid of what he might say, especially as she could no longer deny to herself the way she felt about him. Please God, she prayed, let him never find out about that.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said.

Banks looked at her, a sad, crooked smile on his face. “Never mind. It wasn’t your fault. How were you to know your boyfriend would run off and tell tales to Jimmy Riddle?”

“Whichever way you look at it, sir, I still betrayed a confidence.”