Blood At The Root

“Forget it.”

“How can I do that? Look how it’s turned out.”

“It isn’t over yet, Susan. I’m far from finished. It must have hurt you, this betrayal. I’m sorry.”

Susan looked down, into her empty glass.

“Fancy another drink?” Banks asked.

“No, sir. I’m fine. Really.”

“Well, I fancy another pint.”

Banks went to the bar and rang the bell. While he was waiting to get served, Susan sat hunched in on herself, feeling miserable. No matter how bloody kind and forgiving Banks might be, she could never forgive herself for what she had done. It wasn’t so much the betrayal itself, as the humiliation of letting herself be fooled and used by a bastard like Gavin.

“So what do you want to do?” she asked when he came back. “I mean about Mark Wood.”

“I see from the paperwork that Wood’s solicitor was called Giles Varney?”

“That’s right. A real arrogant bastard. Expensive, too. It seemed a bit odd at the time, that he would get Varney to come all the way from Leeds.”

“Yes.”

“Wood also said something about him being Jason’s solicitor, too – the one who helped them get the business set up. He didn’t want a duty solicitor. He was adamant about that.”

“Interesting.” Banks sipped his pint, wiped his lips and said, “And fishy. You know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Varney is Motcombe’s solicitor, too, or at least works for the same firm. I’ll have to give Ken Blackstone a call and check. Now, according to the reports, it was only when the blood evidence came back that Wood confessed, right?”

“Yes, sir. It would have been pretty difficult to lie his way out of that one.”

“Did he have a private conference with Varney? Make phone calls?”

“Yes, sir. We did it all strictly according to PACE.”

Banks nodded. “So Wood talked to Varney, then he made a telephone call, then he confessed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who did he call?”

“I don’t know. It was made in private.”

“We should be able to find a record of the number. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny it was Neville Motcombe. I’ll bet he told Motcombe he was well and truly up shit creek, and Motcombe talked to Varney, who then told him to plead manslaughter.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You had him against the ropes. I mean, fine, early blood evidence doesn’t necessarily mean a hell of a lot, but Wood knew he’d done it, and both he and Varney probably knew it was just a matter of time before we got results from DNA testing. And that they’d be positive. In the meantime, if Mark Wood admits to a lesser charge of manslaughter, denying that he’s ever even met Motcombe, then the heat’s off. It was just a fight that went wrong.

“And you can also bet that Varney will milk as much sympathy from the jury as he can from the fact that the fight started over Jason Fox making racist remarks about Mark Wood’s wife and child. All Motcombe has to promise is that Wood will get a short sentence and that his family will be financially taken care of while he’s inside. That and a nice bonus when he gets out. I think it’s an offer I’d probably take if my balls were in the wringer like Wood’s are.”

“If he pays a penny.”

“Yes. I suppose he could renege. And arrange for an accident in jail. I’m assuming he’s not doing all this out of the kindness of his heart. He’s doing it because Wood has something on him. Like the truth about what happened.”

“What can we do about it, if you’re right?”

“We can’t do anything, Susan. Remember, you’re still on the force, but you’re off the case. I, on the other hand, can do whatever I want.”

“But-”

Banks held his hand up. “Susan, I appreciate what you’ve done so far, but I don’t want to risk getting you into trouble again. Even Superintendent Gristhorpe wouldn’t approve if he knew what I was up to.”

“He would if you told him, sir. I told you he had his doubts, too. But Jimmy Riddle just barged in and steam- rollered everything.”

“I know. But the super’s not here. It’s better this way for the time being. Believe me.”

“What next, then?”

Banks looked at his watch. “Next, I think I’ll get right back to basics and pay George Mahmood another visit. There’s something missing from those statements. Some connection I’m missing, and it’s starting to irritate me. It might be worth eating a mouthful or two of humble pie to find out what it is.”

III

Banks walked down King Street toward the Mahmoods’ shop. As he passed School Lane, he could hear kids shouting on the rugby pitch and was almost tempted to go and watch. He had enjoyed rugby at school, and when he first joined the Met. He’d been a pretty good winger, if he said so himself. Strong, slippery and fast.

Is this what private eyes feel like? he wondered as he cut down along Tulip Street, on the northern edge of the Leaview Estate. Walking the mean streets of Eastvale? He didn’t even have a license to validate what he was doing. How did you go about getting a private-eye license in York-shire? Did you even need a license?

He did, however, still have his warrant card. Riddle hadn’t had the chance to ask for it, and Banks hadn’t managed the cliche of slapping it down on the table. He supposed it would be an offense to use it while under suspension, but that was the least of his worries.

The builders were busy at work in the fields around Gallows View, mixing concrete, climbing ladders with hods resting on their shoulders, or just idling around chatting and smoking cigarettes. Soon, the row of old cottages would be swallowed up. Banks wondered if they’d change the name of the street and the fields when the new estate was finished. Gallows Estate probably wouldn’t sit too well with the local council.

For Banks, approaching the Mahmoods’ shop felt like coming full circle. Not only had the Jason Fox case led him there, but his first case in Eastvale had involved the previous owner. And the way things looked, this might be his last case.

George stood behind the counter, wearing his white shirt with its Nehru collar, serving a young woman with a baby strapped to her breast. When he saw Banks, he scowled. His mother, Shazia, came over from the freezer area, where she’d been stamping prices on packages of frozen pizza.

Though she only came up to Banks’s shoulders, her eyes challenged him. “What do you want this time, Mr. Banks? Haven’t you caused enough trouble around here?”

“As far as I know, I haven’t caused any trouble, Mrs. Mahmood. Not intentionally, at any rate. I have a job to do.” A small lie, he realized. Had a job would be more like it. “I have a job to do, and it’s sometimes difficult. I’m sorry it has caused you pain.”

“Oh, are you? Such as throwing my son in a cell overnight, worrying his poor parents to death?”

“Mrs. Mahmood, George wasn’t thrown anywhere, and he exercised his right to make a telephone call. If he didn’t ring you-”

She waved her hand impatiently. “Oh, yes, he rang us, all right. But we still worried. A young boy being put in jail with all those criminals.”

“He was in a cell by himself. Look, I don’t know where you’ve got this from-”

“And only because of his color. Don’t think we don’t know that’s why you pick on us.”

Banks took a deep breath. “Look, Mrs. Mahmood, I’m getting sick of this. We took your son in because he and his friends had an altercation with the victim’s party on the night of the killing, because they live in pretty much the