Blood At The Root

for probably a couple of hours already, he hadn’t asked for Giles Varney yet. If he did, they’d have to lie and tell him they couldn’t get in touch. With Varney present, the plan would be useless.

Mark Wood didn’t look like much, Banks thought. Muscular, yes, but basically just another sullen, nervous kid chewing his fingernails in a police station.

Banks introduced himself. They hadn’t met before, and it was important that Wood know someone from Eastvale was involved in all this. As expected, Wood looked puzzled and confused. When he asked Banks why he had come down all this way, Banks said it was nothing to worry about, he would find out in a while. He sounded like a doctor about to tell a patient he has a terminal illness.

Leaving Wood under guard in the corridor, they went into Ken Blackstone’s office, where Wood could watch them through the glass partition if he wanted, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying. That would make him even more nervous. Especially if they glanced his way once in a while as they spoke.

They had been standing behind the glass chatting about Leeds United’s abysmal season and occasionally looking at Mark for about fifteen minutes, when three large uniformed officers led Wesley Campbell and Francis Robertson along the corridor, as arranged. The two had been passive and compliant when picked up over an hour earlier, Ken said. That was either a mark of confidence that they’d be out again in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Banks thought, or they were too stoned to care. Both had been found in possession of small amounts of marijuana, and neither had had time to flush it down the toilet, so they had been languishing in the charge room for a while. By now, they weren’t quite as complacent.

As they passed Mark Wood, they glanced down at him, and Mark looked even more confused. His eyes widened with fear. Campbell actually struggled against his guards for a moment and tried to get closer to Wood, as if he wanted to warn or threaten him. But the guards held on. Campbell and Robertson were taken to separate interview rooms around the corner. Both seemed to know the PACE regulations by heart, and they asked to make their phone calls immediately.

At about two o’clock, after Banks and Blackstone had enjoyed a leisurely lunch across the road, it was time to start. They went back upstairs and took Mark into an interview room. It was agreed that Banks, being more familiar with the case, would do most of the questioning. Blackstone would give the occasional prod if things got slow. They weren’t taping this one. There would be time for formalities later, with Banks well out of the way, if the plan worked. If it didn’t, then all hell might break loose as far as disciplinary actions were concerned. Banks had already warned Ken and given him the option of staying well away, but Ken had insisted on being involved.

“Well, Mark,” said Banks, “I know we haven’t met until today, but I’ve had a great interest in you ever since I saw Jason Fox’s body a couple of weeks ago.”

“I’ve told the police all about that,” Wood said. “I’ve pleaded guilty to manslaughter. What’s all this about?”

Banks raised an eyebrow. “It’s not quite settled yet,” he said. “Not to my satisfaction, anyway.”

Wood folded his arms. “I don’t know what you mean. First you leave me hanging about in the corridor for hours, now you start interrogating me. I’m not saying anything. I want my solicitor.”

“Mr. Varney? Well, we’ll see what we can do. For the moment, though, I suggest you hold your horses, Mark, and listen to me. Certain new evidence has come to light that puts an entirely different complexion on the Jason Fox killing.”

“Oh? What’s that, then?”

Banks jerked his head toward the door. “We’ve just had a long chat with Mr. Campbell and Mr. Robertson, and they’ve told us some very interesting things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the truth about what you did to Jason Fox.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Mark, surely you can do much better than that?”

“I’m not saying a word.”

“Listen to me, then. According to your brother-in-law, Mr. Campbell, an old mate of yours from the Cloth Ears days, the two of you were commissioned by Neville Motcombe to get rid of Jason Fox. Jason had become a major risk in a heroin deal you were planning, and a serious threat to Motcombe’s power. Motcombe couldn’t get any of his own members to do it because Jason was too popular with them. Instead, he got two of the people who were already involved in the drug deal – one from each side, so to speak – two people who also stood to gain a lot. I should imagine Devon wanted one or two of his own lads along just to make sure you did what you agreed, didn’t he? From what I hear, he’s not the kind of bloke to take undue risks. How am I doing so far?”

Wood’s eyes widened. “You know about Devon? Jesus Christ, does he know about this? Does he know I’m here? Have Wes and Frankie been talking to him? Shit, if Devon thinks I’m talking to the coppers, he’ll fucking kill me.”

Banks ignored him. “When Scattered Dreams played at the Jubilee, it gave you the perfect opportunity. Jason was going to be in Eastvale anyway – he had a football match in the afternoon – so you told him you were coming up and that the two of you could go see the band. Maybe it would be a chance to settle your differences and talk a bit of business, try to save the partnership somehow. I’d imagine you were compliant, more than willing to make compromises. You knew Scattered Dreams weren’t Jason’s cup of tea, but suggested he might like to broaden his horizons a bit. Who knows, maybe you promised to go to the next Celtic Warrior concert if he gave your lot a try. Jason had been to the Jubilee before, and he had mentioned that a couple of Pakistani youths went there on a fairly regular basis. I’m only guessing at this part, but I think he’d already chucked a brick through one of their windows, and he’d said he was looking for trouble with them. Perfect for you, if something like that happened in public, wasn’t it? A bonus. As long as it was just a minor incident, enough to draw just a bit of attention.

“Anyway, according to Mr. Campbell, you accompanied Jason toward the ginnel, where he and Mr. Robertson were waiting at the other end to render any necessary assistance. According to them, you whacked Jason on the back of the head with the bottle a couple of times, and he went down. After that, you managed to kick him to death all by yourself. They didn’t have to do a thing. And that, Mark, with two eyewitnesses to testify against you, makes it murder.”

Wood turned pale. “That’s not true,” he said. “It didn’t happen like that at all. They’re lying.”

Banks leaned forward. “What didn’t happen like what, Mark?”

“It was like I said. There was just me and Jason. We got into a fight. He slagged off Sheri and Connor. I didn’t mean for him to die.”

Banks shook his head. “I’m afraid that story’s gone right down the toilet now, Mark, along with all your other stories. Let me see if I can get them right.” He began counting them off on his fingers, looking toward Ken Blackstone, who nodded at each one. “First, you weren’t anywhere near Eastvale the night Jason got killed. Second, you were at the Jubilee but you never went anywhere near the ginnel. Third, you were there and you saw George Mahmood and his mates kill Jason. And, fourth, you killed him yourself in a fair fight. How am I doing so far?”

Wood licked his lips and shifted in his chair.

“Problem is, Mark,” Banks went on, “you’re a liar. The only version we have any independent corroboration of is the one I just put to you, the one Mr. Campbell told us about. So it looks as if that’s the way it’s going to go down now.” He paused, then went on. “After this interview, DI Blackstone and I will be having a word with Crown Prosecution Service about changing the charges from manslaughter to murder. That carries a much longer jail sentence, as I’m sure you know.”

“You can’t be serious? You can’t believe those bastards.”

“Why not? I certainly can’t believe you. Look at your track record, Mark. No, I’m afraid this is the end of the line for you. You get charged with murder now, and you don’t get out of jail for a long, long time. In fact, by the time you get out, your wife will have run off with another bloke long since, and your kid will have grown up and forgotten you. In the meantime, you’ll be fending off the arse-bandits in Wormwood Scrubs or Strangeways. And that’s if you last that long. I suspect both Devon and Neville Motcombe have long reaches.”

Wood seemed to shrivel, to draw in on himself like a bank of ashes collapsing. Banks could tell he was trapped. He knew lies wouldn’t save him now, but he didn’t know the best course of action. Time to tell him, time to give him a ray of hope. After pulling the carpet from under him, give him a foam mattress to land on.