Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

“Kobir. He’s Asim’s cousin from Bradford. He was just visiting, so we took him out to listen to some music, that’s all. Look, why are-”

“What time did you leave the pub?”

“I wasn’t looking at my watch.”

“Before closing time?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go?”

“We bought some fish and chips at Sweaty Betty’s, just down Market Street, then we ate them in a shop doorway because it were pissing down. After that we went home. Why?”

“You went your separate ways?”

“Course we went separate ways. You’d have to do, wouldn’t you, if you lived in opposite directions?”

“Which way did you walk home?”

“Same way I always do from up there. Cut through the Carlaw Place ginnel over the rec.”

“What time would this be?”

“I’m not sure. Probably elevenish by then.”

“Not later?”

“No. A bit before, if anything. The pubs hadn’t come out.”

“Mum and Dad still up?”

“No, they were asleep when I got back. They close the shop at ten on a Saturday. They’d been up since before dawn.”

“Did you see anyone on your way?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Doesn’t it worry you, walking alone across the rec at night?”

“Not particularly. I can handle myself.”

“Against how many?”

“I’ve been taking lessons. Martial arts.”

“Since when?”

“Since some bastard chucked a brick through our window and cut me mum. They might accept what’s going on, but I won’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’?”

There was scorn in his voice. “Racism. Pure and simple. We live in a racist society. It doesn’t matter that I was born here, and my mum and dad before me, it’s the color of your skin people judge you on.”

“Not everyone.”

“Shows how much you know. The police are part of it, anyway.”

“Geor – - sorry, Mohammed, I didn’t come here to argue the politics of racism with you. I came to find out about your movements on Saturday.”

“So what’s happened? Why are you picking on me?”

“I understand there was an altercation in the Jubilee?”

“Altercation?”

“Yes. A disagreement.”

“I know what it means. I’m not some ignorant wog just got off the boat, you know. I’m trying to remember. Do you mean that stupid pillock who bumped into me and called me a Paki bastard?”

“That’s right.”

“So what?”

“What do you mean, ‘So what?’ You’re telling me you just let it go at that? You? With all your martial-arts training?”

George puffed up his chest. “Well, I was all for doing the pair of them over, but Asim and Kobir didn’t want any trouble.”

“So you just let it go by, a racial slur like that?”

“When you look like I do, you get used to it.”

“But you were angry?”

George leaned forward and rested his palms on his knees. “Of course I were bloody angry. Every time you hear something like that said about you, you just get filled with anger and indignation. You feel dehumanized.” He shrugged. “It’s not something you’d understand.”

“Because I’m white?”

George slumped back in his chair. “You said it.”

“But you listened to your friends this time?”

“Yes. Besides, we were in a crowded pub. Just about everyone else in the place was white, apart from a couple of Rastas selling drugs. And the last thing those bastards would do was come to our aid if anything happened. They’d probably join in with the whiteys.”

“What made you think they were selling drugs?”

“That’s what they do, isn’t it?”

Talk about racism, Banks thought. He moved on. “Did you know the lad who insulted you?”

“I’ve seen him around once or twice. Arrogant-looking pillock, always looked down his nose at me. Lives on the Leaview Estate, I think. Why? You going to arrest him for racism?”

“Not exactly,” said Banks. “He’s dead.”

George’s jaw dropped. “He’s wha-?”

“He’s dead, Mohammed. His name was Jason Fox. Someone unknown, or several someones unknown, kicked seven shades of shit out of him in the Carlaw Place ginnel sometime after eleven o’clock last night.”

“Well, it wasn’t me.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure you weren’t so upset by what Jason called you that you and your friends waited in the ginnel? You just admitted you knew Jason lived on the Leaview Estate, so it would be a pretty good guess that he’d take the same short cut home as you, wouldn’t it? You waited there, the three of you, and when Jason came along, you gave him what-for. I’m not saying you intended to kill him, just teach him a lesson. But he is dead, George, and there’s no remedy for that.”

George looked so stunned he didn’t even bother to correct Banks over his name. “I’m not saying owt more,” he said. “I want a solicitor. This is a fit-up.”

“Come on, George. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Like hell it doesn’t. If you’re accusing me and my mates of killing someone, then you’d better arrest us. And get us a lawyer. And I told you, my name’s Mohammed, not George.”

“Look, Mohammed, if I do what you’re asking, I’ll have to take you down to the station. And your mates.”

George stood up. “Do it then. I’m not afraid. If you think I’m a killer you’d be taking me anyway, wouldn’t you?”

Oh, bloody hell, Banks thought. He didn’t want to do this, but the silly bugger had left him no choice. He stood up. “Come on, then,” he said. “And we’d better take the shoes and clothes you wore last night along with us too.”

The crosswinds on the A1 just south of Aberford almost blew Banks off the road. He felt relieved at last when he was able to edge out from between the two juggernauts that had him sandwiched and exit onto Wakefield Road.

It was another of those changeable days, with gale-force winds blowing a series of storms from the west. Between the bouts of rain, the sky would brighten, and Banks had even seen a double rainbow near the Ripon turnoff.

Even though Wakefield Road was busy, Banks still felt able to relax a little after the ordeal of the A1. He had been playing a Clifford Brown tape, finding the sound of the trumpet suited the weather, but he had hardly been able to listen for concentrating on the road. “The Ride of the Valkyries” would have been more apt for his drive so far, with the big vans and lorries spraying up dirty rain all over his windscreen. Now, however, he found “Gertrude’s Bounce” a fine accompaniment for the wind blowing the leaves off the distant trees.

It was Monday morning, and Banks was on his way to Leeds to talk to Jason Fox’s employer. George Mahmood and his friends were in custody at Eastvale station, where they could be kept for another six or seven hours yet, all claiming racial discrimination and refusing to say anything.

Though Banks felt sorry for them, especially for George, he was also bloody irritated by their attitude. And it was Jason Fox who deserved his pity, he reminded himself, not the cowardly bastards who had booted him to death. If they had done it. Banks couldn’t see George Mahmood as a killer, but then he had to admit he was prejudiced. And George had changed. Nevertheless, he was willing to keep an open mind until an eyewitness or forensic evidence tipped the balance one way or the other. In the meantime, he needed to know more about Jason Fox’s life, starting with where he worked and where he lived. He could have phoned the factory, but he really wanted a face-to-face chat with someone who knew something about Jason.