Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

Whatever she did, though, it was always there, at the back of her mind: that feeling, inherited from her father, that these people weren’t quite like us ; that their customs and religious beliefs were barbaric and primitive, not Christian.

Where did we go wrong ? Who knew the answer to that one? Giving up on the Foxes for now, Susan closed her notebook and walked back out onto Daffodil Rise. It had started to rain again.

The traffic on the Leeds ring road wasn’t too bad, and Banks made it to Rawdon by eleven o’clock. Number Seven Rudmore Terrace was an uninspiring stone-clad semi just off the main road to Leeds and Bradford Airport. It had a small bay window, frosted-glass panes in the door and an overgrown garden.

First, Banks headed for number nine, where he noticed the lace curtains twitch as he walked up the path. Of course, when he knocked and a woman answered, she made a great pretense of being surprised to receive a caller, and left the chain on as she checked his warrant card before inviting him in.

“You can’t be too careful these days,” she said cheerfully as she put the kettle on. “A woman in the next street was attacked just two weeks ago. Raped.” She mouthed the word rather than speaking it out loud, as if that somehow lessened its power. “In the middle of the day, no less. I’m Liza Williams, by the way.”

Liza was an attractive woman in her early thirties, with short black hair, a smooth olive complexion and light blue eyes. She led Banks through to the living room, the carpet of which was covered with children’s toys. The room smelled vaguely of Plasticine and warm milk.

“Jamie’s taken the twins over to their grannie’s for the morning,” she said, surveying the mess. “To give me a breather, like. Two two-and-a-half-year-olds can be a bit of a handful, Mr. Banks, in case you didn’t know that already.”

Banks smiled. “I didn’t know. There’s a couple of years between my boy and girl. But believe me, one two-and-a-half-year-old was bad enough. I can’t imagine two.”

Liza Williams smiled. “Oh, it’s not so bad really. I complain but… I wouldn’t want to be without them. Now, I don’t suppose you came here to talk about children. Is it about that woman in the next street?”

“No. I’m North Yorkshire CID,” said Banks. “That’d be West Yorkshire.”

“Yes, of course. I should have noticed the card.” She frowned. “That just makes me even more puzzled.”

“It’s about next door, Mrs. Williams.”

She paused, then her eyes widened. “Oh, I see. Yes, that’s so sad, isn’t it? And him so young.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You mean about the boy who was killed, don’t you? Jason. In Eastvale. That’s North Yorkshire, isn’t it?”

“You knew?”

“Well, we were neighbors, even if we weren’t especially close ones. They say good fences make good neighbors, Mr. Banks, and you need a big one to keep that ugly garden of his out of view. But fair’s fair. He was quiet and considerate and he never complained about the twins.”

“Look, do you think we could just back up for a minute and get a few things straight?”

“Of course.”

“Jason Fox lived next door, at number seven, right?”

“Yes. That’s what I was telling you.”

“Okay. And you read in the paper that Jason was killed in Eastvale on Saturday night?”

“Saw it on telly, actually. How else would I know? Soon as I heard it was him you could have knocked me over with a feather.”

“How did you know it wasn’t some other Jason Fox?”

“Well, it’s not that common a name, is it, and even if the sketch they showed on the news wasn’t very good, I could still recognize him from it.”

The kettle boiled and Liza Williams excused herself to make tea. She came back with a tray, a pot and two mugs.

“Why didn’t you call the police?” Banks asked.

She frowned. “Police? But why should I? Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I’m not accusing you of anything. Just curious.”

“Well, I never thought. Why would I? I didn’t really know anything about Jason. Anyway, I was really very sorry to hear about what happened, but it didn’t have anything to do with me, did it? It’s none of my business. I mean, I’ve never even been to Eastvale.”

“But didn’t you think the police might want to have a look around the house where Jason lived, maybe ask you a few questions about him?”

“Well… I… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I just assumed if the police wanted to ask me anything, they’d have asked me when they were round earlier. I thought you’d done what you had to do. I don’t know what happens to people’s houses after-”

“Just a minute,” said Banks, sitting on the edge of his seat. “Did you say the police have already been around?”

“Yes. Plainclothes. Didn’t you know?”

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be asking you all these questions.” Liza Williams didn’t look or sound like a stupid woman. What could she be thinking of? “When was this?”

“Sunday morning. Before I’d even heard what happened. Why? Is something wrong?”

“No. No. It’s all right.” Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. Liza poured the tea, meeting his eyes as she did so and splashing a little tea on the tray. She handed Banks a steaming mugful. “Did they talk to you?” he asked.

“No. They just went into Jason’s house. Two of them. They seemed to have a key, seemed to know what they were doing.”

“How did you know they were police?”

“I didn’t. I just assumed, the way they seemed so purposeful. Then, later that night, when I saw about Jason on the telly… It seemed to make sense.”

“What time was this, when they came?”

“Must have been about ten o’clock. Jamie had just come back from the newsagent’s with the papers. We don’t have them delivered bec-”

Banks tuned her out. At first he had considered the possibility, however remote, that West Yorkshire had been playing left hand to North Yorkshire’s right. But Susan Gay hadn’t even discovered Jason Fox’s identity until lunchtime on Sunday, and the Foxes hadn’t officially identified him until after that. So who had known who the victim was before the police did? And how had they found out?

Banks blew on his tea, took a sip, then leaned forward again. “This is very important, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “Can you tell me anything about these men?”

Steven Fox clearly wasn’t expecting Susan, and his face showed surprise and suspicion when she turned up in his office at the building society.

“Time for a word?” she asked, smiling.

He looked at his watch. “I suppose so. It’s almost lunchtime anyway.”

“My treat,” said Susan. She sighed inwardly, realizing she’d have to forgo the Himalaya.

Steven Fox put on his raincoat, and they walked along York Road to the El Toro coffee bar on the opposite side of the market square from the police station. The El Toro, with its dim lighting, castanet-clicking Muzak, bullfight posters and smell of espresso, wasn’t renowned for its food, but the sandwiches were decent enough: Susan treated herself to prawn and tomato and Steven Fox settled for ham and cheese.

Once they had taken a bite or two and sipped some coffee, Susan began: “Would you be surprised to hear that Jason was no longer working where you told us he was?”

Steven Fox paused and rubbed his glasses, steamed up by the coffee. “To be honest,” he said, “nothing much would surprise me about Jason. He was a law unto himself.”

“His mother was surprised.”