Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

Banks picked up a copy of the flyer. “What’s this, then, Ray? The Albion League? A new football league, perhaps? Out to rival the Premier, are you?”

“Very funny,” said Ray. But he wasn’t laughing.

“Tell us about Jason Fox,” Banks prompted.

“Jason? What about him? He’s dead. Kicked to death by Pakis. You lot let them go.”

Hatchley, still poking around, brushed against the huge stack of pamphlets on the counter. They fell to the floor, scattering all over the place. Ray and Des said nothing.

“Sorry,” said Hatchley. “Clumsy of me.”

Banks marveled at him. Full of contradictions and surprises was Jim Hatchley. While he’d pin photos of half-naked women on his corkboard – at least he did before Susan moved in – he hated pornographers; and while he’d join in with lads laughing at racist jokes, and was certainly a casual bigot himself, he didn’t like neo-Nazis, either. Of course, none of it seemed like a contradiction to him. The way he put it, he wasn’t prejudiced, he hated everyone.

“We’re not sure who killed him yet,” said Banks. “Where were the two of you at that time?”

Ray laughed. “You can’t be serious. Us? Kill Jason? No way. He was one of us.”

“So it won’t do you any harm to tell me where you were, would it?”

“I were at home,” Des said.

“By yourself?”

“No. I live with me mum.”

“And I’m sure she’s really proud of you, Des. Address?”

Des, stuttering, told him.

“What about you, Ray?”

Ray folded his arms and leaned against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, big grin on his face. “Drinking in my local.”

“Which is?”

“The Oakwood. Up Gipton way.”

“Witnesses?”

Ray grinned. “Six or seven at least. Local darts championship. I won.”

“Congratulations. What about Sunday morning?”

“Sleeping it off. Why?”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Banks made some notes, then said, “There was no contact address on your flyer. You’re not a secret society, are you?”

“No. But we have to be careful. We have a position we want to get across, and we know it’s not popular with a lot of people. So we don’t exactly go around shouting about our existence to everyone.”

“I’ll bet you don’t.”

“Not everyone understands.”

“I’m sure they don’t. How does a person join, then?”

“Why? You interested?”

“Just answer the fucking question.”

“All right. All right. No need to get shirty. Just my little joke. We recruit people.”

“Where?”

Ray shrugged. “Wherever we can find them. It’s no secret. Schools, youth clubs, football matches, rock concerts, the Internet. We vet them pretty thoroughly, too, of course, if they express any interest.”

“Tell me, Ray, what are your duties?” Banks asked, pacing around the small room as he talked. “How high up the totem pole are you ?”

Ray grinned. “Me? Not very high. Mostly, I hand out pamphlets. And I’ll be doing some of the writing now Jason’s dead.”

“Propaganda? Was that his job?”

“One of them.”

“The Goebbels of the group, eh?”

“Come again?”

“Never mind, Ray. Before your time. Anything else?”

“I do some training.”

“What sort of training?”

“Country weekends. You know, survival skills – camping, hiking, physical fitness, that sort of thing.”

“Real Duke of Edinburgh’s Award stuff?”

“If you like.”

“Weapons?”

Ray folded his arms. “Now, you know that would be illegal.”

“Right. How silly of me to ask. Anyway, Ray, back to Jason Fox. How well did you know him?”

“Not very.”

“You mean the two of you didn’t share your ideas on immigration policy and sing the occasional verse of the ‘Horst Wessel’ song together after a couple of jars?”

“No,” said Ray. “And you can sneer all you like. I’m getting fed up of this. Look, why don’t you go get your search warrant and call in your bully boys. Either that or get the fuck off our property.”

Banks said nothing.

“I mean it,” Ray went on. “I’m calling your bluff. Either bring in the bluebottles or bugger off.”

Banks thought for a moment as he engaged Ray in a staring match. He decided that there was nothing more to be learned here. Besides, he was getting hungry. “All right, Ray,” he said. “We’ve finished with you for the time being. Jim?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Sergeant Hatchley managed to knock over a half-full mug of tea on the counter. Banks turned and watched as the dark stain spread around the bottom few pamphlets left on the counter and began to rise up as the paper absorbed it. Then, with Hatchley behind him, he opened the door and they headed out to the car. The drizzle had stopped now and a brisk wind had sprung up, allowing the occasional shaft of sunlight to slant through puffy gray clouds.

“We didn’t have to leave, sir,” Hatchley said as they got in the car. “We could have leaned on them a bit more.”

“I know that. We can always go back if we need to, but I don’t think we’ll find any answers there.”

“Think they had anything to do with Jason’s death?”

“I don’t know yet. I can’t honestly see why they would.”

“Me neither. What next?”

Banks lit a cigarette and slid the window down a couple of inches. “We’ll have a word with Neville Motcombe this afternoon,” he said, “but before that, how do you fancy lunch with Ken Blackstone? There was something young Adolf said back there that gave me an idea.”

When Susan got to the Hope and Anchor, just around the corner on York Road, Gavin was already looking over the menu, a full pint beside him. Susan waved, stopped at the bar for her usual St. Clement’s and went over to join him. She put the copy of Classic CD that she’d bought at the newsagent’s on the bench beside her.

“What brings you to town, then?” she asked.

“I had a couple of boxes of stuff to deliver to your records officer. It’s not all computers, you know.”

The place was fairly quiet, and soon they had both ordered the lasagna-and-chips special. Gavin raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Susan smiled at him. A little over six foot, and only a couple of years older than her, Gavin was a good-looking fellow with a strong chin, soulful eyes and a mop of shaggy chestnut hair. He played fullback for the police rugby team.

“So,” Gavin said, “you are the sergeant when a call is received that there is a small nuclear device in the Swainsdale Centre. A validated code word has been given, it is a busy time of day, and you have twenty minutes to hand over every packet of Rice Krispies in Eastvale at a designated spot. What do you do?”

Susan laughed. “Get in my car and drive like hell out of there.”

“Sorry, DC Gay, you fail.”

It was a running joke between them. They had met just after doing their boards, and since then they had been coming up with progressively more absurd versions of the scenarios they had been given to solve.

“What’s that?” Gavin asked, pointing at the magazine.

“Just a music magazine.”

“I can see that. Bring it along in case the conversation gets boring, did you?”

“Idiot.” Susan grinned. “I picked it up on the way. I thought I might have to wait for you .”

Gavin picked up the magazine. “Classical music? With a free compact disc? Cecilia Bartoli. Sir Simon Rattle. I say. Alan Bennett plays are one thing, but I didn’t know you were such a culture vulture.”

Susan snatched the magazine back. “It’s something I picked up from DCI Banks,” she said. “I get to hear a lot of classical stuff traveling in the car with him and I thought… well, some of it’s really interesting. This is just an easy way of finding out more about it, that’s all. You get snippets of things on the disc, and if I like them, sometimes I’ll go and buy the whole thing.”