Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

“Ah, the ubiquitous DCI Banks. I should have known his hand would be in this somewhere. And where might golden boy be today?”

“He’s gone to Leeds. And I told you not to call him that.”

“Leeds? Again? Know what I think?” Gavin leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “I think he’s got a fancy woman down there. That’s what I think.”

“Don’t be absurd. He’s married.”

Gavin laughed. “Well I’ve never known that to stop a bloke before. What about this violinist you told me about? Is Banks bonking her?”

“You’re disgusting. Her name’s Pamela Jeffreys, and she’s a violist, not a violinist. For your information, DCI Banks is a decent bloke. He’s got an absolutely gorgeous wife. She runs the art gallery at the community center. I’m certain he’s faithful to her. He wouldn’t do anything like that.”

Gavin held his hand up. “All right, all right. I know when I’m beaten. If you say so. He’s a saint.”

“I didn’t say that, either,” Susan said through gritted teeth. Then she glared at him.

Their food came, and they both tucked in. Susan concentrated on her lasagna and tried to ignore the chips. Not entirely successfully.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Gavin said, “your Banks is definitely not a saint in Chief Constable Riddle’s books.”

“Jimmy Riddle’s a pillock.”

“That’s as may be. But he’s also Chief Constable Pillock, and your golden boy has been pissing him off mightily of late. Just a friendly word of warning, that’s all.”

“Are you talking about those Asian kids we brought in?”

Gavin nodded. “Could be something to do with them, yes. That and near causing a race riot.”

“A race riot? In Eastvale?” She laughed. “It was a storm in a teacup, Gavin. I was there. And we’d good reason to detain those three kids. They’re still not off the hook, you know. The lab found something suspicious on George Mahmood’s shoe. They’re still working on it.”

“Probably dog shit. I think you’ll need a lot more than that to convince the CC.”

“They think it might be blood. Anyway, you know as well as I do that Jimmy Riddle only ordered their release because of political pressure.”

“Don’t underestimate political pressure, Susan. It can be a powerful motivator. Especially in a person’s career. Even so, you’re probably right about his reasons.” Gavin pushed his empty plate aside. “To be honest, I can’t say I’ve ever heard the CC have a good word to say for darkies in private. But the public face is another matter. Sure they only got off because they’re colored. This time. And because Mustapha Camel, or whatever his name is, is some big wallah in the Muslim community. But there’s a large section of the public – especially some of the more liberal members of the press – who say they were only arrested in the first place because they were colored. Take your pick. You can’t win. Anyway, you might just want to warn DCI Banks that the CC is on the warpath.”

Susan laughed. “What’s new? I think he already knows that.” She glanced at her watch.

“Maybe that’s why he’s gone to Leeds?”

“DCI Banks isn’t scared of Jimmy Riddle.”

“Well, maybe he should be.”

Susan wasn’t certain from his expression whether Gavin was being serious or not. It was often difficult to tell with him. “I’ve got to go,” she said, standing up.

“You can’t. You haven’t finished your chips.”

“They’re fattening.”

“But I’ve not had my full half hour yet.”

“Isn’t life unfair,” Susan said, smiling as she pecked him on the cheek and turned to leave.

“Saturday?” he called out after her.

“Maybe,” she said.

DI Ken Blackstone, West Yorkshire CID, was already waiting when Banks and Hatchley arrived at the pub he’d suggested over the telephone, a seedy-looking dive near Kirkgate Market, at the back of the Millgarth police head-quarters.

Most days there was an open-air market near the bus station, behind the huge Edwardian market hall, and today in the drizzle a few lost souls in macs wandered around the covered stalls, fingering samples of fabric and fruit, thumbing through tattered paperback romances and considering the virtues of buying that “genuine antique” brass door knocker.

But no one showed much enthusiasm, not even the vendors, who were usually keen to sing out the praises of their wares and draw customers to their stalls. Today most of them stood to the side, wearing flat caps and waxed jackets, drawing on cigarettes and shuffling from foot to foot.

The pub wasn’t very busy, either. Blackstone had assured them the cook did a decent Yorkshire pudding and gravy, and luckily it turned out to be true. In deference to duty, Banks and Blackstone drank halves. Hatchley, unwilling to miss what was a rare opportunity these days, had a full pint of Tetley’s bitter. A giant jukebox stood in one corner of the lounge bar, but it was silent at the moment, so they didn’t have to shout.

“Well, Alan,” said Blackstone, echoing Gavin Richards’s sentiments, “you’ve been spending so much time down here this past year or two, I’m surprised you’re not thinking of moving.”

Banks smiled. “I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind. Oh, not seriously. Well, maybe just a little bit seriously. With both Brian and Tracy gone, the house just seems too big, and much as I love Eastvale… I think Sandra misses big-city life. And I wouldn’t mind being a bit nearer Opera North.” When he mentioned Sandra, he felt a pang. They hadn’t talked since their argument the other night, and Opera North had certainly played its part in that.

Blackstone smiled. “It’s not such a bad place. You could do a lot worse.”

Banks looked at Hatchley, who had done a stint on the West Yorkshire force several years ago. “Jim?”

“He’s right,” Hatchley agreed. “And it might not be a bad career move.” He winked. “It’s a long way from Jimmy Riddle. We’d miss you, of course.”

“Stop it, you’ll make me cry,” Banks said, pretending to reach for a handkerchief.

“All right,” said Hatchley. “We won’t miss you, then.”

“Anyway,” Banks asked, “how’s crime?”

“Much the same as usual,” said Blackstone. “We’ve had a spate of ‘steamings’ lately. Five or six young lads will go into a shop, then, when the shopkeeper’s got his cash register open, they rush into action, create chaos all around while they grab what they want from customers and till alike. Kids for the most part. Fifteen and under, most of them. They’ve also taken to doing building societies and post offices the same way.”

Banks shook his head. “Sounds American to me.”

“You know how it goes, Alan. First America, then London, then the rest of the country. What else…? We’ve had a few too many muggings at cash dispensers, too. And to cap it all, it looks like we’re heading for another drug war in Chapeltown.”

Banks raised his eyebrows.

Blackstone sighed. “Bloke goes by the name of ‘Deevaughan.’ Spelled like the county: Devon. Anyway, Devon came up from London about a month ago and sussed out the scene pretty quickly. Already it looks like we can put down one murder to him.”

“Can’t prove anything, of course?”

“Course not. He was in a pub with twenty mates when it happened. This one’s bad, Alan. Crack, cocaine, the usual stuff, of course. But word also has it he’s a big heroin fan. He spent the last few years in New York and Toronto, and there’s rumors of death follow him around wherever he goes. Still want to move here?”

Banks laughed. “I’ll think about it.”