Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

“Anyway, you didn’t come to talk about my problems. How can I help you this time?”

Banks lit a cigarette. “Know anything about Neville Mot-combe? Runs a white-power group called the Albion League. Lives out Pudsey way. Offices in Holbeck.”

Blackstone shook his head. “I’ve heard of him, but I can’t really say I know much, not off-the-cuff. Bit out of my bailiwick, to be honest.”

“What is? Neo-Nazis or Pudsey?”

Blackstone laughed. “Both, I suppose.” With his thinning sandy hair – still enough left to curl around his ears – wire-rimmed glasses, long, pale face and Cupid’s-bow lips, Blackstone reminded Banks more of an academic than a copper. Except that he was always well-dressed. Today, he wore a dazzling white shirt, its brightness outdone only by his gaudy tie, and a pinstripe suit that looked tailor-made, not off-the-peg, with a silk handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. Banks didn’t even wear a suit and tie unless he had to, and he always kept the top button of his shirt undone. Today he was wearing his favorite suede jacket again, and his tie hung askew.

“How did you come to hear about him?” Banks asked.

Blackstone laughed. “Bit of a joke around the station, actually. Seems he tried to flog a stolen stereo to one of our off-duty PCs at a car-boot sale last year. Luckily for us, it was one of our honest PCs, and he traced it to a Curry’s break-in a couple of months earlier.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Motcombe swore blind he’d bought it at the market and we couldn’t prove otherwise. Got a light rap on the knuckles, and that’s the lot.”

“Did you know about the Albion League?”

“I’ve heard of it, yes. I try at least to stay abreast of possible troublemakers.”

“And you think they’re likely ones?”

Blackstone pursed his lips. “Mmm. I’d say they’ve got potential, yes. We’ve had a few unattributed racial incidents this past year or so. We can’t tie them in to him and his group yet, but I have my suspicions.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Know that big mosque they’re putting up out Bradford way?”

Banks nodded.

“There’s been a few small acts of sabotage. Nothing much. Stolen building materials, spray-painted racist slogans, slashed tires, scratched paintwork. That sort of thing.”

“And you suspect Motcombe’s lot?”

“Well, it’d be surprising if there weren’t some sort of organized group behind it. What really worries me is what level of violence they’re likely to rise to.”

“A bomb? Something like that?”

Blackstone shrugged. “Well, if the IRA can do it… Anyway, it’s just speculation at the moment. Want me to dig around a bit more?”

Banks nodded. “I’d appreciate it, Ken. Right now anything is better than nothing. We’re getting nowhere fast.”

“What about those Asian lads you had in custody?”

“They’re not off my list yet.”

“You said earlier you had an idea,” Sergeant Hatchley prompted Banks.

“Ah, yes.” Banks stubbed out his cigarette and looked at Blackstone. “It’s probably just a minor thing, really. We talked to two of Motcombe’s cronies in Holbeck. Ray Knott and Des Parker.”

Blackstone nodded. “We know Ray Knott,” he said. “Used to be a dab hand at taking and driving away.”

“Used to be?”

Blackstone shrugged.

“Anyway,” Banks went on. “At one point, Knott let slip that the Albion League, or Motcombe himself, actually owned the property. I’m wondering if that’s true or whether it was simply some sort of figure of speech. You know, the way someone might say ‘Get off my property’ even if it’s only rented?”

“And you’d like me to check it out?”

“If you would.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’d like to know if money’s involved. If Motcombe owns property and lives in a nice house in Pudsey, maybe there’s some scam involved.”

Blackstone nodded. “Hmmm. Good thinking. I’ll do what I can. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a couple of mates in the town hall, and they owe me a favor or two.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “What’s this, Ken? Have you been tipping them off when their brothel’s going to be raided?”

Blackstone laughed. “Not exactly.”

“There’s an address in Rawdon I’d like you to check, too, if it’s not too much trouble. Jason Fox lived there. As far as we know, he hasn’t been employed this past couple of years, so we’d like to know how he could afford it.”

“Will do,” said Blackstone. He looked at his watch. “Look, I should get back to the station. I can make a couple of phone calls, get working on it pretty much straightaway.”

“We should be moving along, too,” said Banks, looking at Hatchley, who started swigging the last of his ale in expectation of an imminent departure. “We’re going to pay Mr. Motcombe a visit. And there’s another thing, Ken.”

Blackstone raised his eyebrows.

“We still haven’t been able to track down the lad Jason Fox was drinking with the night he was killed. If the Albion League, or Neville Motcombe himself, does actually own the Holbeck building, or the Rawdon house, do you think you could check and see if he owns any other property in the city? Who knows, it might lead us to Jason’s mystery pal.”

“Who may or may not know something?”

Banks smiled and nudged Hatchley. “Ever the optimist, our Ken, isn’t he, Jim?”

Hatchley laughed. “West Yorkshire does that to you.”

“Can do,” said Blackstone, standing up. “I’ll call you soon as I get anything.”

“Appreciate it,” said Banks. “I owe you one.”

“I’ll remember that if you ever transfer here.”

After lunch, Susan’s Wednesday afternoon was becoming every bit as frustrating as Tuesday’s had been. She had telephoned the service provider that gave Internet and Web access to Fox Wood Designs, but she couldn’t get a name and address out of them over the phone. A court order would see to that, of course, but what grounds had she to seek one? A vague hunch that it might lead her to someone who might know something about a mysterious death?

Every once in a while she left her computer terminal, stretched, and paced around the flat for a while. She put on the disc that came with her magazine, and arias followed solo piano pieces, which in turn followed symphonic movements, from Monteverdi to Maxwell Davies. It was all very confusing.

Like Banks, she wondered about George Mahmood and his mates. Had they done it? They certainly could have. And maybe not many people would blame them. The reporters had been around the station in droves, of course, and there was sure to be an article on police racism in the weekly Eastvale Gazette , due out on Friday.

Susan turned back to her desk. Still working on the assumption that if “Fox” was Jason Fox, then “Wood” might turn out to be a real person, too, she phoned directory assistance and discovered, as she suspected, that in Leeds alone there were pages of “Woods.”

Well, she supposed, she could try them all. And what would she say? Ask each one if he knew Jason Fox? If this Wood person didn’t want the police to know he knew Jason, he would hardly be likely to tell her over the telephone, would he?

There had to be an easier way. Tax records? Business registries? Maybe FoxWood Designs was incorporated, or had registered their design as a trademark.

Suddenly she realized there might be an even easier way than that. Subterfuge.

She hurried back to the computer, where she typed away for a few minutes, then sat back to survey her handiwork. Not bad. She made one or two small changes, correcting a typo here and an awkward phrase there. When she had finished, the message read: