Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

TO: FoxWood Designs

FROM: Gayline Fashions

I have just started my own fashion-design business and I’m looking for ways to find a wider audience for my products. I noticed your work recently on a Web page and was very impressed by what I saw. I realized that the Web is an ideal way to achieve my aims and from what I saw I realized your company would be more than capable of handling the graphics necessary for the sort of page I have in mind. I would really like to talk to you about this as soon as possible. Do you think you could supply me with your address so that I could come around and discuss the possibility of our working together? I would much appreciate the opportunity to get myself established on the World Wide Web without delay.

Susan Gay.

Sole Proprietor: Gayline Fashions.

Susan read it over. It wasn’t perfect – English had never been her strong point at school – but it would do.

She saved the message and logged in again. Then, when all the preliminaries were done with, she took a deep breath, pressed enter, and sent her message bouncing around the world’s computer systems to the E-mail address she had taken from the bottom of the Fox Wood Designs page.

Before Banks and Hatchley even had time to ring Mot-combe’s doorbell, they saw the figure approaching through the frosted glass.

“Mr. Motcombe?” said Banks, showing his identification.

“That’s me,” said Motcombe. “I’m surprised it took you so long. Please. Come in.”

They followed him through to the living room.

“You’ve been expecting us?” Banks asked.

“Ever since Jason’s tragic demise.”

“But you didn’t bother to call us?”

Motcombe smiled. “Why should I have? I don’t know anything that can help you. But that doesn’t keep you away from me , does it? Sit down. Please.”

Hatchley sat in one of the deep armchairs and took out his notebook. Banks walked over to the window at the far end of the room. The house was perched on a hillside; the back window looked over toward the village of Tong, not much more than a mile away, past Park Wood. The smoking chimneys of Bradford stood to the right and Leeds sprawled to the left.

“Yes, it’s impressive, isn’t it?” Banks heard Motcombe say behind him. “It’s one of the things that helps me remember what we’re fighting for. That all isn’t lost.” Motcombe was standing so close that Banks could smell peppermint toothpaste on his breath.

Banks turned and walked past him, glancing around at the rest of the room. The furniture looked solid and well-crafted – a table, chairs, sideboard and a glass-fronted cabinet, all dark, shiny wood. While there were no posters of Hitler or swastikas on the bright floral wallpaper, inside the cabinet was obviously Motcombe’s collection of Nazi memorabilia: armband, bayonet, German officer’s cap – all bearing the swastika – a series of dog-eared photographs of Hitler, and what was probably a wartime edition of Mein Kampf , again with the swastika on the front.

“Hitler was an inspiration, don’t you think?” Motcombe said. “He made mistakes, perhaps, but he had the right ideas, the right intentions. We should have joined forces with him instead of sending our forces against him. Then we would have a strong, united Europe as a bulwark against the corruption and impurity of the rest of the world, instead of the moth-eaten ragbag we do have.”

Banks looked at him. He supposed Motcombe was imposing enough. Tall and gaunt, wearing a black polo-neck jumper tucked into matching black trousers with sharp creases, and a broad belt with a plain, square silver buckle, he had closely cropped black hair – shorter even than Banks’s own – a sharp nose, and lobeless ears flat against his skull. His eyes were brown, and there was a gleam in them like the winter sun in a frozen mud puddle. A constant sly smile twitched at the corners of his thin, dry lips, as if he knew something no one else did, and as if that knowledge made him somehow superior. He reminded Banks of a younger Norman Tebbit.

“That’s all very interesting,” Banks said at last, resting the backs of his thighs against the table. “But, if you don’t mind, we’ve got some questions for you.”

“Why should I mind? As far as I’m concerned, we’re on the same side.” Motcombe sat, crossed his legs and put his hands together in front of him, fingertips touching, as if in prayer.

“How do you work that one out?” Banks asked, thinking it odd that was the second time he’d heard the same thing today.

“Easy. Jason Fox was killed on your patch. You did your job as best you could under the circumstances. You found his killers quickly. But you had to let them go.”

He narrowed his eyes and gazed at Banks. Just for a moment Banks fancied he saw a gleam of something in them. Conspiracy? Condescension? Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

“How that must have sickened you,” Motcombe went on, his voice a low, hypnotic monotone. “Having to bow to political pressure like that. Believe me, I know how your hands are tied. I know about the conspiracy that renders our police ineffective. You have my every sympathy.”

Banks took a deep breath. It smelled like a non-smoking room, but at this point he didn’t care. He lit up anyway. Motcombe didn’t complain.

“Look,” said Banks, after he blew out his first mouthful. “Let’s get something straight from the start. I don’t want your sympathy. Or your opinions. Let’s stick to the facts. Jason Fox.”

Motcombe shook his head slowly. “You know, I half expected something like that. Deep down, most people agree with us. Just listen to the way they talk in pubs, the jokes they tell about Chinks, Pakis, niggers and Yids. Listen to the way you talk when you let your politically correct guard down.” He pointed toward the window. “There’s a whole silent nation out there who want what we want but are afraid to act. We aren’t. Most people just don’t have the courage of their convictions. We do. All I want to do is make it possible for people to look into their hearts and see what’s really there, to know that there are others who feel the same way, then to give them a way they can act on it, a goal to aim for.”

“A white England?”

“Is that such a bad thing? If you put your prejudices aside for just a few moments and really think about it, is that such a terrible dream to pursue? Look at what’s happened to our schools, our culture, our religious trad-”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Banks asked, his voice calm but hard. “Let’s stick to the facts.”

Motcombe favored him with that conspiratorial, condescending smile, as if he were regarding a wayward child. “Of course,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Please, Chief Inspector, go ahead. Ask your questions. And there’s an ashtray on the sideboard just behind you. I don’t smoke myself, but my guests occasionally do. Secondhand smoke doesn’t bother me.”

Banks picked up the ashtray and held it in his left hand while he spoke. “Tell me about Jason Fox.”

Motcombe shrugged. “What is there to say? Jason was a valued member of the Albion League and we will miss him dearly.”

“How long had you known him?”

“Let me see, now… about a year. Perhaps a little less.”

“How did you meet?”

“At a rally in London. Jason was flirting with the British National Party. I had already left them as they didn’t adequately serve my vision. We talked. At the time, I was just about to start setting up the league, making contacts. A few months later, when we got going, Jason and I met again at a conference. I asked him, and he joined us.”