Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

“Bollocks,” said Banks, turning to leave. “Jason’s just another dead Nazi, that’s all.”

Motcombe tut-tutted. “Really, Chief Inspector.”

At the door, Banks did his Columbo impersonation. “Just one more question, Mr. Motcombe.”

Motcombe sighed and leaned on the doorpost, folding his arms. “Fire away, then, if you must.”

“Where were you on Sunday morning?”

“Sunday morning? Why?”

“Where were you?”

“Here. At home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Is there any reason I have to?”

“Just pursuing inquiries.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t prove it. I was alone. Sadly, my wife and I separated some years ago.”

“Are you sure you didn’t visit number seven Rudmore Terrace in Rawdon?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why should I?”

“Because that was where Jason Fox lived. We have information that two men went there on Sunday morning and cleaned the place out. I was just wondering if one of them happened to be you.”

“I didn’t go there,” Motcombe repeated. “And even if I had done, I wouldn’t have broken any law.”

“These men had a key, Mr. Motcombe. A key, in all likelihood, taken from Jason Fox’s body.”

“I know nothing about that. I have a key, too, though.” He grinned at Banks. “As a matter of fact, I happen to own the house.”

Well, Banks thought, that was one question answered. Motcombe did own property. “But you didn’t go there on Sunday morning?” he said.

“No.”

“Did you give or lend a key to anyone?”

“No.”

“I think you did. I think you sent some of your lads over there to clean up after Jason’s death. I think he had stuff there you didn’t want the police to find.”

“Interesting theory. Such as what?”

“Files, perhaps, membership lists, notes on upcoming projects. And the computer had been tampered with.”

“Well, even if I did what you say,” said Motcombe, “I’m sure you can understand how I would be well within my rights to go to a house I own to pick up property that, essentially, belongs to me, in my capacity as leader of the Albion League.”

“Oh, I can understand that completely,” Banks said.

Motcombe frowned. “Then what…? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Well, then,” Banks said slowly. “Let me explain. The thing that bothers me is that whoever went there went before anyone knew that the victim was Jason Fox. Anyone except his killers, of course, that is. Bye for now, Mr. Motcombe. No doubt we’ll be seeing you again soon.”

It was a long time since Frank had worn a suit, and the tie seemed to be choking him. Trust the weather to brighten up for a funeral, too. It was Indian summer again, warm air tinged with that sweet, smoky hint of autumn’s decay, sun shining, hardly a breeze, and here he was in the back of the car next to his daughter Josie, who was dressed all in black, sweat beading on his brow despite the open window.

The drive to Halifax from Lyndgarth, where Steven had picked him up, was a long one. And a bloody ugly one once you got past Skipton, too, Frank thought as they drove through Keighley. Talk about your “dark Satanic mills.”

He had wondered why they couldn’t just bury the lad in Eastvale and have done with it, but Josie explained Steven’s family connections with St. Luke’s Church, where his forebears were buried going back centuries. Bugger yon streak of piss and his forebears, Frank thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

Nobody said very much on the journey. Josie sobbed softly every now and then, putting a white handkerchief to her nose, Steven – who for all his sins was a good driver – kept his eyes on the road, and Maureen sat stiffly, arms folded, beside him, looking out the window.

Frank found himself drifting down memory lane: Jason, aged four or five, down by The Leas one spring afternoon, excited as he caught his first stickleback in a net made of old lace curtain and a thin strip of cane; the two of them stopping for ice cream one hot, still summer day at the small shop in the middle of nowhere, halfway up Fremlington Hill, melting ice cream dripping over his knuckles; an autumn walk down a lane near Richmond, Jason running ahead kicking up piles of autumn leaves, which made a dry soughing sound as he plowed through them; standing freezing in the snow in Ben Rhydding watching the skiers glide down Ilkley Moor.

Whatever Jason had become, Frank thought, he had once been an innocent child, as awestruck by the wonders of man and nature as any other kid. Hang on to that, he told himself, not the twisted, misguided person Jason had become.

They arrived at the funeral home on the outskirts of Halifax with time to spare. Frank stayed outside watching the traffic rush by because he could never stand the rarefied air of funeral homes, or the thought of all those corpses in caskets, makeup on their faces and formaldehyde in their veins. Jason, he suspected, would have needed a lot of cosmetic attention to his face.

Finally, the cortege was ready. The four of them piled into the sleek black limousine the home provided and followed the hearse through streets of dark millstone-grit houses to the cemetery. In the distance, tall mill chimneys poked out between the hills.

After a short service, they all trooped outside for the graveside ceremony. Frank loosened his tie so he could breathe more easily. The vicar droned on: “In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succor, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins are justly displeased? Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts…” A fly that must have been conned into thinking it was still summer buzzed by his face. He brushed it away.

Steven stepped forward to cast a clod of earth down on the coffin. The vicar read on: “For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to receive unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed…” It should have been Josie dropping the earth, Frank thought. Steven never did get on with the kid. At least Josie had loved her son once, before they grew apart, and she must still feel a mother’s love for him, a love which surely passes all understanding and forgives a multitude of sins.

All of a sudden, Frank noticed Josie look beyond his shoulder and frown through her tears. He turned to see what it was. There, by the line of trees, stood about ten people, all wearing black polo-necks made of some shiny material, belts with silver buckles and black leather jackets, despite the warmth of the day. Over half had skinhead haircuts. Some wore sunglasses. The tall, gaunt one looked older than the rest, and Frank immediately guessed him to be the leader.

They didn’t have to announce themselves. Frank knew who they were. As sure as he knew Jason was dead and in his grave. He had read the tract. As the vicar drew close to the end of his service, the leader raised his arm in a Nazi salute, and the others followed suit.

Frank couldn’t help himself. Before he could even think about what he was doing, he hurried over and grabbed the leader. The man just laughed and brushed him off. Then, as Frank attempted to get at least one punch in, he was surrounded by them, jostling, pushing, shoving him between one another as if he were a ball, or as if they were playing “pass the parcel” at some long-ago children’s party. And they were laughing as they pushed him, calling him “Granddad” and “Old man.”

Frank flailed out, but he couldn’t break away. All he saw was a whirl of grinning faces, shorn heads and his own reflection in the dark glasses. The world was spinning too fast, out of control. He was too hot. His tie felt tight again, even though he had loosened it, and the pain in his chest came on fast, like a vise gripping his heart and squeezing.