Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

He stumbled away from the group, clutching his chest, the pain spreading like burning needles down his left arm. He thought he could see Maureen laying into one of youths with a piece of wood. He could just hear her through the ringing and buzzing in his ears. “Leave him alone, you bullies! Leave him alone, you fascist bastards! Can’t you see he’s an old man? Can’t you see he’s poorly?”

Then something strange happened. Frank was lying on the ground now, and, gently, slowly, he felt himself begin to float above the pain, or away from it, more like, deeper into himself, detached and light as air. Yes, that was it, deeper into himself. He wasn’t hovering above the scene looking down on the chaos, but far inside, seeing pictures of himself in years long gone.

A number of memories flashed through his mind: flak bursting all around the bomber like bright flowers blooming in the night, as Frank seemed to hang suspended above it all in his gun turret; the day he proposed to Edna on their long walk home in the rain after the Helmthorpe spring fair; the night his only daughter, Josie, was born in Eastvale General Infirmary while Frank was stuck in Lyndgarth, without even a telephone then, cut off from the world by a vicious snowstorm.

But his final memory was one he had not thought of in decades. He was five years old. He had trapped his finger in the front door, and he sat on the freshly scoured stone step crying, watching the black blood gather under the fingernail. He could feel the warmth of the step against the backs of his thighs and the heat of his tears on his cheeks.

Then the door opened. He couldn’t see much more than a silhouette because of the bright sunlight, but as he shaded his eyes and looked up, he knew it was the loving, compassionate, all-healing figure of his mother bending over to sweep him up into her arms and kiss away the pain.

Then everything went black.

“Ah, Banks. Here you are at last.”

As soon as he heard the voice behind him on his way back to his office from the coffee machine, Banks experienced that sinking feeling. Still, he thought, it had to happen sometime. Might as well get it over with. Gird his loins. At least he was on his own turf.

Their enmity went back for some time; in fact, Banks thought, it probably started the moment they met. Riddle was one of the youngest chief constables in the country, and he had come up the fast way, “accelerated promotion” right from the start. Banks had made DCI fairly young, true, but he had made it the hard way: sheer hard slog, a good case clearance record and a natural talent for detective work. He didn’t belong to any clubs or have any wealthy contacts; nor did he have a university degree. All he had was a diploma in business studies from a polytechnic – and that from the days before they were all turned into second-string universities.

For Riddle, it was all a matter of making the right contacts, mouthing the correct buzzwords; he was a bean-counter, at his happiest looking over budget proposals or putting a positive spin on crime figures on “Look North” or “Calendar.” As far as Banks was concerned, Jimmy Riddle hadn’t done a day’s real policing in his life.

Hand on the doorknob, Banks turned. “Sir?”

Riddle kept advancing on him. “You know what I’m talking about, Banks. Where the hell do you think you’ve been these past few days? Trying to avoid me?”

“Wouldn’t think of such a thing, sir.” Banks opened the door and stood aside to let Riddle in first. The chief constable hesitated for a moment, surprised at the courtesy, then stalked in. As usual, he didn’t sit but started prowling about, touching things, straightening the calendar, eyeing the untidy pile of papers on top of the filing cabinet, looking at everything in that prissy, disapproving way of his.

He was immaculately turned out. He must have a clean uniform for each day, Banks thought, sitting behind his rickety metal desk and reaching for a cigarette. However strict the anti-smoking laws had become lately, they still hadn’t stretched as far as a chief inspector’s own office, where not even the chief constable could stop him.

To his credit, Riddle didn’t try. He didn’t even make his usual protest. Instead, he launched straight into the assault that must have been building pressure inside him since Monday. “What on earth did you think you were doing bringing in those Asian kids and throwing them in the cells?”

“You mean George Mahmood and his mates?”

“You know damn well who I mean.”

“Well, sir,” said Banks, “I had good reason to suspect they were involved in the death of Jason Fox. They’d been seen to have an altercation with him and his pal earlier in the evening at the Jubilee, and when I started to question George Mahmood about what happened, he asked for a solicitor and clammed up.”

Riddle ran his hand over his shiny head. “Did you have to lock all three of them up?”

“I think so, sir. I simply detained them within the strict limits of the PACE directive. None of them would talk to us. As I said, they were reasonable suspects, and I wanted them where I could see them while forensic tests on their clothing were being carried out. At the same time, Detective Sergeant Hatchley was trying to locate any witnesses to the assault.”

“But didn’t you realize what trouble your actions would cause? Didn’t you think , man?”

Banks sipped some coffee and looked up. “Trouble, sir?”

Riddle sighed and leaned against the filing cabinet, elbow on the stack of papers. “You’ve alienated the entire Yorkshire Asian community, Banks. Had you never heard of Ibrahim Nazur? Don’t you realize that harmony of race relations is prioritized in today’s force?”

“Funny, that, sir,” said Banks. “And I thought we were supposed to catch criminals.”

Riddle levered himself away from the cabinet with his elbow and leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, facing Banks. His pate seemed to be pulsing on red alert. “Don’t be bloody clever with me, man. I’ve got my eye on you. One false move, one more slip, the slightest error of judgment, and you’re finished, understand? I’ll have you back in Traffic.”

“Very well, sir,” said Banks. “Does that mean you want me off the case?”

Riddle moved back to the filing cabinet and smiled, flicking a piece of imaginary fluff from his lapel. “Off the case? You should be so lucky. No, Banks, I’m going to leave your chestnuts in the fire a bit longer.”

“So what exactly is it that you want, sir?”

“For a start, I want you to start behaving like a DCI instead of a bloody probational DC. And I want to be informed before you make any move that’s likely to… to embarrass the force in any way. Any move. Is that clear?”

“The last bit is, sir, but-”

“What I mean,” Riddle said, pacing and poking at things again, “is that as an experienced senior police officer, your input might be useful. But let your underlings do the leg-work. Let them go gallivanting off to Leeds chasing wild geese. Don’t think I don’t know why you grab every opportunity to bugger off to Leeds.”

Banks looked Riddle in the eye. “And why is that, sir?”

“That woman. The musician. And don’t tell me you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

“I know exactly who you’re talking about, sir. Her name’s Pamela Jeffreys and she plays viola in the English Northern Philharmonia.”

Riddle waved his hand impatiently. “Whatever. I’m sure you think your private life is none of my business, but it is when you use the force’s time to live it.”

Banks thought for a moment before answering. This was way out of order. Riddle was practically accusing him of having an affair with Pamela Jeffreys and of driving to Leeds during working hours for assignations with her. It was untrue, of course, but any denial at this point would only strengthen Riddle’s conviction. Banks wasn’t sure of the actual guidelines, but he felt this sort of behavior far exceeded the chief constable’s authority. It was a personal attack, despite the cavil about abusing the force’s time.