Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

But what could he do? It was his word against Riddle’s. And Riddle was the CC. So he took it, filed it away, said nothing and determined to get his own back on the bastard one day.

“What would you like me to do, then, sir?” he asked.

“Sit in your office, smoke yourself silly and read reports, the way you’re supposed to. And stay away from the media. Leave them to Superintendent Gristhorpe and myself.”

Banks cringed. He hated it when people used “myself” instead of plain old “me.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I haven’t been anywhere near the media, sir.”

“Well, make sure you don’t.”

“You want me to sit and read reports? That’s it?”

Riddle stopped prowling a moment and faced Banks. “For heaven’s sake, man! You’re a DCI. You’re not supposed to be gadding off all over the place interviewing people. Coordinate. There are plenty more important tasks for you to carry out right here, in your office.”

“Sir?”

“What about the new budget, for a start? You know these days we’ve got to be accountable for every penny we spend. And it’s about time the Annual Policing Plan was prepared for next year. Then there’s the crime statistics. Why is it that when the rest of the country’s experiencing a drop, North Yorkshire’s on the rise? Hey? These are the sort of questions you should be addressing, not driving off to Leeds and treading on people’s toes.”

“Wait a minute, sir,” said Banks. “Whose toes? Don’t tell me Neville Motcombe’s in the lodge as well?”

As soon as the words were out, Banks regretted them. It was all very well to want his own back on Riddle, but this wasn’t the way to do it. He was surprised when Riddle simply stopped his tirade and asked, “Who the hell’s Neville Motcombe when he’s at home?”

Banks hesitated. Having put his foot in his mouth, how could he avoid not shoving it down as far as his lower intestine? And did he care? “He’s an associate of Jason Fox’s. One of the people I was talking to in Leeds yesterday.”

“What does this Motcombe have to do with the lad’s death, if anything?”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t know that he does. It’s just that his name came up in the course of our inquiries and-”

Riddle began pacing again. “Don’t flannel me, Banks. I understand this Jason Fox belonged to some right-wing racist movement? Is that true?”

“Yes, sir. The Albion League.”

Riddle stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Would this Neville Motcombe have anything to do with the Albion League?”

No flies on Jimmy Riddle. “Actually,” Banks said, “he’s their leader.”

Riddle said nothing for a moment, then he went back and resumed his pose at the filing cabinet. “Does this have anything to do with the Jason Fox case at all, or are you just tilting at windmills as usual?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Banks said. “It’s what I’m trying to find out. It might have given George and his pals a motive to attack Jason.”

“Have you any proof at all that the three Asians knew Jason Fox belonged to this Albion League?”

“No. But I did find out that Jason knew George Mahmood. It’s a start.”

“It’s bloody nothing is what it is.”

“We’re still digging.”

Riddle sighed. “Have you got any real suspects at all?”

“The Asians are still our best bet. The lab hasn’t identified the stuff on George’s trainers yet because there are so many contaminating factors, but they still haven’t discounted its being blood.”

“Hmm. What about the other lad, the one who was supposed to be with Jason Fox in the pub?”

“We’re still looking for him.”

“Any idea who he is yet?”

“No, sir. That was another thing I-”

“Well, bloody well find out. And quickly.” Riddle strode toward the door. “And remember what I said.”

“Which bit would that be, sir?”

“About tending to your duties as a DCI.”

“So you want me to find out who Jason’s pal was at the same time as I’m reading reports on budgets and crime statistics?”

“You know what I mean, Banks. Don’t be so bloody literal. Delegate.”

And he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Banks breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon. The door opened again. Riddle put his head round, pointed his finger at Banks, wagged it and said, “And whatever you might think of me, Banks, don’t you ever dare imply again that I or any of my fellow Masons fraternize with fascists. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Banks as the door closed again. Fraternize with fascists , indeed. He had to admit it had a nice ring to it. Must be the alliteration.

In the peace and silence following Riddle’s withdrawal, Banks sipped his coffee and mulled over what he’d been told. He knew Riddle had a point about the way he did his job, and that certainly didn’t make him feel any better. As a DCI, he should be more involved in the administrative and managerial aspects of policing. He should spend more time at his desk.

Except that wasn’t what he wanted.

When he had been a DI on the Met and got promoted to DCI on transferring to Eastvale, it was on the understanding – given by both Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe and Chief Constable Hemmings, Jimmy Riddle’s predecessor – that he was to take an active part as investigating officer in important cases. Even the assistant chief constable (Crime), also since retired, had agreed to that.

Recently, when the powers that be had considered abolishing the rank of chief inspector, Banks was ready to revert to inspector at the same pay, rather than try for superintendent, where he was far more likely to be desk-bound. But it had never happened; the only rank to be abolished was that of deputy chief constable.

Now Jimmy Riddle wanted to tie him to his desk anyway.

What could he do? Was it really time for another move?

But he didn’t have time to think about these matters for very long. Not more than two minutes after Riddle had left, the phone rang.

Susan arrived ten minutes late for lunch at the Queen’s Arms, where the object was to discuss leads and feelings about the Jason Fox case over a drink and a pub lunch. An informal brainstorming session.

Banks and Hatchley were already ensconced at a dimpled copper-topped table between the fireplace and the window when Susan hurried in. They were both looking particularly glum, she noticed.

She stopped at the bar and ordered a St. Clement’s and a salad sandwich, then joined the others at the table. Hatchley had an almost-empty pint glass in front of him, while Banks was staring gloomily into a half. They scraped their chairs aside to make room for her.

“Sorry I’m late, sir,” she said.

Banks shrugged. “No problem. We went ahead and ordered without you. If you want something…”

“It’s all right, sir. They’re doing me a sandwich.” Susan glanced from one to the other. “Excuse me if I’m being thick or something, but it can’t be the weather that’s making your faces as long as a wet Sunday afternoon. Is something wrong? I feel as if I’ve walked in on a wake.”

“In a way, you have,” said Banks. He lit a cigarette. “You know Frank Hepplethwaite, Jason’s granddad?”

“Yes. At least I know who he is.”

“Was. I just got a call from the Halifax police. He dropped dead at Jason’s funeral.”

“What of?”

“Heart attack.”

“Oh no,” said Susan. She had never met the old man but she knew Banks had been impressed with him, and that was enough for her. “What happened?”

“Motcombe brought nine or ten of his blackshirts to the graveside and Frank took umbrage. Made a run at them. He was dead before his granddaughter could get them to back off.”