Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

Burgess was actually wearing his trademark scuffed-up black leather jacket, but Banks let that one go by.

“Anyway,” Burgess went on after a long swig of generic lager, “back to Neville Motcombe. We know he’s got connections with other right-wing groups in Europe and America. Over the past four years, he’s traveled extensively in Germany, France, Spain, Italy and Holland. He’s also been to Greece and Turkey.”

“I wouldn’t have thought a neo-Nazi would find much to interest him in Turkey,” Banks said.

“You’d be surprised. There are plenty of right-wing Turkish groups with access to arms. Get them cheap off the Russians in Azerbaijan or Armenia. Very strategically located for lots of nasty things, is Turkey. And don’t forget, Johnny Turk’s a slimy bastard. Anyway, Motcombe has also visited a number of militia training camps in the south-western United States, and he’s been spotted entering the Nazi party headquarters in Lincoln, Nebraska. That, for your information, is where most of the instructions on bombs and explosives come from. So this guy has talked to the sort of people who blew up that government building in Oklahoma City.” Burgess pointed his cigar at Banks. “Whatever you do, Banks, don’t underestimate Neville Motcombe. Besides, when you get right down to it, this isn’t really about politics at all. There’s something else.”

“What?”

“Money. One of the Turkish right-wingers Motcombe has been communicating with frequently of late, via the Internet, is a suspected international drug dealer. Heroin, mostly. And we happen to know he’s looking for new outlets in England. They met when Motcombe was in Turkey during the summer, and electronic traffic between them has increased dramatically over the past three weeks. The wires are hot, you might say.”

“What do these messages say?”

“Ah, well, there’s the problem. Our computer whizzes have been keeping an eye on these cyber-Nazis, as they’re called. We know some of their passwords, so we can read a fair bit of the traffic. Until they get on to us and change the passwords, that is. Problem is, some of the really hot stuff is encrypted. They use PGP and even more advanced encryption programs. I kid you not, Banks, these things make Enigma look like a fucking doddle.”

“So you can’t decipher the messages?”

“Well, maybe they’re just chatting away about Holocaust denial or some such rubbish – we can’t exactly decipher their messages – but knowing the Turk, I doubt it. I’d say he’s found the pipeline he was looking for.”

Banks shook his head. “And Jason Fox?” he said. “Do you think this could have something to do with his death?”

Burgess shrugged. “Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? And I know you don’t like coincidences. I thought you should be filled in, that’s all.”

“What a load of bollocks,” said Banks. “And don’t give me all this cloak-and-dagger shit. Encrypted E-mail. Vague suspicions. Is this what you dragged me all this way for?”

Burgess looked offended. “No,” he said. “Well, not entirely. As it happens, I don’t know much about it yet myself.”

“So why am I here?”

“Because a very important person is here, has to be here for at least a week. Because it’s essential you talk to this person before you go any further in your investigation. And because it wouldn’t do for you to be seen together back home. Believe me, he’ll be able to tell you a lot more than I can. Good enough?”

“What about the telephone?”

“Oh, give me a break, Banks. If they can eavesdrop on Charlie and Di, they can bloody well eavesdrop on you. Telephones aren’t secure. Quit bellyaching and enjoy yourself. It won’t be all work. I mean, what are you complaining about? You’ve got yourself a free weekend in one of the most exciting cities in the world. Okay?”

Banks thought for a moment, watching the bicycles and cars passing by on the canal side. He lit a cigarette. “So what happens next?” he said.

“Tomorrow afternoon, I get up-to-date on what’s going on, then I’m off on my holidays, believe it or not. I think I’ll just go out to Schiphol and take the first flight somewhere tropical. In the evening, you have a very important meeting.” Burgess told him to be at a bar near Sarphatipark at eight o’clock, but not whom he would find when he got there. “And make sure you’re not followed,” he added.

Banks shook his head at the melodrama. Burgess just loved this cloak-and-dagger crap.

Then Burgess clapped his hands, showering ash on the table. “But until then, we’re free agents. Two happy bachelors – and notice I didn’t say ‘gay’ – with the whole night ahead of us.” He lowered his voice. “Now, what I suggest is that we find a nice little Indonesian restaurant, shovel down a plate or two of rijsttafel and swill that down with a few pints of lager. Then we’ll see if we can find one of those little coffee shops where you can smoke hash.” He rested his arm over Banks’s shoulder. “And after that, I suggest we take a stroll to the red-light district and get us some nice, tight Dutch pussy. It’s all perfectly legal and aboveboard here, you know, and the girls have regular checkups. Tried and tested, stamped prime grade A.” He turned to Banks and squinted. “Now, I know you’ve got that lovely wife of yours waiting at home – Sandra, isn’t it? – but there really is nothing quite like a little strange pussy once in a while. Take my word. And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. My lips will be eternally sealed, I can promise you that. How about it?”

As usual, Banks thought, the bastard showed his unerring instinct for finding the spot that hurt, like a dentist prodding at an exposed nerve. There was no way Burgess could know what had happened between Banks and Sandra the previous evening. Nobody knew but the two of them. Yet here he was, right on the mark. Well, to hell with him.

“Fine,” said Banks. “You’re on.” Then he raised his glass and finished his beer. “But first, I think I’ll have another one of these.”

“I’m sorry we had to take you away from your wife and child, Mark,” said Gristhorpe. “Let’s hope it won’t be for long.”

Wood said nothing; he just looked sullen and defiant.

“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “I’d like to thank you for sparing us the time.” He balanced a pair of reading glasses on his hooked nose and flipped through some sheets of paper in front of him, glancing up over the top of his glasses from time to time. “There’s just a few points we’d like to get cleared up, and we think you can help us.”

“I’ve already told you,” Wood said. “I don’t know anything.”

Susan sat next to Gristhorpe in the interview room: faded institutional green walls, high barred window, metal table and chairs bolted to the floor, pervading odor of smoke, sweat and urine. Susan was convinced they sprayed it in fresh every day. Two tape recorders were running, making a soft hissing sound in the background. It was dark outside by the time they actually got around to the interview. Gristhorpe had already given the caution. Wood had also phoned a solicitor in Leeds, Giles Varney, and got his answering machine. You’d be lucky to find a lawyer at home on a Friday evening, in Susan’s experience. Still, he had left a message and steadfastly refused the duty solicitor. Hardly surprising, Susan thought, given that Giles Varney was one of the best-known solicitors in the county. She would have thought he was way out of Mark’s league.

“Yes,” said Gristhorpe, taking off his glasses and fingering the papers in front of him. “I know that. Thing is, though, that sometimes when people come into contact with the police, they lie.” He shrugged and held his hands out, palms up. “Now, I can understand that, Mark. Maybe they do it to protect themselves, or maybe just because they’re afraid. But they lie. And it makes our job just that little bit more difficult.”