Peter Robinson: Blood At The Root

In what used to be empty fields around Gallows View, a new housing estate was under construction, scheduled for completion in a year’s time. Banks could see the half-dug foundations scattered with puddles, the piles of bricks and boards, sun glinting on idle cranes and concrete mixers. One or two streets had been partially built, but none of the houses had roofs yet.

Number seven Daffodil Rise really stood out from the rest of the houses on the street. Not only had the owners put up a little white fence around the garden and installed a paneled, natural pine-look door, complete with a stained-glass windowpane (lunacy, Banks thought, so easy to break and enter), they also had one of the few gardens in the street that lived up to the flower motif. And because it had been a long summer, many of the flowers usually gone by the end of September were still in blossom. Bees droned around the red and yellow roses that still clung to their thorny bushes just under the front window, and the garden beds were a riot of chrysanthemums, dahlias, begonias and gladioli.

The front door was ajar. Banks tapped softly before walking in. He had told Susan Gay over the radio that she should talk to the parents and try to confirm whether the drawing might be of their son before he arrived, but not to tell them anything until he got there.

When Banks walked in, Mrs. Fox was just bringing a tea tray through from the kitchen into the bright, airy living room. Cut flowers in crystal vases adorned the dining table and the polished wood top of the fake-coal electric fire. Roses climbed trellises on the cream wallpaper. Over the fireplace hung a framed antique map of Yorkshire, the kind you can buy in tourist shops for a couple of quid. Along the narrowest wall stood floor-to-ceiling wooden shelving that seemed to be full of long-playing records.

Mrs. Fox was about forty, Banks guessed. Sandra’s age. She wore a loose white top and black leggings that outlined her finely tapered legs, with well-toned calves and shapely thighs – the kind you only got at that age from regular exercise. She had a narrow face, and her features seemed cramped just a little too close together. Her hair was simply parted in the middle and hung down as far as her shoulders on each side, curling under just a little at the bottom. The roots were only a slightly darker shade of blond.

Mr. Fox stood up to shake hands with Banks. Bald except for a couple of black chevrons above his ears, with a thin, bony face, he wore black-rimmed glasses, jeans and a green sweatshirt. He was exceptionally skinny, which made him appear tall, and he looked as if he had the kind of metabolism that allowed him to eat as much as he wanted without putting on a pound. Banks wasn’t quite as skinny himself, but he never seemed to put on much weight either, despite the ale and the junk food.

Tea poured, Mrs. Fox sat down on the sofa with her husband and crossed her long legs. Husband and wife left enough space for another person to sit between them, but Banks took a chair from the dining table, turned it around and sat, resting his arms on the back.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fox were just telling me,” Susan Gay said, getting her notebook out, “that Jason looks like the lad in the drawing, and he didn’t sleep here last night.”

“She won’t tell us anything.” Mrs. Fox appealed to Banks with her small, glittering eyes. “Is our Jason in any trouble?”

“Has he ever been in trouble before?” Banks asked.

She shook her head. “Never. He’s a good boy. He never caused us any problems, has he, Steven? That’s why I can’t understand you coming here. We’ve never had the police here before.”

“Weren’t you worried when Jason didn’t sleep here last night?”

Mrs. Fox looked surprised. “No. Why should I be?”

“Weren’t you expecting him?”

“Look, what’s happened? What’s going on?”

“Jason lives in Leeds, Chief Inspector,” Steven Fox cut in. “He just uses our house when it suits him, a bit like a hotel.”

“Oh, come on, Steven,” his wife said. “You know that’s not fair. Jason’s grown up. He’s got his own life to live. But he’s still our son.”

“When it suits him.”

“What does he do in Leeds?” Banks cut in.

“He’s got a good job,” said Steven Fox. “And there’s not many as can say that these days. An office job at a factory out in Stourton.”

“I assume he’s also got a flat or a house in Leeds, too?”

“Yes. A flat.”

“Can you give DC Gay the address, please? And the name and address of the factory?”

“Of course.” Steven Fox gave Susan the information.

“Do either of you know where Jason was last night?” Banks asked. “Or who he was with?”

Mrs. Fox answered. “No,” she said. “Look, Chief Inspector, can’t you please tell us what’s going on? I’m worried. Is my Jason in trouble? Has something happened to him?”

“I understand that you’re worried,” Banks said, “and I’ll do everything I can to hurry things up. Please bear with me, though, and answer just a few more short questions. Just a few more minutes. Okay?”

They both nodded reluctantly.

“Do you have a recent photograph of Jason?”

Mrs. Fox got up and brought a small framed photo from the sideboard. “Only this,” she said. “He was seventeen when it was taken.”

The boy in the photo looked similar to the victim, but it was impossible to make a positive identification. Teenagers can change a lot in three or four years, and heavy boots do a great deal of damage to facial features.

“Do you know what Jason did yesterday? Where he went?”

Mrs. Fox bit her lip. “Yesterday,” she said. “He got home about twelve o’clock. We had sandwiches for lunch, then he went off to play football, like he usually does.”

“Where?”

“He plays for Eastvale United,” Steven Fox said.

Banks knew the team; they were only amateur players, but he’d taken Brian to see them once or twice, and they had demonstrated the triumph of enthusiasm over talent. Their matches had become quite popular with the locals, and they sometimes managed to draw two or three hundred to their bumpy field on a few acres of waste ground between York Road and Market Street.

“He’s a striker,” said Mrs. Fox with pride. “Top goal scorer in North Yorkshire last season. Amateur leagues, that is.”

“Impressive,” said Banks. “Did you see him after the game?”

“Yes. He came home for his tea after he’d had a quick drink with his mates from the team, then he went out about seven o’clock, didn’t he, Steven?”

Mr. Fox nodded.

“Did he say whether he’d be back?”

“No.”

“Does he normally stop here on weekends?”

“Sometimes,” Mrs. Fox answered. “But not always. Sometimes he drives back to Leeds. And sometimes he doesn’t come up at all.”

“Does he have his own key?”

Mrs. Fox nodded.

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“Oh, my God, it’s not a car crash, is it?” Mrs. Fox put her hands to her face. “Oh, please don’t tell me our Jason’s been killed in a car crash.”

At least Banks could assure her of that honestly.

“It’s one of those little Renaults, said Steven Fox. “A Clio. Bloody awful color, it is, too. Shiny green, like the back of some sort of insect.”

“Where does he park when he’s here?”

Mr. Fox jerked his head. “There’s a double garage round the back. He usually parks it there, next to ours.”

“Have you looked to see if the car’s still there?”

“No. I’d no call to.”

“Did you hear it last night?”

He shook his head. “No. We usually go to bed early. Before Jason gets back, if he’s stopping the night. He tries to be quiet, and we’re both pretty heavy sleepers.”