Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

“You make it sound easy.”

They turned right, toward the neo-Gothic mass of the Rijksmuseum, dark and solid against the night sky. Street-lights cast long shadows. A breeze stirred, wafting a smell of decay from the canal. Banks could hear music in the distance, see TV screens flickering through people’s curtains.

Craig shrugged. “It’s not as hard as you think, that’s the sad thing. Recruiting isn’t, anyway. Take rock concerts, for example. Invitation only. Makes people feel privileged and exclusive right off the bat. Then the white-power bands get the kids all worked up with their rhythm and energy, and someone like me moves in to bring the message home. And they target schools, particularly schools that have a large number of immigrant pupils. They hang around outside in the street and pass out leaflets, then they hold meetings in different venues. They also hang out in the coffee bars where some of the kids go on their way home. You know, start chatting, give them a sympathetic shoulder for their problems with Ali or Winston. They get a surprising number of converts that way.”

“Some of whom Motcombe organizes into gangs of thieves?”

“Some, yes. But not all.” He laughed. “One or two of the lads in the know have nicknamed him ‘Fagin.’”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “‘You’ve got to pick a pocket or two,’” he sang, a passable imitation of Ron Moody in Oliver . “I imagine he’d just love that.”

Craig smiled. “I’ll bet. Thing is, there’s a lot of money to be made, one way or another. Steaming and mugging are just part of the bigger picture. These right-wing political groups finance themselves in any number of ways. Some deal in arms and explosives, for example. Then there’s the rock angle. These bands record CDs. That means people produce, record, manufacture and distribute them. That can be big business. And where there’s rock, there’s drugs. There’s a lot of money to be made out of that.”

“Motcombe has an arrest for receiving, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. His one big mistake. A couple of his lads broke into a Curry’s and ran off with a few videos and stereos under their arms. They didn’t tell Nev where they’d got the stuff from. Anyway, since then, it’s been cash only. And he skims off the top, too. I’ve seen him stuff the notes into his own pocket.” Craig shook his head. “If there’s one thing worse than a Nazi, it’s a bent Nazi.”

“How does Jason Fox fit in? Was he one of the thieves?”

Craig paused and leaned on a bridge as they crossed to Hobbemakade, looking down at the reflections of the lights. Banks stood beside him and lit a cigarette. It was quiet now apart from a few cars and the whir of an occasional bicycle.

“No, Jason never went out steaming. Not his style. Too smart. Jason was a thinker. He was good at recruiting, at propaganda in general. The thing about Jason was, he was basically an honest kid. A straight, dedicated Nazi.”

“One of those boring fascists, without vices?”

Craig laughed. “Almost. Not exactly boring, though. In some ways he was naive in his sincerity, and that made him almost likable. Almost . But he was also more dedicated, more driven, than most of the others. Frightening. See, when you come down to it, Nev’s not much more than a petty crook with delusions of grandeur. Jason, on the other hand, was the genuine article. Real dyed-in-the-wool neo-Nazi. Probably even read Mein Kampf .”

“I thought even Hitler’s most fanatical followers couldn’t get through that.”

Craig laughed. “True.”

“Have you any ideas as to why Jason was killed? Was he involved in this drug deal?”

They moved away from the bridge and headed down the street. Banks flicked his cigarette end in the water, immediately feeling guilty of pollution.

“No,” Craig said. “Not at all. Jason was violently antidrug. In fact, if you ask me, that’s where you might want to start looking for your motive. Because he certainly knew about it.”

“Another bottle of wine?”

“I shouldn’t,” said Susan, placing her hand over her half-filled glass.

“Why not? You’re not driving.”

“True.”

“And you’ve just wrapped up a case. You should be celebrating.”

“All right, all right, you silver-tongued devil. Go ahead.”

Gavin grinned, called the waiter and ordered a second bottle of Chablis. Susan felt her heart give a slight lurch the way it did when she first jumped the Strid at Bolton Abbey as a teenager. It happened the moment her feet left the ground and she found herself hurtling through space over the deep, rushing waters, because that was the moment she had committed herself to jumping, despite all the warnings. So what had she committed herself to by agreeing to a second bottle of wine?

She took another mouthful of filo-pastry parcel, stuffed with Brie, walnuts and cranberries, and washed it down with the wine she had left in her glass. It hadn’t even been there long enough to get lukewarm. Already, she was beginning to feel a little light-headed – but in a pleasant way, as if a great burden had been lifted from her.

They were in a new bistro on Castle Walk, looking west over the formal gardens and the river. A high moon silvered the swirling current of water far below and frosted the tips of the leaves on the trees. The restaurant itself was one of those hushed places where everyone seemed to be whispering, and food and drink suddenly appeared out of the silence as if by magic. White tablecloths. A floating candle in a glass jar on every table. It was also, she thought, far too expensive for a couple of mere DCs. Still, you had to push the boat out once in a while, didn’t you, she told herself, just to see how far it would float.

She stole a glance at Gavin, busy finishing his venison. He caught her looking and smiled. She blushed. He really did have lovely brown eyes, she thought, and a nice mouth.

“So how does it feel?” Gavin asked, putting his knife and fork down. “The success? I understand it was largely due to your initiative?”

“Oh, not really,” Susan said. “It was teamwork.”

“How modest of you,” he teased. “But seriously, Susan. It was you who found the killer’s name. What was it… Mark something or other?”

“Mark Wood. Yes, but Superintendent Gristhorpe got him to confess.”

“I’d still say you get a big gold star for this one.”

Susan smiled. The waiter appeared with their wine, gave Gavin a sip to test, then poured for both of them and placed it in the ice bucket. Good God, Susan thought, an ice bucket. In Yorkshire! What am I doing here? I must be mad . She had finished her food now and concentrated on the wine while she studied the dessert menu. Sweets. Her weakness. Why she was a few inches too thick around the hips and thighs. But she didn’t think she could resist nutty toffee pie. And she didn’t.

“Chief Constable Riddle’s pretty damn chuffed,” Gavin said later as they tucked into their desserts and coffee. “Sunday or not, it’s my guess he’ll be down your neck of the woods again tomorrow dishing out trophies and giving a press statement. As far as he’s concerned, this solution has gone a long way toward diffusing racial tensions.”

“Well, he was certainly keen to get everything signed, sealed and delivered this afternoon.”

“I’ll tell you something else. Golden boy isn’t exactly top of the pops as far as the CC is concerned.”

“What’s new?” Susan said. “And I told you, I wish you’d stop calling him that.”

“Where is he, by the way?” Gavin went on. “Rumor has it he hasn’t been much in evidence the last couple of days. Not like him to miss being in at the kill, is it?”