Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

An old woman walking a dog passed Susan on the path and said hello. After they had gone by, Susan paused a moment to sit on a bench. She was facing north now and to her left she could see the square Norman church tower, the bus station and the glass-and-concrete Swainsdale Centre. Straight ahead was the pre-Roman site in the distance, not much more than a couple of bumps in the grassland down by the river.

Even though there wasn’t a great deal to do around the station in the aftermath of the Jason Fox case, Susan didn’t think she could honestly stay away too long. After all, a call might come in, something important, and if she missed it she’d have to explain why.

She remembered something else she had overheard yesterday: Banks expressing doubts about the solution. Though she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what, there were things about Mark Wood’s confession that rang false with her, too. Maybe she should have a look over the reports again. So, with a sigh, she stood up and headed back around Castle Walk.

As she went up the stairs to CID, she told herself she would have to get a grip, lock up her feelings, keep them separate and behave like a professional. She could do it; she’d done it before. On some level, being a woman in a man’s world, she did it all the time. She would also have to work out how to deal with Banks’s misplaced trust in her. Should she tell him about Gavin? Could she really do that?

Shortly after six o’clock that evening, Banks sat in Leeds Parish Church. Though not much to look at from the outside, the interior had recently been restored to all its Victorian Gothic glory; like the Town Hall, all stained glass, dark polished wood and high arches.

He wasn’t there because his troubles had driven him to religion. In fact, he was listening to a rehearsal of Vivaldi’s Gloria by the St. Peter’s Singers and Chamber Orchestra. It certainly wasn’t where he had expected to be, or what he had expected to be doing when he woke up on the sofa that morning.

Tracy had rung him much earlier than he would have thought of ringing her. At least he was feeling a bit more human by then. She was full of concern, naturally, and he tried to assure her that he would be okay. Tracy told him she was going down to Croydon for a while to stay with her mother and grandparents, but she assured him she wasn’t taking sides. He told her to go, take care of her mother; he’d see her when she came back. Reluctantly, she hung up. Maybe he hadn’t lost Tracy after all.

He felt the need to get out of Eastvale around noon, so he phoned Pamela Jeffreys. As it turned out, she had a rehearsal that evening, but Banks was welcome to attend. She was surprised to hear from him and said she would be delighted to see him. Someone pleased to see him? Music to his ears.

He drove to Leeds in plenty of time to browse the city-center record shops first. A couple of CDs would be paltry compensation for the miserable time he’d had lately, but they would be better than nothing. Like the toy soldier his mother always used to buy him after he’d been to the dentist’s.

By half past six, the conductor seemed frustrated by the soprano section’s inability to enter on time, so he ended the rehearsal early. Pamela packed away her viola, grabbed her jacket and walked toward Banks. She was wearing black leggings and a baggy black velvet top, belted at the waist, with a scoop neckline which plunged just above the curve of her breasts. Her long raven hair hung over her shoulders and the diamond stud in her right nostril glittered in the side-lighting. Her skin was the color of burnished gold, her eyes almond in shape and color, and her finely drawn red lips revealed straight white teeth when she smiled. Many of them were crowned, Banks knew. Looking at her now, he found it hard to believe that only a couple of years ago she had been lying in a hospital bed covered in bandages wondering if she would ever be able to play again.

Banks gave her a peck on the cheek. She smelled of jasmine. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

She turned up her nose. “We were terrible. But thanks anyway. And it’s nice to see you, stranger.”

“Sorry I couldn’t stick around after The Pearl Fishers ,” Banks said.

“That’s okay. I was knackered anyway. Long day. What did you think?”

“Wonderful.”

She grinned. “For once, you’re right. Everything seemed to fit together that night. Sometimes it just does that, you know, and nobody knows why.”

Banks gestured around the church. “I’m surprised you have time for this.”

“St. Peter’s? Oh, if the schedules work out all right, I can do it. I need all the practice I can get. I’ve been recording the Walton Viola Concerto, too, with the orchestra. For Naxos. Finally the viola’s getting some of the respect it deserves.”

“You were the soloist?”

She slapped his arm. “No. Not me, you idiot. I’m not that good. The soloist was Lars Anders Tomter. He’s very good.”

“I’m really glad it’s all working out for you, anyway.”

Pamela smiled and made a mock curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir. So, where now?”

Banks looked at his watch. “I know it’s a bit early, but how about dinner?”

“Fine with me. I’m starving.”

“Curry?”

Pamela laughed. “Just because I’m Bangladeshi, it doesn’t mean I eat nothing but curry, you know.”

Banks held his hands out. “Whatever, then. Brasserie Forty-four?”

“No, not there,” Pamela said. “It’s far too expensive. There’s a new pizza place up Headingley, just off North Lane. I’ve heard it’s pretty good.”

“Pizza it is, then. I’m parked just over in The Calls.”

“You can have curry if you really want.”

Banks shook his head, and they walked through the dimly lit cobbled backstreets to the car. They were in the oldest part of Leeds, and the most recent to be redeveloped. Most of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century warehouses by the River Aire had been derelict for years, until the civic-pride restoration schemes of the eighties. Now that Leeds was a boom town, they were tourist attractions, full of trendy new restaurants, usually located on something called a “wharf,” the kind of word nobody there would have used twenty years ago. Canary Wharf had a lot more to answer for than vanished fortunes, Banks thought.

“It’s not that I think you eat curry all the time because you’re Asian,” he said. “It’s just that there isn’t a decent curry place in Eastvale. Well, there is one, but I think I might be persona non grata there at the moment. Anyway, pizza sounds great.”

“What did you get?” Pamela asked as she got into the Cavalier and picked up the HMV package from the passenger seat. “Have a look,” said Banks, as he set off and negotiated the one-way streets of the city center.

“ The Beatles Anthology ? I never would have taken you for a Beatles fan.”

Banks smiled. “It’s pure nostalgia. I used to listen to Brian Matthew do ‘Saturday Club’ when I was a kid. If I remember rightly, it came on right after Uncle Mac’s ‘Children’s Favourites,’ and by the age of thirteen I’d got sick to death of ‘Sparky and the Magic Piano,’ ‘Little Green Man’ and ‘Big Rock Candy Mountain.’”

Pamela laughed. “Before my time. Besides, my mum and dad wouldn’t let me listen to pop music.”

“Didn’t you rebel?”

“I did manage to sneak a little John Peel under the bed-clothes once in a while.”

“I hope you’re speaking metaphorically.” Banks drove past St. Michael’s Church and the Original Oak, just opposite. The streetlights were on, and there were plenty of people about, students for the most part. A little farther on, he came to the junction with North Lane, an enclave of cafés, pubs and bookshops.