Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

“Here,” said Pamela, pointing. Banks managed to find a parking spot, and they walked around the corner into the restaurant. The familiar pizza smells of olive oil, tomato sauce, oregano and fresh-baked dough greeted them. The restaurant was lively and noisy, but they only had to wait at the bar for a couple of minutes before they got a tiny table for two in the back. It wasn’t a great spot, too close to the toilets and waiters’ route to and from the kitchen, but at least it was in the smoking section. After a while, sipping the one glass of red wine he was allowing himself that evening, and smoking one of the duty-free Silk Cuts he’d picked up at Schiphol, Banks hardly noticed the bustle or the volume level anymore.

“So, have you got a boyfriend yet?” he asked when they were settled.

Pamela frowned. “Too busy,” she said. “Besides, I’m not sure I trust myself to get involved again. Not just yet. How’s your wife? Sandra, isn’t it?”

“Yes. She’s fine.”

After a while of small talk, their pizzas came – Banks’s margherita and Pamela’s fungi.

“How’s life at the cop shop?” Pamela asked between mouthfuls.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Banks. “I’ve been suspended from duty.”

He hadn’t intended to tell her, certainly not with such abruptness, but it had come out before he could stop it. He couldn’t seem to hold back everything . In a way, he was glad he’d said it because he had to confide in someone. Her eyes opened wide. As soon as she had swallowed her food, she said, “What? Good Lord, why?”

As best he could, he told her about the Jason Fox case, and about thumping Jimmy Riddle.

“Aren’t you still angry?” she asked when he’d finished.

Banks sipped some wine and watched Pamela wipe a little pizza sauce from her chin. The people at the next table left. The waiter picked up the money and began to clean up after them. “Not really angry,” Banks said. “A bit, perhaps, but not a lot. Not anymore.”

“What, then?”

“Disappointed.”

“With what?”

“Myself mostly. For being too stupid not to see it coming. And for thumping Riddle.”

“I can’t say I blame you, from what you’ve told me.”

“Oh, Riddle’s an arsehole, no doubt about it. He even suggested that I took you to Amsterdam with me.”

“Me? But why?”

“He thinks you’re my mistress.”

Pamela almost choked on a mouthful of pizza. Banks didn’t feel particularly flattered. Afterward, he couldn’t tell if she was blushing or just red in the face from coughing. “Come again,” she managed finally, patting her chest.

“It’s true. He thinks I’ve got a mistress in Leeds and that’s why I keep making up excuses to come here.”

“But how could he know? I mean…?”

“I know what you mean. Don’t ask me.” Banks smiled, felt his heart skip, but went on anyway, aiming for a light tone. “It didn’t seem like such a bad idea.”

Pamela looked down. He could see he’d embarrassed her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was supposed to be a compliment.”

“I know what it was supposed to be,” Pamela said. Then she smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.”

Please do, he almost said, but managed to stop himself in time. He wondered if she would take him home with her if he told her that he and Sandra had split up. They ate some more pizza in silence, then Pamela shook her head slowly and said, “It just sounds so unfair.”

“Fairness has nothing to do with it.” Banks pushed his plate aside and lit a cigarette. “Oh, sorry,” he said, looking at the small slice left on Pamela’s plate.

“That’s all right. I’m full.” She pushed hers aside, too.

“This Neville Motcombe you mentioned, isn’t he the bloke who was interviewed in the Yorkshire Post this weekend? Something to do with neo-Nazis disrupting a funeral?”

“That’s the one.”

“Didn’t someone die there?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Frank Hepplethwaite. I knew him slightly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We weren’t close friends or anything. It’s just that I liked him, and I think, of anyone, he’s the real victim in this whole mess. Tell me something: Have you ever come across Motcombe in any other context?”

“What, you mean with me being the sort of person this Albion League might target?”

“Partly. Yes.”

She shook her head. “Not really. I’ve been lucky, I suppose. Oh, I’ve been insulted in the street and stuff. You know, called a Paki bitch or a Paki slut. It’s always ‘Paki.’ Can’t they think of anything else but that?”

Banks smiled. “That’s part of their problem. Severely limited thinking. No originality.”

“I suppose so. I’m not saying it doesn’t bother me when it happens. It does. It upsets me. But you get used to it. I mean, it starts not to surprise you as much, so you don’t get shocked by it as easily. But it still hurts. Every time. Like hot needles being stuck through your skin. Sometimes it’s just the way people look at you. Am I making any sense?”

“Perfect.”

“I remember once when I was a kid back in Shipley – oh, this must have been in the seventies, twenty years ago now – and I was walking back from my aunt’s house with my mum and dad. We walked around this corner and there was a gang of skinheads. They surrounded us and started calling out racist insults and shoving us. There were about ten of them. There was nothing we could do. I was terrified. I think we all were. But my dad stood up to them, called them cowards and shoved them right back. At first they just laughed, but then they started to get worked up and I could tell they were getting ready to really hurt us. My mother was screaming and I was crying and they got my dad on the ground and started kicking him…” She trailed off and shook her head at the memory.

“What happened?”

Pamela looked up and smiled through her tears. “Would you believe it, a police car came by and they ran off? A bloody police car. About the only time the police have ever been there when I’ve needed them. Must have been a miracle.”

They both laughed. The waiter came by and took their plates.

“What now?” Pamela asked, after she’d wiped her eyes from the mingled tears of humiliation and laughter.

“Coffee? Dessert?”

She hit him on the arm again. “I don’t mean that, idiot. I mean, you. Your future.”

“Looks bleak. I’d rather concentrate on dessert.”

“Just a cappuccino for me.”

Banks ordered two cappuccinos and lit another cigarette.

“You’re smoking too much,” Pamela said.

“I know. And just when I’d managed to cut down.”

“Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”

“What question was that?”

“You know quite well. Your future. What are you going to do?”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t know yet. It’s too early to say.”

“Well, surely when this chief constable person has done his investigation, he’ll have to reinstate you?”

“I doubt it. Even if a disciplinary hearing really does reinstate me, it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Think about it,” said Banks. “I hit the chief constable. Even if he does keep that just between the two of us, it still means I can’t work with him anymore. He’d find ways to make my life a living hell.”

“I understand it might make things difficult.”

“Difficult? It was difficult before all this. After…” He shrugged. “Impossible, more like.”

The restaurant was full of students now. They looked like an artsy, literary crowd, all talking excitedly about the latest music, arguing loudly about books and philosophy. They made Banks feel old; made him feel he had wasted his life. A waiter passed by carrying plates, leaving a trail of garlic and basil smells.