Peter Robinson: Blood At The Root

Blackstone nodded. “A lot of small dealers are mobile now they’ve saturated the urban markets. And it makes sense they’d target places where there’s loud music and lots of kids. I think I’ve heard of the Jubilee. Is that the one that advertises in the Evening Post ?”

“That’s the one. I suppose the Drugs Squad keeps tabs on these bands and their itinerant dealers?”

“I hope so,” said Blackstone. “Though you never quite know what the DS is up to. They’re a law unto themselves half the time.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, ticking off on his fingers, “Mark Wood had passing contact with one of these lads at the Jubilee. My thinking is that they might have been in this together. First off, I need to know if this band is the same one Mark Wood roadied for a couple of years back, when he was arrested on the drugs charge.”

Blackstone nodded.

“And then I’d like the names of the Jamaicans who were on the fringes of Scattered Dreams that night, if you can get them. I know that might be a bit more difficult.”

“I can only try,” said Blackstone. “Actually, I know a bloke on the Drugs Squad who can keep his mouth shut. We did some courses at Bramshill together a few years back. Bloke called Richie Hall. He’s a Jamaican himself, and he’s done a fair bit of undercover work over the years. Anyway, the point is, he knows the music and drugs scene up north better than anyone I know. If he doesn’t know who they are, nobody does.”

“Great. There might even be a short cut. Mark Wood’s wife’s Jamaican. Her maiden name is Shirelle Jade Campbell. They seem to have met up around the time Wood got involved with the band, and I’m wondering if there isn’t maybe a family connection. A brother, cousin or something. At least that gives you a name to work on.”

“I’ll pass it on to Richie. Like I said, if anyone knows, Richie does.”

“You sure you don’t mind doing this, Ken?”

Blackstone shook his head. “Nah. What are mates for. I’ll warn you, though, you’ll be bloody lucky to get anything out of these lads even if we do track them down.”

“I know that. Actually, if I’m right, I was thinking of a slightly more devious approach to the truth. But let’s wait and see, shall we?”

“Just as long as your expectations aren’t too high. Who knows, there might even be a bit of glory in this for me.”

Banks smiled. “Maybe. Whatever happens, there’ll be no Brownie points for me from Jimmy Riddle. But I promise you, if there’s any credit to be taken, it’s yours. And lunch is on me.”

“Will you do me one small favor, Alan?”

“Name it.”

“Just be bloody careful, that’s all.”

By nine o’clock on Friday morning, Banks felt edgy and restless alone in the house. He was pleased with himself, however, for avoiding the booze completely on Thursday evening, and for actually managing to finish The Power and the Glory as he listened to Beethoven’s late quartets. So he felt full of energy when he woke up on Friday. There was nothing he could do until he heard from Ken Blackstone except pace the floor.

When his phone rang at about half past nine, he grabbed the receiver on the first ring. “Yes? Banks here.”

“Alan, it’s Ken.”

“What have you got?”

“Some answers for you. I hope. In answer to your first question, yes, Giles Varney is Neville Motcombe’s solicitor and has acted for him on a number of occasions. Their professional relationship goes back to the time Motcombe started buying property in the Leeds area, about four years ago. It seems like they’ve been bosom buddies ever since.”

“Does Varney have any other known right-wing connections?”

“Yes. I checked around and he’s pretty well known in some of the more extreme right circles.”

“Great. That would seem to indicate that Mark Wood did a deal with Motcombe through Varney. Anything else?”

“This is where it gets a bit more complicated, I’m afraid. And you owe me. I had to spend yesterday evening in a pub with Richie Hall, and he drinks like a bloody fish. I’ll be sending you the bill.”

Banks laughed. “Find anything out?”

“Yes. The band Mark Wood worked with at the time of his first arrest was called Cloth Ears. They split up shortly after the drug bust. But this Scattered Dreams was formed partly from the ashes. Phoenix-like, you might say. Apparently the blokes you’re interested in used to play with Cloth Ears, but now they just hang around the fringes of Scattered Dreams and sell dope. Seems drugs have sapped whatever talents they might once have had, and most of the time they’re too stoned to strum a chord. And you were right about the family connection. The one with the dreadlocks is Shirelle Wood’s brother, Wesley Campbell, and the other’s a mate of his called Francis Robertson. ‘Wes’ and ‘Frankie,’ as they’re known locally. Both of them have been seen to associate with Devon recently, according to Richie.”

“Low-level dealers?”

“Looks that way.”

“Excellent.”

“And in Shirelle Wood’s favor, Richie says she’s not connected with any of this. In fact, she stopped talking to her brother Wes as soon as she discovered he was involved in getting Mark busted the first time, and she hasn’t talked to him since. Cut him off completely.”

Good for her, Banks thought. There were very few people he had come to have respect for in this whole business. Frank Hepplethwaite was one of them, and Shirelle Jade Wood was another. Pity about her husband. He should have followed her lead and cut off communications with Wesley Campbell, too. But no, Mark Wood thought he could make an easy fortune. And it was a sad thought that Shirelle and Connor would be the ones to suffer the most if the truth did come out.

“Thanks, Ken,” Banks said. “You’ve done a great job.”

“No problem.”

“Now for the hard part.”

He heard Blackstone sigh. “Somehow I had a feeling there might be more to it than this. I assume this is your ‘cunning plan’ for getting to the truth?”

Banks laughed. “Hear me out, Ken, then let me know if you think we can do it.”

About an hour later, Banks drove down to Leeds alone. There was no point involving Susan Gay or Jim Hatchley in his scheme. It was risky and could backfire, then he’d have their jobs on his conscience, too. Ken Blackstone would be fine; he was simply carrying out an investigation on his own patch, based on information received. The fact that Banks was along for the ride really didn’t matter.

Banks lit a cigarette and turned up the volume on Bryn Terfel’s renditions of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Songs of Travel . He looked at the digital clock. Eleven o’clock. Plenty of time to do what he had to and pick up Tracy at the residence by six o’clock.

As he pulled up behind Millgarth, he looked at his watch. Just after twelve. If Ken Blackstone had done his work, everything ought to be set up and ready to roll by now. He checked at the front desk and went straight up to Blackstone’s office. In the corridor outside the CID offices, as arranged, sat Mark Wood, who had been brought in from Armley Jail shortly after Banks’s nine-thirty talk with Ken Blackstone, just to answer a few more questions and help make the paperwork flow more smoothly.

Apparently, Wood had been more than willing to show his cooperation. And even though he’d been sitting there for probably a couple of hours already, he hadn’t asked for Giles Varney yet. If he did, they’d have to lie and tell him they couldn’t get in touch. With Varney present, the plan would be useless.

Mark Wood didn’t look like much, Banks thought. Muscular, yes, but basically just another sullen, nervous kid chewing his fingernails in a police station.