Peter Robinson: Blood At The Root

“You can’t be serious? You can’t believe those bastards.”

“Why not? I certainly can’t believe you . Look at your track record, Mark. No, I’m afraid this is the end of the line for you. You get charged with murder now, and you don’t get out of jail for a long, long time. In fact, by the time you get out, your wife will have run off with another bloke long since, and your kid will have grown up and forgotten you. In the meantime, you’ll be fending off the arse-bandits in Wormwood Scrubs or Strangeways. And that’s if you last that long. I suspect both Devon and Neville Motcombe have long reaches.”

Wood seemed to shrivel, to draw in on himself like a bank of ashes collapsing. Banks could tell he was trapped. He knew lies wouldn’t save him now, but he didn’t know the best course of action. Time to tell him, time to give him a ray of hope. After pulling the carpet from under him, give him a foam mattress to land on.

“There’s only one way out for you, Mark,” he said.

“What’s that?” Mark’s voice was no louder than a whisper.

“The truth. Right from the top.”

“How will that help?”

“I’m not saying it’ll get you off scot-free. Nothing will do that. We don’t have the power to make deals with criminals, reduce their sentences in exchange for information. That only happens on American TV shows. But I can guarantee it’ll make things easier for you.”

Wood chewed on his knuckles for a few seconds, then said, “I need protection. They’ll kill me. My family, too.”

“We can help you with that, Mark. If you help us.”

Mark rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I never meant to kill him,” he said. “Honest, I didn’t. It was those two.” He was close to tears.

“Who?”

“Frankie and Wes.”

“What happened, Mark? Right from the beginning.”

Banks took out his cigarettes and offered Mark one. He took it with a shaking hand. “All right,” he said. “But what guarantee have I got that things will go easier for me if I tell you the truth? What are you offering me?”

“You’ve got my word,” said Banks.

“For what?”

“That you and your family will be protected and that your cooperation will be considered.”

“I want relocation for me and Sheri,” he said. “And new identities. The Witness Protection Program. That’s what I want.”

“I’ve already told you, this isn’t America, Mark. We don’t do things that way in England. Look, like I said, I’m not telling you you’re going to walk out of here a free man. You’re not. One way or another, you’ll serve some time. What I’m saying is that if you give us what we want, the charge can remain manslaughter, not murder.”

“It doesn’t sound like that good a deal to me.”

“Well, it is,” Ken Blackstone chipped in. “The difference is between, say, twenty-five years in a very nasty place – where you’ll be vulnerable to anyone Devon or Motcombe cares to send along – and maybe five in minimum-security prison. Protected environment. Telly and conjugal visits thrown in.” He glanced at Banks, who nodded. “Your choice, Mark. It’s as simple as that.”

Wood looked between the two of them and his gaze finally settled on Banks again. “What about Sheri and Connor?”

“We’ll take care of them, make sure they’re safe,” said Banks. “You have my word. What about it?”

Wood looked at Blackstone again, who assured him that Banks was right, then he rested back in his chair and said, “All right. Okay. Neville Motcombe approached me several weeks ago and said he knew about my record for drugs offenses. At first I didn’t know what he was getting at, then it became clear that he’d made a contact for getting his hands on some pretty large amounts of heroin through Turkey at a rock-bottom price, and he hadn’t a clue what to do about it. Drugs just weren’t part of his gig, but he saw a way to make a lot of money and fuck up the ‘niggers’ in the bargain, as he put it. He really does talk like that. Makes you sick. Anyway, he found out about my drug bust and decided I was to be the go-between.”

“What was in it for you?”

“Something in the region of fifty thousand quid over a period of a few months, if all went well. Maybe more in the future, if the supply didn’t dry up.” He leaned forward and gripped the sides of the chair. “Look, you can judge me all you like, but have you any idea what that would have meant to Sheri and me? It would have got us out of that fucking prefab, for a start, and it would have given me a good chance at expanding the business, buying some up-to-date equipment, making something out of it. And all I had to do was play go-between for Motcombe and Devon.” He laughed. “It was a bit of a joke on Motcombe, too. He didn’t know Sheri’s Jamaican and that his money would actually be going to help one of the people he wanted to destroy.”

“Didn’t that bother you, Mark? That he was intending to cause so much suffering in the West Indian community?”

“That was just a load of bollocks he came up with for Jason’s benefit. He was after profits, pure and simple.”

“Takes one to know one?”

“Something like that. Anyway, once you get heroin out on the streets, there’s no telling what color your buyers will be, is there? There’s no color bar on H. Even Jason knew that. Like I said, I thought it was funny that Sheri and Connor were going to get some benefit from this.”

Banks shook his head. “So you agreed?”

Wood nodded. “Under Motcombe’s instructions, I met with Wes, then with Devon. They never met Neville, didn’t know who he was. I called him Mr. H. Anyway, we talked about prices, delivery schedules, methods of getting the stuff into the country, the lot. Then Devon said he’d think about it. A few days later he got in touch with me through Wes and told me to let Mr. H know we were in business. I suppose Motcombe got in touch with his blokes in Turkey – I didn’t have anything to do with that end of the operation – and they set things in motion. There were huge profits in it for everyone. Devon wouldn’t stop at Leeds – he’d be shifting stuff to Bradford, Sheffield, Manchester, Birmingham, you name it. Somehow or other, that seemed to resolve the problems on both sides. Motcombe’s about dealing with darkies and Devon’s about dealing with a whitey like me.” Mark snorted. “Great healer of race relations, greed, isn’t it?”

“And where does Jason come in?”

“Motcombe made a big mistake there. I could have told him, but he didn’t ask. He seemed to think Jason would just love the idea. I mean, I don’t think they’d ever talked about drugs or anything other than league business before. But Jason was straight. Even with Motcombe’s justification, he wouldn’t go for it. Motcombe got worried that Jason would spread the word among his colleagues in the movement and they’d chuck him out and put Jason in charge instead. I suppose you know neo-Nazis aren’t really supposed to be into drugs?”

Banks nodded.

“Then there was the matter of the money to be made. Anyway, Motcombe got paranoid, especially as Jason had gained a lot of respect in the movement and people looked up to him for guidance and leadership. Jason was fast becoming a loose cannon on the deck. So Motcombe decided things would be better all around with Jason out of the way. He knew I was desperate for the money, and he also knew me and Jason didn’t get along, so he asked me if I could arrange for the Jamaicans to do away with him. That way, he said, if they happened to get caught, it’d only be two less ‘niggers’ to worry about. You have to give the guy credit, at least he’s consistent. I didn’t want to do it. I mean, I’m no killer. I know Jason and me had our problems, but I didn’t want to see him dead. You have to believe that. I had no choice.”