Peter Robinson: Blood At The Root

At last, they approached the workroom and pushed the door open slowly on the brightly lit room.

Motcombe was there all right.

His body hung at an awkward angle, naked to the waist, his polo-neck tunic hanging in shreds around his hips as if it had been ripped or cut off. His left wrist had been wedged in a vise, which had been tightened until the bones cracked and poked through the flesh. Blood caked the oiled metal. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with iron filings, shaved wood and linseed oil. And cordite. The room felt crowded, claustrophobic, even with only the two of them there. Three, if you counted the dead man.

The drill lay on the workbench. Banks didn’t want to touch it, but he wanted the sound to stop. He went over to the wall and pulled out the plug, using a handkerchief carefully, and hoping he wasn’t smudging any valuable prints. Old habits die hard. Somehow, he doubted that there would be any. People who do things like this don’t leave fingerprints.

The scene was a gruesome one. More so because of the unnaturally bright lights that Motcombe had rigged up so he could see clearly what he was working on. What Banks at first took to be bullet holes in Motcombe’s chest and stomach turned out, on further examination, to be spots where the drill had been inserted. When the bit stopped spinning, he could see it was clogged with blood and tissue.

Motcombe’s right arm was practically in shreds, striped with lacerations, patches of skin hanging off as if he’d been flayed. Someone had obviously shredded the flesh with a saw, cutting deep into the muscle and bone. Banks noticed the blood and chips of bone on the edge of a circular saw that lay on the floor beside the body.

The coup de grâce looked like two gunshot wounds to the head, one through the left eye and the other in the middle of the temple, both leaving large exit wounds.

“Well, Ken,” said Banks finally, backing away from the scene, “I can’t say I envy you sorting this little lot out.”

“No,” said Blackstone, visibly pale. “Let’s get outside. I don’t think I can stand being in here much longer.”

They stood outside the back door overlooking the valley and the peaceful village of Tong in the distance. Three large crows circled high in the blue air. Banks lit a cigarette to take the taste and smell of the workshop out of his mouth.

“Want to call it in?” he asked.

“Yes. Just give me a minute.”

“What do you think?”

Blackstone took a deep breath before answering. “You probably know as well as I do, Alan,” he said. “Either Wes Campbell or Frankie Robertson phoned Devon the minute they saw Mark Wood at Millgarth. That was what? – over four hours ago now. This pisses Devon off mightily, and he sends a couple of lads over right away to help him vent his rage. You don’t get far in Devon’s business unless you’re seen to act, and to act fast . He relies heavily on pure fear. Who knows, maybe he’s even made a down payment to Motcombe and wants his money back, too? So they either torture him to find out where the money is, or they do it for fun, just to teach him a lesson. Then they execute him. Bang, bang.”

Banks nodded. “Either that or they decided they didn’t like Mr. H’s politics when Mark told them who he really was.”

“It’s Devon’s style, Alan,” Blackstone went on. “Two head shots with a thirty-eight, by the looks of it. Remember those murders I told you about in New York, Toronto, Chapeltown?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Same MO. Torture and two head shots. It still doesn’t help us prove anything. I don’t suppose anyone can tie Devon to the scene. He’ll have an alibi you can’t break, and there’ll never be any trace of a murder weapon.”

“We’ve still got Mark Wood to use against him.”

“If he doesn’t suddenly lose his memory the minute he hears about what happened to Motcombe. I probably would if I were him.”

“And don’t forget Campbell and Robertson. You’ve got them, too. They might not be quite as tough as they seem once you put the pressure on. Especially if they’re deprived of their narcotic sustenance. And I’ll bet you’ve got records of any telephone calls they made from Millgarth.”

Blackstone nodded and looked around, then he sighed. “Well, we’d better set things in motion. Can I use your mobile?”

“Be my guest.”

They walked around to Banks’s car at the front of the house and Banks handed him the phone. Blackstone tapped in the numbers, gave the details and requested more police, a murder van and a SOCO team.

“I’ll tell you something,” he said when he’d finished. “Your chief constable isn’t going to like it, is he? Remember the song and dance he made in the paper about solving the murder, keeping race out of it?”

“Bugger Jimmy Riddle,” said Banks. “This isn’t a matter of race, it’s drugs and greed. Anyway, they’re West Yorkshire’s Jamaicans, not ours. And I wasn’t even here.”

“What do you think now?” Blackstone asked, handing Banks the phone. “Still want to come and work for West Yorkshire?”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette on the wall and put the butt in his pocket to avoid contaminating the scene. “I don’t know, Ken. I really don’t know. I might not have much choice, might I? Anyway, right now, I think I’d better make myself scarce before the troops arrive and all hell breaks loose. You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll catch a lift back to Millgarth from one of the patrol cars. Go. Go.”

Banks shook Blackstone’s hand. “Thanks, Ken. I’d be interested to hear you tell them why you’re here and how you got here, but I really can’t stay.”

“I’ll tell them I got the bus,” said Blackstone. “Now be a good lad, Alan, and bugger off back to Eastvale. I think I hear the sound of sirens.”

Banks got in his car. He couldn’t hear sirens, but the sound of Neville Motcombe’s electric drill still whined in his ears.

A mile or so down the road, the first patrol cars passed him, lights and sirens going. No hurry, Banks thought. No hurry at all. He lit another cigarette and switched on the tape player. Robert Louis Stevenson, sung by Bryn Terfel:

Banks looked at his watch. Just gone half past four. Hard to believe, but they had hardly been half an hour at Mot-combe’s house. He still had plenty of time to go and pick up Tracy for the weekend, even with the rush-hour traffic. Plenty of time.

PETER ROBINSON grew up in Yorkshire, England, and has lived in North America for twenty-five years. His previous Inspector Banks novels include In a Dry Season – which was nominated for the Edgar®, won the Anthony Award, and was named a New York Times Notable Book – and the international bestsellers Aftermath, Close to Home , and Playing with Fire . You can visit his website at www.inspectorbanks.com .