Peter Robinson: Final Account

“Bloody hell, Alan,” he said by way of greeting, “tha looks like Columbo.”

There’s the pot calling the kettle black, Banks thought. Still, the super was right. He had thrown on an old raincoat over his shirt and trousers because he knew the night would be chilly.

After Banks had explained what he had found out so far, Gristhorpe took a quick look in the barn, questioned PC Carstairs, the first officer at the scene, then rejoined Banks, his usually ruddy, pock-marked face a little paler. “Let’s go in the house, shall we, Alan?” he said. “I hear PC Weaver’s brewing up. He should be able to give us some background.”

They walked across the dirt yard. Above them, the stars shone cold and bright like chips of ice on black velvet.

The farmhouse was cozy and warm inside, a welcome change from the cool night and the gruesome scene in the barn. It had been renovated according to the yuppie idea of the real rustic look, with exposed beams and rough stone walls in an open, split-level living room, all earthy browns and greens. The remains of a log fire glowed in the stone hearth, and beside it stood a pair of antique andirons and a matching rack holding poker and tongs.

In front of the fire, Banks noticed two hard-backed chairs facing one another. One of them had fallen over, or had been pushed on its side. Beside both of them lay coils of rope. One of the chair seats looked wet.

Banks and Gristhorpe walked through into the ultramodern kitchen, which looked like something from a color supplement, where PC Weaver was pouring boiling water into a large red teapot.

“Nearly ready, sir,” he said, when he saw the CID officers. “I’ll just let it mash a couple of minutes.”

The kitchen walls were done in bright red and white patterned tiles, and every available inch of space had been used to wedge fitted microwave, oven, fridge, dishwasher, cupboards and the like. It also boasted a central island unit, complete with tall pine stools. Banks and Gristhorpe sat down.

“How’s his wife?” Gristhorpe asked.

“There’s a wife and daughter here, sir,” said Weaver. “The doctor’s seen them. They’re both unharmed, but they’re suffering from shock. Hardly surprising when you consider they found the body. They’re upstairs with WPC Smithies. Apparently there’s also a son rambling around America somewhere.”

“Who was this Rothwell bloke?” Banks asked. “He must have had a bob or two. Anything missing?”

“We don’t know yet, sir,” Weaver said. He looked around the bright kitchen. “But I see what you mean. He was some sort of financial whiz-kid, I think. These newfangled kitchens don’t come cheap, I can tell you. The wife’s got in the habit of leaving the Mail on Sunday supplement open at some design or another. Her way of dropping hints, like, and about as subtle as a blow on the head with a hammer. The price of them makes me cringe. I tell her the one we’ve got is perfectly all right, but she-”

As he talked, Weaver began to pour the tea into the row of cups and mugs he had arranged. But after filling the second one, he stopped and stared at the door. Banks and Gristhorpe followed his gaze and saw a young girl standing there, her slight figure framed in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes and stretched.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you the detectives? I’d like to talk to you. My name’s Alison Rothwell and someone just killed my father.”

She was about fifteen, Banks guessed, but she made no attempt to make herself look older, as many teenagers do. She wore a baggy, gray sweatshirt advertising an American football team, and a blue tracksuit bottom with a white stripe down each side. Apart from the bruiselike pouches under her light blue eyes, her complexion was pale. Her mousy blonde hair was parted in the center and hung in uncombed strands over her shoulders. Her mouth, with its pale, thin lips, was too small for her oval face.

“Can I have some tea, please?” she asked. Banks noticed she had a slight lisp.

PC Weaver looked for direction. “Go ahead, lad,” Gristhorpe told him. “Give the lass some tea.” Then he turned to Alison Rothwell. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be upstairs with your mum, love?”

Alison shook her head. “Mum’ll be all right. She’s asleep and there’s a policewoman sitting by her. I can’t sleep. It keeps going round in my mind, what happened. I want to tell you about it now. Can I?”

“Of course.” Gristhorpe asked PC Weaver to stay and take notes. He introduced Banks and himself, then pulled out a stool for her. Alison gave them a sad, shy smile and sat down, holding the mug of tea to her chest with both hands as if she needed its heat. Gristhorpe indicated subtly that Banks should do the questioning.

“Are you sure you feel up to this?” Banks asked her first.

Alison nodded. “I think so.”

“Would you like to tell us what happened, then?”

Alison took a deep breath. Her eyes focused on something Banks couldn’t see.

“It was just after dark,” she began. “About ten o’clock, quarter past or thereabouts. I was reading. I thought I heard a sound out in the yard.”

“What kind of sound?” Banks asked.

“I… I don’t know. Just as if someone was out there. A thud, like someone bumping into something or something falling on the ground.”

“Carry on.”

Alison hugged her cup even closer. “At first I didn’t pay it any mind. I carried on reading, then I heard another sound, a sort of scraping, maybe ten minutes later.”

“Then what did you do?” Banks asked.

“I turned the yard light on and looked out of the window, but I couldn’t see anything.”

“Did you have the television on, some music?”

“No. That’s why I could hear the sounds outside so clearly. Usually it’s so quiet and peaceful up here. All you can hear at night is the wind through the trees, and sometimes a lost sheep baa-ing, or a curlew up on the moors.”

“Weren’t you scared being by yourself?”

“No. I like it. Even when I heard the noise I just thought it might be a stray dog or a sheep or something.”

“Where were your parents at this time?”

“They were out. It’s their wedding anniversary. Their twenty-first. They went out to dinner in Eastvale.”

“You didn’t want to go with them?”

“No. Well… I mean, it was their anniversary, wasn’t it?” She turned up her nose. “Besides, I don’t like fancy restaurants. And I don’t like Italian food. Anyway, it’s not as if it was Home Alone or something. I am nearly sixteen, you know. And it was my choice. I’d rather stay home and read. I don’t mind being by myself.”

Perhaps, Banks guessed, they hadn’t invited her. “Carry on,” he said. “After you turned the yard light on, what did you do?”

“When I couldn’t see anything, I just sort of brushed it off. Then I heard another noise, like a stone or something, hitting the wall. I was fed up of being disturbed by then, so I decided to go out and see what it was.”

“You still weren’t frightened?”

“A bit, maybe, by then. But not really scared. I still thought it was probably an animal or something like that, maybe a fox. We get them sometimes.”

“Then what happened?”

“I opened the front door, and as soon as I stepped out, someone grabbed me and dragged me back inside and tied me to the chair. Then they put a rag in my mouth and put tape over it. I couldn’t swallow properly. It was all dry and it tasted of salt and oil.”

Banks noticed her knuckles had turned white around the mug. He worried she would crush it. “How many of them were there, Alison?” he asked.

“Two.”