Peter Robinson - Final Account

Mario looked pale. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Susan almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “Honest, Mr. Hatchley, I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I run an honest business here. I-”

But before he could finish, Hatchley had grabbed him by the lapels of his shop-coat and pushed him against the shelves. A jar of instant coffee fell to the floor and smashed; tins dropped and rolled all over; a packet of spaghetti noodles burst open.

“Watch what you’re doing!” Mario cried. “That stuff costs money.”

Hatchley pushed him up harder against the shelving, twisting the lapels. Mario’s face turned red. Susan was worried he was going to have a heart attack or something. She wished she hadn’t become part of this. Gristhorpe would find out, she knew, and she would be thrown off the force in shame. Outside, she heard somebody rattle the door. Do something, her inner voice screamed. “Sir,” she said levelly. “Maybe Mr. Nelson wants to tell us something, and he’s having difficulty speaking.”

Hatchley looked at Nelson and relaxed his grasp. “Is that so, Mario?”

Mario nodded as best he could under the circumstances. Hatchley let him go. A jar of pickled onions rolled off the shelf and smashed, infusing the air with the acrid smell of vinegar.

“Who is he?” asked Hatchley.

Mario massaged his throat and gasped for breath. “You… shouldn’t… have… done… that,” he wheezed. “Could have k-k-killed me. Weak heart. I c-c-could report you.”

“But we both know you won’t, don’t we? Imagine trying to run an honest business with the local police breathing down your neck day and night. Come on, give us the name, Mario.”

“I… I don’t know his name. J-just that he’s been in occasionally.”

“For your under-the-counter stuff? Shaved pussies?”

Mario nodded.

Hatchley shook his head. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” he said, “but you’re lying again. After all this.” He reached out for Mario’s lapels.

“No!” Mario jumped back, dislodging a few more tins from the shelf. A bottle of gin fell and smashed. He put his hands out. “No!”

“Come on, then,” said Hatchley. “Give.”

“Jameson. Mr. Jameson. That’s all I know,” said Mario, still rubbing his throat.

“I want his address, too. He’s on one of your paper routes, isn’t he? I’ll bet one of your lads delivers his papers, maybe with a special color supplement on Sundays, eh? Come on.”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Be reasonable, Mario. It’s no skin off your nose, is it? And it’ll put you in good stead with the local bobbies. What’s his address?”

Mario paused a moment, then went behind the counter and looked in the ledger where he kept the addresses for newspaper deliveries. “ Forty-seven Bridgeport Road,” he said. “But you won’t find him there.”

“Oh?”

“Canceled his papers.”

“How long for?”

“Three weeks.”

“Since when?”

“Last Friday.”

“Where’s he gone?”

“I’ve no idea, have I? Off on his holidays, maybe.”

“Don’t come the clever bugger with me.”

“I’m not. Honest.”

“Is that all you know?” Hatchley moved forward and Mario backed off.

“I swear it. We’re not mates or anything. He’s just a customer. And do me a favor – when you do find him, don’t tell him you found out from me.”

“Scared of him?”

“He’s got a bit of a reputation for scrapping, that’s all. When he’s had a few, like. I don’t think he’d take kindly.”

“Aye, all right, then,” said Hatchley. “Susan, would you do the honors?”

Susan went over and unlocked the door. A red-faced old woman bustled in. “What’s going on here? I’ve been waiting five minutes. My poor Marmaduke is going to starve to death if you-” She stopped talking, looked at the mess on the floor, then back at the three of them.

“Slight accident, Mrs. Bagshot,” said Mario, straightening his tie and smiling. “Nothing serious.”

Hatchley bent down and grabbed a pickled onion. After a cursory check to make sure there was no broken glass clinging to it, he popped it in his mouth, smiled at Mrs. Bagshot, and left.

After a light lunch in the police canteen with Ken Blackstone – a toasted cheese sandwich and a plastic container of orange juice – Banks set off back to the hotel. The weather was the same, fast-moving cloud on the wind, sun in and out casting shadows over the streets and buildings. He would have to do something about his jacket, he realized as he walked past the Corn Exchange. Maybe he could get it fixed this afternoon. The hotel should be able to help. Or maybe he should buy a new one.

He wasn’t looking forward to explaining his adventures to Sandra, either. He hadn’t phoned her last night, and she would probably be out until this evening. He could phone the gallery, he knew, but she would be busy. Besides, it would only worry her if he told her about the fight over the telephone. He might get his jacket fixed, but there would be no hiding the skinned knuckles and bruised cheekbone from Sandra, let alone the bruises that would soon show up on his side.

All he had to say was that two kids had tried to mug him, simple as that. It might not be the complete truth, but it certainly wasn’t a lie. On the other hand, he wondered who he was trying to fool. If he couldn’t talk to Sandra about what had happened, who could he talk to? Right now, he just didn’t know.

A local train must have just come in, judging from the hordes issuing from the station and heading for the bus stops around City Square and Boar Lane. Banks picked up a Yorkshire Evening Post from the aged vendor, who was shouting out a headline that sounded like “TURKLE AN HONEST LIAR” but which, on reading, turned out to be “TWO KILLED IN HUNSLET FIRE.” Banks refused the free packet of Old El Paso Taco Shells he was offered with his newspaper.

At the hotel, he found three messages: one to call Melissa Clegg at the wine shop; one to meet Sergeant Hatchley and Susan Gay at The Victoria, behind the Town Hall, as soon as possible; and one to call Ken Blackstone at Millgarth. First, he went to his room and phoned Melissa Clegg.

“Oh, Mr. Banks,” she said. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I’ve remembered his name, the man Daniel met in the pub.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I knew there was something funny about it. After I left you I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. Then I was filling some orders and I saw it written down. It came to me, just like that.”

“Yes?”

“Irish whiskey. Funny how the mind works, isn’t it?”

“Irish whiskey?”

“His name. It was Jameson. I’m sure of it.”

Banks thanked her and called Ken Blackstone.

“Alan, we’ve got some names for you,” Blackstone said. “Quite a lot, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind,” said Banks. “Is Jameson among them?”

Banks heard Blackstone muttering to himself as he went through the list. “Yes. Yes, there he is. Bloke called Arthur Jameson. Alan, what-”

“I can’t talk now, Ken. Can you pull his file and meet me at The Victoria in about fifteen minutes? I assume you know where it is?”

“The Vic? Sure. But-”

“Fifteen minutes, then.” Banks hung up.

It was foolish, Susan knew, but she couldn’t help feeling butterflies in her stomach as she turned the corner where Courtney Terrace intersected Bridgeport Road at number thirty-five. It was mid-afternoon; there was no one about. She felt completely alone, and the click of her heels, which seemed to echo from every building, was the only sound breaking the blanket of silence. Her instructions were simple: find out what you can about Arthur Jameson and his whereabouts.