Peter Robinson - Final Account

“Room service,” said Spike.

The door rattled open – on a chain, by the sound of it. Someone – Spike or Jameson – swore loudly, then Banks saw Shandy rear back like a wild horse and kick the door open. The chain snapped. Spike and Shandy charged inside and Banks heard two shots in close succession, then, after a pause of three or four seconds, another shot, not quite as loud.

Banks and Hatchley waited where they were for a minute, out of sight. Then, when Banks saw Spike come out of the room and lean against the doorjamb, he and Hatchley walked into the corridor. Spike saw them coming and said, “It’s all over. You can go in now, if you like. Silly bugger had to try it on, didn’t he?”

They walked into the room. Banks could smell cordite from the gunfire. Jameson had fallen backward against the wall and slid down into a perfect sitting position on the floor, legs splayed, leaving a thick red snail’s trail of blood smeared on the wallpaper. His puppy-dog eyes were open. His face bore no expression. The front of his green shirt, over the heart, was a tangle of dark red rag and tissue, spreading fast, and there was a similar stain slightly above it, near his shoulder. His hands lay at his side, one of them holding his gun. Another dark wet patch spread between his legs. Urine.

Banks thought of the chair at Arkbeck Farm, where this man had scared Alison Rothwell so much that she had wet herself. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

“We’d no choice,” Spike said behind him. “He had his gun in his hand when he came to the door. You can see for yourself. He fired first.”

Two shots, in close succession, followed by another, sounding slightly different. Two patches of spreading blood. “Our boss tells us we don’t want a lot of fuss about this .”

Banks looked at the two policemen, sighed and said, “Give my regards to Dirty Dick.”

Shandy came back with a not very convincing, “Who’s that?”

Spike grinned, rubbed the barrel of his gun against his upper thigh, and said, “Will do, sir.”

Banks had always hated hospitals: the antiseptic smells, the starched uniforms, the mysterious and unsettling pieces of shiny equipment around every corner – things that looked like modern sculpture or instruments of torture made of articulated chrome. They all gave him the creeps. Worst of all, though, was the way the doctors and nurses seemed to huddle in corridors and doorways and whisper about death, or so he imagined.

It was Saturday afternoon, May 21, just over a week since Rothwell’s murder and two days after Jameson’s shooting, when Banks walked into Leeds Infirmary.

He had spent Thursday night in London, then headed back to Amersham for his car the next morning. After spending a little time with Superintendent Jarrell, Banks and Hatchley had driven back to Eastvale that Friday evening and arrived a little after nine.

On Saturday morning, he had to go into Leeds to consult with Ken Blackstone and wrap things up. After their pub lunch, he had taken a little time off to go and buy some more compact discs at the Classical Record Shop and pay a sick visit before heading back to Eastvale for Richmond ’s farewell bash. Sandra was off with the Camera Club photographing rock formations at Brimham Rocks, so he was left to his own devices for the day.

Banks paused and looked at the signs, then turned left. At last, he found the right corridor. Pamela Jeffreys shared a room with one other person, who happened to be down in X-ray when Banks called. He pulled up a chair by the side of the bed and put down the brown paper package he’d brought on the table. Pamela looked at it with her one good eye. The other was covered in bandages.

“Grapes,” said Banks, feeling embarrassed. “It’s what you bring when you visit people in hospital, isn’t it?”

Pamela smiled, then decided it hurt too much and let her face relax.

“And,” Banks said, pulling a cassette from his pocket, “I made you a tape of some Mozart piano concertos. Thought they might cheer you up. Got a Walkman?”

“Wouldn’t go anywhere without it,” Pamela said out of the side of her mouth. “It’s a bit difficult to get the headphones on with one hand, though.” She directed his gaze to where her bandaged right hand lay on the sheets.

He set the cassette on the bedside table beside the grapes. “The doctor says you’re going to be okay,” he said.

“Hm-mm,” murmured Pamela. “So they tell me.” It came out muffled, but Banks could tell what she said.

“He said you’ll be playing the viola again in no time.”

“Hmph. It might take a bit longer than that.”

“But you will play again.”

She uttered a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. “They broke two fingers on my right hand,” she said. “My bowing hand. It’s a good thing they know bugger all about musical technique. If they’d broken my wrist that might really have put an end to my career.”

“People like that aren’t chosen for their intelligence, as a rule,” said Banks. “But the important thing is that there’s no permanent damage to your fingers, or to your eye.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I ought to think myself lucky.”

“Well?”

“Oh, I’m okay, I suppose. Mostly just bored. There’s the tapes and the radio, but you can’t listen to music all day. There’s nothing else to do but watch telly, and I can stomach even less of that. Reading still hurts too much with just one good eye. And the food’s awful.”

“I’m sorry,” Banks said. “And I’m sorry about that day in the park.”

She moved her head slowly from side to side. “No. My fault. You had to ask. I overreacted. Is this an official visit? Have you come about the men? The men who hurt me?”

“No. But we know who they are. They won’t get away with it.”

“Why have you come?”

“I… that’s a good question.” Banks laughed nervously and looked away, out of the window at the swaying tree-tops. “To see you, I suppose,” he said. “To bring you some grapes and some Mozart. I just happened to be in the area, you know, buying CDs.”

“What did you get?”

Banks showed her: Keith Jarrett playing Shostakovitch’s 24 preludes and fugues; Nobuko Imai playing Walton’s viola concerto. She raised her eyebrow. “Interesting.” Then she tapped the Walton. “It’s beautiful if you get it right,” she said. “But so difficult. She’s very good.”

“It says in the notes that the viola is an introvert of an instrument, a poet-philosopher. Does that describe you?”

“My teacher told me I had to be careful not to get overwhelmed by the orchestra. That tends to happen to violas, you know. But I manage to hold my own.”

“How long are they going to keep you here?”

“Who knows? Another week or so. I’d get up and go home right now but I think my leg’s broken.”

“It is. The right one.”

“Damn. The prettiest.”

Banks laughed.

“Did you catch the men who killed Robert?” she asked. “Was it the same ones?”

Banks gave her the gist of what had happened with Jameson, avoiding the more lurid details.

“So one got away?” she said.

“So far.”

“That’s not bad going.”

“Not bad,” Banks agreed. “Fifty percent success rate. It’s better than the police average.”

“Will you get a promotion out of it?”

He laughed. “I doubt it.”

“Don’t look so worried,” she said, resting her bandaged hand on his. “I’ll be all right. And don’t blame yourself… you know… for what happened to me.”

“Right. I’ll try not to.” Banks felt his eyes burn. He could see her name bracelet and the tube attached to the vein in her wrist. It made him feel squeamish, even more so than seeing Jameson’s body against the wall in the hotel room. It didn’t make sense: he could take a murder scene in his stride, but a simple intravenous drip in a hospital made him queasy.