Peter Robinson - Final Account

Pamela was right. She would be fine. Her wounds would heal; her beauty would regenerate. In less than a year she would be as good as new. But would she ever recover fully inside? How would she handle being alone in the house? Would she ever again be able to hear someone walking up the garden path without that twinge of fear and panic? He didn’t know. The psyche regenerates itself, too, sometimes. We’re often a damn sight more resilient than we’d imagine.

“Will you come and see me again?” she asked. “I mean, when it’s all over and I’m home. Will you come and see me?”

“Sure I will,” said Banks, thinking guiltily of the feelings he had had for Pamela, not sure at all.

“Do you mean it?”

He looked into her almond eye and saw the black shape of fear at its center. He swallowed. “Of course I mean it,” he said. And he did. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her good cheek. “I’d better go now.”

Why was he born so beautiful?

Why was he born so tall?

He’s no bloody use to anyone ,

He’s no bloody use at all .

Richmond took the Yorkshire compliment, delivered in shaky harmonies by Sergeant Hatchley and an assorted cat’s choir of PCs, very well, Banks thought, especially for someone who listened to music that sounded like Zamfir on Valium.

“Speech! Speech!” Hatchley shouted.

Embarrassed, Richmond gave a sideways glance at Rachel, his fiancée, then stood up, cleared his throat and said, “Thank you. Thank you all very much. And thanks specially for the CD-ROM. You know I’m not much at giving speeches like this, but I’d just like to say it’s been a pleasure working with you all. I know you all probably think I’m a traitor, going off down south-” Here, a chorus of boos interrupted his speech. “But as soon as I’ve got that lot down there sorted out,” he went on, “I’ll be back, and you buggers had better make sure you know a hard drive from a hole in the ground. Thank you.”

He sat down again, and people went over to pat him on the back and say farewell. Everyone cheered when Susan Gay leaned forward and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. She blushed when Richmond responded by giving her a bear-hug.

They were in the back room of the Queen’s Arms on Saturday night, and Banks leaned against the polished bar, pint of Theakston’s in his hand, with Sandra on one side and Gristhorpe on the other. Someone had hung balloons from the ceiling. Cyril had hooked up the old jukebox for the occasion, and Gerry and the Pacemakers were singing “Ferry Across the Mersey.”

Banks knew he should have been happier to see the end of the Rothwell case, but he just couldn’t seem to get rid of a niggling feeling, like an itch he couldn’t reach. Jameson had killed Rothwell. True. Now Jameson was dead. Justice had been done, after a fashion. An eye for an eye. So forget it.

But he couldn’t. The two men who had beaten Pamela Jeffreys hadn’t been caught yet. Along with Jameson’s accomplice, that left three on the loose. Only a twenty-five percent success rate. Not satisfactory at all.

But it wasn’t just that. Somehow, it was all too neat. All too neat and ready for Martin Churchill to slip into the country one night with a new face and a clean, colossal bank account and retire quietly to Cornwall, guarding the secrets of those in power to the grave. Which might not be far off. Banks wouldn’t be surprised if someone from M16 or wherever slipped into Cornwall one night and both Mr. Churchill and his insurance had a nasty accident.

Susan Gay walked over from Richmond ’s table and indicated she’d like a word. Banks excused himself from Sandra and they found a quiet corner.

“Sorry for dragging you away from the festivities, sir,” Susan said, “but I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since you got back. There’s a couple of things you might be interested in.”

“I’m listening.”

Susan told him about her talk with Tom Rothwell after the funeral, about his homosexuality and what he had seen his father do that day he followed him into Leeds. “The artist came in on Wednesday evening, sir, and we managed to get the impression in the papers on Thursday, while you were down south.”

“Any luck?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Come on, then. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“We’ve found out who she is. Her name’s Julia Marshall and she lives in Adel. That’s in north Leeds. She’s a schoolteacher. We got a couple of phone calls from colleagues. Apparently, she was a quiet person, shy and private.”

“Was?”

“Well, I shouldn’t say that, really, sir, but it’s just that she’s disappeared. That’s all we know so far. I just think we should find her, that’s all,” she said. “Talk to her friends. I don’t really know why. It’s just a feeling. She might know something.”

“I think you’re right,” said Banks. “It’s a loose end I’d like to see tied up as well. There are too many bloody disappearances in this case for my liking. Is there anything else?”

“No. But it’s not over yet, is it, sir?”

“No, Susan, I don’t think it is. Thanks for telling me. We’ll follow up on it first thing tomorrow. For now, we’d better get back to the party or Phil will think we don’t love him.”

Banks walked back to the bar and lit a cigarette. The music had changed; now it was the Swinging Blue Jeans doing “Hippy, Hippy Shake” and some of the younger members of the department were dancing.

Banks thought about Tom Rothwell and his father. Susan had been sharp to pick up on that. It didn’t make sense, given Rothwell’s other interests, that he should be so genuinely upset that his son didn’t want to be an accountant or a lawyer. On the other hand, perhaps nothing was more of an anathema, an insult, to a confirmed heterosexual philanderer than a gay son.

“Penny for them?” Sandra said.

“What? Oh, nothing. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“It’s over, Alan. Leave it be. It’s another feather in your cap. You can’t solve the whole world’s problems.”

“It feels more like a lead weight than a feather. I think I’ll have another drink.” He turned and ordered another pint. Sandra had a gin and tonic. “You’re right, of course,” he said, standing the drink on the bar. “We’ve done the best we can.”

“You’ve done all you can. It’s being pipped at the post by Dirty Dick that really gets your goat, isn’t it?” Sandra taunted. “You two have got some kind of macho personal vendetta going, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I won’t say it’s a good feeling, knowing the bastard’s got his way.”

“You did what you could, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you still think Burgess has won this time, and it pisses you off, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. Yes. Yes, it bloody well does. Sandra, the man had someone shot .”

“A cold-blooded murderer. Besides, you don’t know that.”

“You mean I can’t prove it. And we’re not here to play vigilantes. If Burgess had Jameson shot, you can be damn sure it wasn’t just an eye for an eye. He was making certain he didn’t talk.”

“ Men ,” said Sandra, turning to her drink with a long-suffering sigh. Gristhorpe, who had been listening from the other side, laughed and nudged Banks in the ribs. “Better listen to her,” he said. “I can understand how you feel, but there’s no more you can do, and there’s no point making some kind of competition out of it.”

“I know that. It’s not that. It’s… oh, maybe Sandra’s right and it is macho stuff. I don’t know.”

At that moment, Sergeant Rowe, who had been manning the front desk across the street, pushed through the crowd of drinkers and said to Banks, “Phone call, sir. He says it’s important. Must talk to you in person.”