Peter Robinson: Final Account

Of course, the lab had been as burdened with work as usual, and tests cost money. Then, when the fingerprints at Calvert’s flat matched the corpse’s, they didn’t think they needed to look any further. After all, they had the pasta meal, the appendix scar and the right blood group, and Mary Rothwell had identified the dead man’s clothing, watch and pocket contents.

A red flying insect settled on his bare arm. He brushed it off gently. When Rothwell came back with a Grölsch and a Pepsi, he was not moving with quite the same confidence and grace as he had before.

“I gave Jameson instructions to hold Alison until we got back,” he began, “but not to harm her in any way.”

“That’s considerate of you. He didn’t. What about his accomplice, Donald Pembroke?”

Rothwell shook his head. He held the Pepsi against his shorts. The tin was beaded with moisture and Banks watched the damp patch spread through the white cotton. “I never met him. That was Jameson’s business. He said he needed someone to help and I left it to him, getting guarantees of discretion, of course. I never even knew the man’s name, and that’s the truth. Pembroke, you say? What happened to him?”

Banks told him.

Rothwell sighed. “I suppose fate catches up with us all in the end, doesn’t it? What is it the eastern religions call it? Karma?”

“Back to the murder.”

Rothwell paused a moment, then went on. “They held Alison, then when Mary and I got home, they tied her up, too, and took me out to the garage. They had instructions to pick Clegg up after dinner. I knew he didn’t like to cook for himself and on Thursdays he always dropped by a trattoria near the office for a quick pasta before going home. That’s why I chose that day. I knew Mary and I would be going out for the annual anniversary dinner, and I arranged for us to eat at Mario’s. You see, I thought of everything. Even the stomach contents would match.

“They’d already knocked Clegg out and secured him earlier. I even made sure to tell Jameson to use loose handcuffs to avoid rope burns on Clegg’s wrists. We got him into my clothes as quickly as possible. He was starting to come round. He was on his hands and knees, I remember, shaking his head as if he was groggy, just waking up, then Jameson put the shotgun to the back of his head. I… I turned away. There was a terrible explosion and a smell. Then we went through the woods and they drove me to Leeds. I drove Clegg’s Jaguar to Heathrow, wearing gloves, of course. Then I left the country as David Norcliffe. I already had a passport and bank accounts set up in that name. I joined Julia here. It was all pre-arranged. It had to be so elaborate because I was supposed to be murdered. I’d read about a similar murder in the papers a while back and it seemed one worth imitating.”

“Well, you know what the poet said. ‘The best laid plans… ’”

“But you can’t prove anything,” said Rothwell.

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course we can. We can prove that you’re alive and Daniel Clegg was murdered in your garage.”

“But you can’t prove I was there. It’s only your word against mine. I could say they were taking me out to kill both of us. I managed to get away and I ran and hid here. They killed Daniel, but I escaped.”

“They killed him in your clothes?” Banks shook his head slowly. “It won’t wash, Keith.”

“But it’s all circumstantial. Jameson and Pembroke are both dead. A good lawyer could get me off, and you know it.”

“You’re dreaming. Say you do beat the murder conspiracy charge, which I think is unlikely, there’s still the money-laundering and the rest.”

Rothwell looked around the room, mouth set firmly. “I’m not going back,” he said. “You can’t make me. I know there are European extradition treaties. Procedures to follow. They take time. You can’t just take me in like some bounty hunter.”

“Of course I can’t,” said Banks. “That was never my intention.” He heard the gate open and walked over to the window.

A pale, beautiful woman in a yellow sun-dress, red-blonde hair piled and knotted high on her head, had walked into the courtyard and paused to check on the flowers and potted plants. She carried a basket of fresh bread and other foodstuffs in the crook of her arm. She put out her free hand and bent to hold a purple blossom gently between her fingers for a moment, then inspected the herbs. The sun brought out the blonde highlights in her hair. “It looks like Julia’s back,” Banks said. “Doesn’t tan well, does she?”

Rothwell jumped up and looked out. “Julia knows nothing,” he said quickly, speaking quietly so she couldn’t hear him. “You have to believe that. I told her I had business problems, that I had to burn a lot of bridges if we were to be together, that we’d be well set up for life but we couldn’t go back. Ever. She agreed. I don’t know if you can understand this or not, but I love her , Banks, more than anyone or anything I’ve ever loved in my life. I mean it. It’s the first time I’ve ever… I already told you. I love her. She knows nothing. You can do what you want with me, but leave her alone.”

Banks kept quiet.

“You’ll never be able to prove anything,” Rothwell added.

“Maybe I don’t even want to take that risk,” said Banks. By now they could both see Julia and hear her humming softly as she rubbed the leaves on a pot of basil and sniffed her fingers. “Maybe I’d rather you made a clean breast of it,” he went on, keeping his voice low. “A confession. It might even go in your favor, you never know. Especially the love bit. Juries love lovers.”

Julia stood up. Some of her piled tresses had come loose and trailed over her cheeks. She was flushed from the walk and some of the hairs stuck to her face, dampened with sweat.

“You must be mad if you think I’d give all this up willingly,” Rothwell said.

“You can’t buy paradise with blood, Keith,” said Banks. “Come on home. Tell us everything about Martin Churchill’s finances, everything you know about the bastard. Let’s go public, make plenty of noise, sing louder than a male-voice choir. We can make sure he never sets foot in the country even if he turns up looking like Mr. Bean. We could offer you protection, then perhaps another identity, another new life. You’d do some time, of course, but I’m willing to bet that by the time you got out, Martin Churchill would be just another of history’s unpleasant footnotes, and Julia would be still waiting.”

“You’re insane, do you know that? I’d kill you before I’d do what you’re suggesting.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Keith. Besides, there’d be others after me.”

Rothwell paused on his way to the door and stared at Banks, eyes wide open and wild, no longer calm and steady. “Do you know what will happen if I go home?”

“It might not be half as bad as what will happen if I let Churchill know you’re still alive,” said Banks. “They say he has a long reach and a nasty line in revenge.” Julia had almost reached the door. “It wouldn’t stop at you,” Banks said.

Rothwell froze. “You wouldn’t. No. Not even you would do a thing like that.”

At that moment, Banks hated himself probably more than at any other time in his life. He felt sorry for Rothwell, and he found himself on the verge of relenting.

Then he remembered Mary Rothwell, living in a haze of tranquillizers; Alison, burying her head deep in her books and fast losing touch with the real world; and Tom, flailing around in his own private mire of guilt and confusion. Rothwell could have helped these people. Then he thought of Pamela Jeffreys, just out of hospital, physically okay, but still afraid of every knock at her door and unsure whether she would get back the confidence to play her viola again.