Final Account (15 page)

Banks regarded her closely. He didn't think she was lying or evading the issue; she simply didn't understand what he was getting at. He sometimes expected everyone to view the world with the same suspicious mind and jaundiced eye as he did. Besides, she didn't know about the letter Rothwell had left in the locked file.

He sat on the edge of the desk. “Right, Betty, let's go back a bit. When I came in, you were frightened. Why?”

She paused for a moment, then said, “I thought you might be one of them again.”

“One of whom?”

“On Saturday morning I was here doing some filing and two men came in and started asking questions about Mr Clegg. They weren't very nice.”

“Is that what you were thinking of when I asked you earlier if anything odd had been going on?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me then?”

“It … I … I didn't connect it. You've got me all confused.”

“All right, Betty, take it easy. Did they hurt you?”

“Of course not. Or I certainly
would
have called the police. You see, sometimes in this business you get people who are … well, less than polite. They get upset about money and sometimes they don't care who they take it out on.”

“And these men were just rude?”

“Yes. Well, just a bit brusque, really. Nothing unusual. I mean, I'm only a secretary, right? I'm not important. They can afford to be short with me.”

“So what bothered you? Why does it stick in your mind? Why were you frightened? Did they threaten you?”

“Not in so many words. But I got the impression that they were testing me to see what I knew. I think they realized early on that I didn't know anything. If they'd thought differently, I'm sure they would have hurt me. Don't ask me how I know. I could just feel it. There was something about them, some sort of coldness in their eyes, as if they'd done terrible things, or witnessed terrible things.” She shivered. “I don't know. I can't explain. They were the kind of people you look away from when they make eye contact.”

“What did they want to know about?”

“Where Mr Clegg was.”

“That's all?”

“Yes. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said they had important business with him. I'd never seen them before, and I'm sure I'd know if they were new clients.”

“Did they leave their names?”

“No.”

“What did they look like?”

“Just ordinary businessmen, really. One was black and the other white. They both wore dark suits, white shirts, ties. I can't remember what colours.”

“What about their height?”

“Both about the same. Around six foot, I'd say. But the white one was burly. You know, he had thick shoulders and a round chest, like a wrestler or something. He had very fair hair, but he was going bald on top. He tried to disguise it by growing the hair at the side longer and combing it right over, but I just think that looks silly, don't you? The black man was thin and fit looking. More like a runner than a wrestler. He did most of the talking.”

Banks got her to describe them in as much detail as she could and took notes. They certainly didn't match Alison Rothwell's description of the two men in black who had tied her up and killed her father. “What about their accents?” he asked.

“Not local. The black one sounded a bit cultured, well educated, and the other didn't speak much. I think he had a slight foreign accent, though I couldn't swear to it and I can't tell you where from.”

“You've done fine, Betty.” “I have?”

Banks nodded.

“There's something else,” she said. “When I came in this morning, I got the impression that someone had been in the place since then. Again, I can't say why, and I certainly couldn't prove it, but in this job you develop a feel for the way things should be— you know, files, documents, that sort of thing—and you can just tell if something's out of place without knowing what it really is, if you follow my drift.”

“Were there any signs of forced entry?”

“No. Nothing obvious, nothing like that. Not that it would be difficult to get in here. It's hardly the Tower of London. I locked myself out once when Mr Clegg was away on business and I just slipped my Visa card in the door and opened it.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oops. I don't suppose I should be telling you that, should I?”

Banks smiled. “It's all right, Betty. I've had to get into my car with a coat-hanger more than once. Was anything missing?”

“Not so far as I can tell. It's pretty secure inside. There's a good, strong safe and it doesn't look as if anyone tried to tamper with it.”

“Could it have been Mr Clegg?”

“I suppose so. He sometimes comes in on a Sunday if there's something important in progress.” Then she shook her head. “But no. If it had been Mr Clegg I'd have known. Things would have looked different. They looked the same, but not quite the same, if you know what I mean.”

“As if someone had messed things up and tried to restore them to the way they were originally?”

“Yes.”

“Do you employ a cleaning lady?”

“Yes, but she comes Thursday evenings. It can't have been her.”

“Did she arrive as usual last Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“May I have a look in the office?”

Betty got up, took a key from her drawer and opened Clegg's door for him. He stood on the threshold and saw a small office with shelves of law books, box files and filing cabinets. Clegg also had a computer and stacks of disks on a desk at right angles to the one on which he did his other paperwork. The window, closed and locked, Banks noticed, looked out over the central square with its neatly cut grass, shady trees and people sitting on benches. The office was hot and stuffy.

Certainly nothing
looked
out of the ordinary. Banks was careful not to disturb anything. Soon, the Fraud Squad would be here to pore over the books and look for whatever the link was between Rothwell and Clegg.

“Better keep it locked,” he told Betty on his way out. “There'll be more police here this afternoon, most likely. May I use the phone?”

Betty nodded.

Banks phoned Ken Blackstone at Millgarth and told him briefly what the situation was. Ken said he'd send a car over right away. Next he phoned Superintendent Gristhorpe in Eastvale and reported his findings. Gristhorpe said he'd get in touch with the Fraud Squad and see if they could co-ordinate with West Yorkshire.

He turned back to Betty. “You'll be all right here,” he said. “I'll wait until the locals arrive. They'll need you to answer more questions. Just tell them everything you told me. What's your address, in case I need to get in touch?”

She gave him the address of her flat in Burmantofts. “What do you think has happened?” she asked, reaching for her tissue again.

Banks shook his head.

“You don't think anything's happened to him, do you?”

“It's probably nothing,” Banks said, without conviction. “Don't worry, we'll get to the bottom of it.”

“It's just that Melissa will be so upset.”

“Who's Melissa?”

“Oh, didn't you know? It's Mrs Clegg. His wife.”

II

After a hurried bowl of vegetable soup in the Golden Grill, Susan Gay walked out into the street, with its familiar smells and noises: petrol fumes, of course; car horns; fresh coffee; bread from the bakery; a busker playing a flute by the church doors.

In the cobbled market square, she noticed an impromptu evan-gelist set up his soapbox and start rabbiting on about judgment and sin. It made her feel vaguely guilty just hearing him, and as she went into the station, she contemplated asking one of the uniforms to go out and move him on. There must be a law against it somewhere on the books. Disturbing the peace of an overworked DC?

Charity prevailed, and she went up to her office. It faced the car park out back, so she wouldn't have to listen to him there.

First, she took out the blue file cards she liked to make notes on and pinned them to the cork-board over her desk. It was the same board, she remembered, that Sergeant Hatchley had used for his pin-ups of page-three girls with vacuous smiles and enormous breasts. Now Hatchley was due back any moment. What a thought.

Then, after she had made another appointment to talk to Laurence Pratt, she luxuriated in the empty office, stretching like a cat, feeling as if she were in a deep, warm bubble-bath. Out of the window she could see the maintenance men with their shirtsleeves rolled up washing the patrol cars in the large car park. Sun glinted on their rings and watch-straps and on the shiny chrome they polished; it spread rainbows of oily sheen on the bright windscreens.

One of the men, in particular, caught her eye: well-muscled, but not overbearingly so, with a lock of blond hair that slipped over his eye and bounced as he rubbed the bonnet in long, slow strokes. The telephone broke into her fantasy. She picked it up. “Hello. Eastvale CID. Can I help you?”

“To whom am I speaking?”

“Detective Constable Susan Gay.”

“Is the superintendent there?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“And Chief Inspector Banks?”

“Out of the office. Can I help you? What's this about?”

“I suppose you'll have to do. My name is Mary Rothwell. I've just had a call from my son, Tom.”

“You have? Where is he?”

“He's still in Florida. A hotel in Lido Key, wherever that is. Apparently the British newspapers are a couple of days late over there, and he's just read about his father's murder. It's only eight in the morning there. He can't get a flight back until this evening. Anyway, he said he should get into Manchester at about seven o'clock tomorrow morning. I'm going to meet him at the airport and bring him home.”

“That's good news, Mrs Rothwell,” Susan said. “You do know we'd like to talk to him?”

“Yes. Though I can't imagine why. You'll pass the message on to the Chief Inspector, will you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And by the way, I've made funeral arrangements for Wednesday. That
is
still all right, isn't it?”

“Of course.”

“Very well.”

“Is there anything else, Mrs Rothwell?”

“No.”

“Goodbye, then. We'll be in touch.”

Susan hung up and stared into space for a moment, thinking what an odd woman Mary Rothwell was. Imperious, highly strung and businesslike. Probably a real Tartar to live with. But was she a murderess?

Though it would take the Fraud Squad a long time to work out exactly how much Rothwell was worth—and to separate the legal from the illegal money—it was bound to be a fortune. Money worth killing for. The problem was, though Susan could imagine Mary Rothwell being cold-blooded enough to have her husband killed, she could not imagine her having it done in such a bloody, dramatic way.

The image of the kneeling, headless corpse came back to her and she tasted the vegetable soup rise in her throat. No, she thought, if the wife were responsible, Rothwell would have been disposed of in a neat, sanitary way—poison, perhaps—and he certainly wouldn't have made such a mess on the garage floor. What was the phrase?
You don't shit on your own doorstep
. It was too close to home for Mary; it would probably taint Arkbeck Farm for her forever.

Still, there was a lot of money involved. Susan had seen Rothwell's solicitor that morning, and, according to him, Rothwell
had owned, or part-owned, about fifteen businesses, from a shipping company registered in the Bahamas to a dry cleaner's in Wigan, not to mention various properties dotted around England, Spain, Portugal and France. Of course, the solicitor assured her, they were all legitimate. She suspected, however, that some had served as fronts for Rothwell's illegal activities.

As Susan was wondering if Robert Calvert's money would now simply get lumped in with Keith Rothwell's, she became aware of a large shadow cast over her desk by a figure in the doorway.

She looked up, startled, right into the smiling face of Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley. So soon? she thought, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Now she knew there really was no God.

“Hello, love,” said Hatchley, lighting a cigarette. “I see you've taken my pin-ups down. We'll have to do something about that now I'm back to stay.”

III

At one-thirty, the hot, smoky pub was still packed with local clerks and shopkeepers on their lunch break. When Banks had phoned Pamela Jeffreys before leaving for Leeds that morning, she had suggested they meet in the pub across from the hall in West Leeds, where she was rehearsing with a string quartet. There was no beer garden, she said, but the curry of the day was usually excellent. Though he had to admit to feeling excitement at the thought of seeing Pamela again, this wasn't a meeting Banks was looking forward to.

She hadn't arrived yet, so Banks got himself a pint of shandy at the bar—just the thing for a hot day—and managed to grab a small table in the corner by the dartboard, fortunately not in use. There, he mulled over Daniel Clegg's disappearance and the mysterious goons Betty Moorhead had seen.

There was no end of trouble a lawyer could get himself into, Banks speculated. Especially if he were a bit crooked to start with. So maybe there was no connection between Clegg's disappearance and Rothwell's murder. But there were too many coincidences—the letter, the timing, the shady accounts—and Banks didn't like coincidences. Which meant that there were two sets of goons on the loose: the ones who killed Rothwell, and the ones who scared Clegg's secretary. But did they work for the same person?

He was saved from bashing his head against a brick wall any longer by the arrival of Pamela Jeffreys, looking gorgeous in black leggings and a long white T-shirt with the Opera North logo on front. She had her hair tied back and wore black-rimmed glasses. As she sat down, she smiled at him. “The professional musician's look,” she said. “Keeps my hair out of my eyes so I can read the music.”