Final Account (2 page)

When Banks arrived, they parted in silence to let him through. As he entered, he noticed one young PC leaning against the outside wall dribbling vomit on his size twelves. Inside, the scene looked like a film set.

Peter Darby, the police photographer, was busy videotaping, and the source of the light was attached to the top of his camera. It created an eerie chiaroscuro and sudden, sickening illuminations as it swept around the barn's interior. All he needed, Banks thought, was for someone to yell “Action!” and the place would suddenly be full of sound and motion.

But no amount of yelling would breathe life back into the grotesque shape on the floor, by which a whey-faced young police surgeon, Dr Burns, squatted with a black notebook in his hand.

At first, the position of the body reminded Banks of a parody of Moslem prayer: the kneeling man bent forward from the waist, arms stretched out in front, bum in the air, forehead touching the ground, perhaps facing Mecca. His fists were clenched in the dirt, and Banks noticed the glint of a gold cufflink, initialled “KAR,” as Darby's light flashed on it.

But there was no forehead to touch the ground. Above the charcoal suit jacket, the blood-soaked collar of the man's shirt protruded about an inch, and after that came nothing but a dark, coagulated mass of bone and tissue spread out on the dirt like an oil stain: a shotgun wound, by the look of it. Patches of blood, bone and brain matter stuck to the whitewashed stone walls in abstract-expressionist patterns. Darby's roving light caught what looked like a fragment of skull sprouting a tuft of fair hair beside a rusty hoe.

Banks felt the bile rise in his throat. He could still smell the gunpowder, reminiscent of a childhood bonfire night, mixed with the stink of urine and faeces and the rancid raw meat smell of sudden violent death.

“What time did the call come in?” he asked the PC beside him.

“One thirty-eight, sir. PC Carstairs from Relton was first on the scene. He's still puking up out front.”

Banks nodded. “Do we know who the victim was?”

“DC Gay checked his wallet, sir. Name's Keith Rothwell. That's the name of the bloke who lived here, all right.” He pointed over to the house. “Arkbeck Farm, it's called.”

“A farmer?”

“Nay, sir. Accountant. Some sort of businessman, anyroad.”

One of the constables found a light switch and turned on the bare bulb, which became a foundation for the brighter light of Darby's video camera. Most regions didn't use video because it was hard to get good enough quality, but Peter Darby was a hardware junkie, forever experimenting.

Banks turned his attention back to the scene. The place looked as if it had once been a large stone Yorkshire barn, with double doors and a hayloft, called a “field house” in those parts. Originally, it would have been used to keep the cows inside between
November and May, and to store fodder, but Rothwell seemed to have converted it into a garage.

To Banks's right, a silver-grey BMW, parked at a slight angle, took up about half the space. Beyond the car, against the far wall, a number of metal shelf units held all the tools and potions one would associate with car care: anti-freeze, wax polish, oily rags, screwdrivers, spanners. Rothwell had retained the rural look in the other half of the garage. He had even hung old farm implements on the whitewashed stone wall: a mucking rake, a hay knife, a draining scoop and a Tom spade, among others, all suitably rusted.

As he stood there, Banks tried to picture what might have happened. The victim had clearly been kneeling, perhaps praying or pleading for his life. It certainly didn't look as if he had tried to escape. Why had he submitted so easily? Not much choice, probably, Banks thought. You usually don't argue when someone is pointing a shotgun at you. But still … would a man simply kneel there, brace himself and wait for his executioner to pull the trigger?

Banks turned and left the barn. Outside, he met Detective Sergeant Philip Richmond and Detective Constable Susan Gay coming from around the back.

“Nothing there, sir, far as I can tell,” said Richmond, a large torch in his hand. Susan, beside him, looked pale in the glow from the barn entrance.

“All right?” Banks asked her.

“I'm okay now, sir. I was sick, though.”

Richmond looked the same as ever. His sang-froid was legendary around the place, so much so that Banks sometimes wondered if he had any feelings at all or whether he had come to resemble one of those computers he spent most of his time with.

“Anyone know what happened?” Banks asked.

“PC Carstairs had a quick word with the victim's wife when he first got here,” said Susan. “All she could tell him was that a couple of men were waiting when she got home and they took her husband outside and shot him.” She shrugged. “Then she became hysterical. I believe she's under sedation now, sir. I fished his wallet from his pocket, anyway,” she went on, holding up a plastic bag. “Says his name's—”

“Yes, I know,” said Banks. “Have we got an Exhibits Officer yet?”

“No, sir,” Susan answered, then both she and Phil Richmond looked away. Exhibits Officer was one of the least popular jobs in an investigation. It meant keeping track of every piece of possible evidence and preserving a record of continuity. It usually went to whoever was in the doghouse at the time.

“Get young Farnley on the job, then,” Banks said. PC Farnley hadn't offended anyone or cocked up a case, but he lacked imagination and had a general reputation around the station as a crashing golf bore.

Clearly relieved, Richmond and Susan wandered off towards the Scene-of-Crime team, who had just pulled into the farmyard in a large van. As they piled out in their white boiler suits, they looked like a team of government scientists sent to examine the alien landing-spot. Pretty soon, Banks thought, if they weren't all careful, there would be a giant spider or a huge gooey blob rolling around the Yorkshire Dales gobbling up everyone in sight.

The night was cool and still, the air moist, tinged with a hint of manure. Banks still felt half-asleep, despite the shock of what he had seen in the garage. Maybe he was dreaming. No. He thought of Sandra, warm at home in bed, and sighed.

Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe's arrival at about three-thirty brought him out of his reverie. Gristhorpe limped over from his car. He wore an old donkey-jacket over his shirt, and he clearly hadn't bothered to shave or comb his unruly thatch of grey hair.

“Bloody hell, Alan,” he said by way of greeting, “tha looks like Columbo.”

There's the pot calling the kettle black, Banks thought. Still, the super was right. He had thrown on an old raincoat over his shirt and trousers because he knew the night would be chilly.

After Banks had explained what he had found out so far, Gristhorpe took a quick look in the barn, questioned PC Carstairs, the first officer at the scene, then rejoined Banks, his usually ruddy, pock-marked face a little paler. “Let's go in the house, shall we, Alan?” he said. “I hear PC Weaver's brewing up. He should be able to give us some background.”

They walked across the dirt yard. Above them, the stars shone cold and bright like chips of ice on black velvet.

The farmhouse was cosy and warm inside, a welcome change from the cool night and the gruesome scene in the barn. It had been renovated according to the yuppie idea of the real rustic look, with exposed beams and rough stone walls in an open, split-level living-room, all earthy browns and greens. The remains of a log fire glowed in the stone hearth, and beside it stood a pair of antique andirons and a matching rack holding poker and tongs.

In front of the fire, Banks noticed two hard-backed chairs facing one another. One of them had fallen over, or had been pushed on its side. Beside both of them lay coils of rope. One of the chair seats looked wet.

Banks and Gristhorpe walked through into the ultra-modern kitchen, which looked like something from a colour supplement, where PC Weaver was pouring boiling water into a large red teapot.

“Nearly ready, sir,” he said when he saw the CID officers. “I'll just let it mash a couple of minutes.”

The kitchen walls were done in bright red and white patterned tiles, and every available inch of space had been used to wedge fitted microwave, oven, fridge, dishwasher, cupboards and the like. It also boasted a central island unit, complete with tall pine stools. Banks and Gristhorpe sat down.

“How's his wife?” Gristhorpe asked.

“There's a wife and daughter here, sir,” said Weaver. “The doctor's seen them. They're both unharmed, but they're suffering from shock. Hardly surprising when you consider they found the body. They're upstairs with WPC Smithies. Apparently there's also a son rambling around America somewhere.”

“Who was this Rothwell bloke?” Banks asked. “He must have had a bob or two. Anything missing?”

“We don't know yet, sir,” Weaver said. He looked around the bright kitchen. “But I see what you mean. He was some sort of financial whiz-kid, I think. These new-fangled kitchens don't come cheap, I can tell you. The wife's got in the habit of leaving the
Mail on Sunday
supplement open at some design or another. Her way of dropping hints, like, and about as subtle as a blow on the head with a hammer. The price of them makes me cringe. I tell her the one we've got is perfectly all right, but she—”

As he talked, Weaver began to pour the tea into the row of cups and mugs he had arranged. But after filling the second one, he stopped and stared at the door. Banks and Gristhorpe followed his gaze and saw a young girl standing there, her slight figure framed in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes and stretched.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you the detectives? I'd like to talk to you. My name's Alison Rothwell and someone just killed my father.”

II

She was about fifteen, Banks guessed, but she made no attempt to make herself look older, as many teenagers do. She wore a baggy, grey sweatshirt advertising an American football team, and a blue tracksuit bottom with a white stripe down each side. Apart from the bruiselike pouches under her light blue eyes, her complexion was pale. Her mousy blonde hair was parted in the centre and hung in uncombed strands over her shoulders. Her mouth, with its pale, thin lips, was too small for her oval face.

“Can I have some tea, please?” she asked. Banks noticed she had a slight lisp.

PC Weaver looked for direction. “Go ahead, lad,” Gristhorpe told him. “Give the lass some tea.” Then he turned to Alison Rothwell. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather be upstairs with your mum, love?”

Alison shook her head. “Mum'll be all right. She's asleep and there's a policewoman sitting by her. I can't sleep. It keeps going round in my mind, what happened. I want to tell you about it now. Can I?”

“Of course.” Gristhorpe asked PC Weaver to stay and take notes. He introduced Banks and himself, then pulled out a stool for her. Alison gave them a sad, shy smile and sat down, holding the mug of tea to her chest with both hands as if she needed its heat. Gristhorpe indicated subtly that Banks should do the questioning.

“Are you sure you feel up to this?” Banks asked her first.

Alison nodded. “I think so.”

“Would you like to tell us what happened, then?”

Alison took a deep breath. Her eyes focused on something Banks couldn't see.

“It was just after dark,” she began. “About ten o'clock, quarter past or thereabouts. I was reading. I thought I heard a sound out in the yard.”

“What kind of sound?” Banks asked.

“I … I don't know. Just as if someone was out there. A thud, like someone bumping into something or something falling on the ground.”

“Carry on.”

Alison hugged her cup even closer. “At first I didn't pay it any mind. I carried on reading, then I heard another sound, a sort of scraping, maybe ten minutes later.”

“Then what did you do?” Banks asked.

“I turned the yard light on and looked out of the window, but I couldn't see anything.”

“Did you have the television on, some music?”

“No. That's why I could hear the sounds outside so clearly. Usually it's so quiet and peaceful up here. All you can hear at night is the wind through the trees, and sometimes a lost sheep baa-ing, or a curlew up on the moors.”

“Weren't you scared being by yourself?”

“No. I like it. Even when I heard the noise I just thought it might be a stray dog or a sheep or something.”

“Where were your parents at this time?”

“They were out. It's their wedding anniversary. Their twenty-first. They went out to dinner in Eastvale.”

“You didn't want to go with them?”

“No. Well … I mean, it was
their
anniversary, wasn't it?” She turned up her nose. “Besides, I don't like fancy restaurants. And I don't like Italian food. Anyway, it's not as if it was
Home Alone
or something. I
am
nearly sixteen, you know. And it was my choice. I'd rather stay home and read. I don't mind being by myself.”

Perhaps, Banks guessed, they hadn't invited her. “Carry on,” he said. “After you turned the yard light on, what did you do?”

“When I couldn't see anything, I just sort of brushed it off. Then I heard another noise, like a stone or something, hitting the wall. I was fed up of being disturbed by then, so I decided to go out and see what it was.”

“You still weren't frightened?”

“A bit, maybe, by then. But not
really
scared. I still thought it was probably an animal or something like that, maybe a fox. We get them sometimes.”

“Then what happened?”

“I opened the front door, and as soon as I stepped out, someone grabbed me and dragged me back inside and tied me to the chair. Then they put a rag in my mouth and put tape over it. I couldn't swallow properly. It was all dry and it tasted of salt and oil.”