Final Account (22 page)

Blackstone stood, slightly hunched, with his hands in his pockets, and kicked at small stones on the tarmac. You could see your face in his shoes.

“Do me a favour, Ken, and have another go at him. You said he was done for dealing?”

“Uh-huh. Small stuff. Mostly cannabis, a little coke.”

“It's probably just a coincidence that the car used belongs to a drug dealer, but pull his record and have another go at him all the same. Find out who his suppliers are. And see if he has any connections with St Corona. Friends, family, whatever. There might be a drug connection or a Caribbean connection in Rothwell's murder, and it's a remote possibility that Mr Hamilton might have done some work for the organization behind it, whoever they are.”

“You mean he might have
loaned
his car?”

“It's possible. I doubt it. I think we're dealing with cleverer crooks than that, but we'd look like the rear end of a pantomime horse if we didn't check it out.”

“Will do.”

“Have you questioned the neighbours?”

“We're doing a house-to-house. Nothing so far. Nobody sees anything on these estates.”

“So that's that?”

“Looks like it. For the moment, anyway.”

“No car-park attendant?”

“No.” Blackstone pointed to the rubble. “As you can see, it's just an old schoolyard with weeds growing through the tarmac. The school was knocked down months ago.”

Banks looked around. To the south-west he could see the large dome of the Town Hall and the built-up city centre; to the west stood the high white obelisk of the university's Brotherton Library, and the rest of the horizon seemed circled with blocks of flats and crooked terraces of back-to-backs poking through the surrounding rubble like charred vertebrae. “I could use a break on this, Ken,” Banks said.

“Aye. We'll give it our best. Hey up, the lads have come to pick up the car.”

Banks watched the police tow-team tie a line to the Escort. “I'd better be off,” he said. “You'll let me know?”

“Just a minute,” said Blackstone. “What are your plans?”

“I'm checking into the Holiday Inn. For tonight, at least. There's a couple of people I want to talk to again in connection with Clegg and Rothwell—Clegg's secretary and his ex-wife, for a start. I'd like to get a clearer idea of their relationship now we've got a bit more to go on.”

“Holiday Inn? Well, la-di-da. Isn't that a bit posh for a humble copper?”

Banks laughed. “I could do with a bit of luxury. Maybe they'll give me the sack when they see my expenses. These days we can't even afford to do half the forensic tests we need.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, if you're going to be sticking around, I'd appreciate it if we could have a chat. There seems to be a lot going on here I don't know about.”

“There's a lot I don't know about, too.”

“Still … I'd appreciate it if you would fill me in.”

“No problem.”

Blackstone hesitated and shifted from foot to foot. “Look,” he said, “I'd like to invite you over for a bit of home-cooking but Connie left a couple of months ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Banks. “I didn't know.”

“Yeah, well, it happens, right? Comes with the territory. Still taking care of that lovely wife of yours?”

“You wouldn't think so by the amount of time we've spent together lately.”

“I know what you mean. That was one of the problems. She said we were living such separate lives we might as well make it official. Anyway, I'm not much of a cook myself. Besides, Connie got the house and I'm in a rather small bachelor flat for the moment. But there's a decent Indian restaurant on Eastgate, near the station, if you fancy it? It's called the Shabab. About half past six, seven o'clock? We might have something on Hamilton and the car by then, too.”

“All right,” said Banks. “You're on. Make it seven o'clock.”

“And, Alan,” said Blackstone as Banks walked away, “you watch yourself. Hotels give married men strange ideas sometimes. I suppose it's the anonymity and the distance from home, if you know what I mean. Anyway, there's some seem to act as if the normal vows of marriage don't apply in hotels.”

Banks knew what Blackstone meant, and he felt guilty as an image of Pamela Jeffreys flashed unbidden through his mind.

II

Susan Gay heard Sergeant Hatchley burp before she had even opened the office door after more fruitless interviews with Rothwell's legitimate clients. She felt apprehension churn in her stomach like a badly digested meal. She could not work with Hatchley; she just couldn't.

Hatchley sat at his desk, smoking. The small, stifling room stank of stale beer and pickled onions. The warped window was open about as far as it would go, but that didn't help much. If this oppressive weather didn't end soon, Susan felt she would scream.

And, by God, he's repulsive, she thought. There was his sheer bulk, for a start—a rugby prop forward gone to fat. Then there was his face: brick-red complexion, white eyelashes and piggy eyes; straw hair, thinning a bit at the top; a smattering of freckles over a broad-bridged nose; fleshy lips; tobacco-stained teeth. To cap it all, he wore a shiny, wrinkled blue suit, and his red neck bulged over his tight shirt collar.

From the corner of her eye, Susan noticed the coloured picture on the cork-board: long blonde hair, exposed skin. Without even stopping to think, she walked over and pulled it down so hard the drawing-pin shot right across the room.

“Oy!” said Hatchley. “What the hell do you think you're playing at?”

“I'm not playing at anything,” Susan said, waving the picture at him. “With all respect, sir, I don't care if you are my senior officer, I won't bloody well have it!”

A hint of a smile came to Hatchley's eyes. “Calm down, lass,” he said. “You've got steam coming out of your ears. Maybe you're being a bit hasty?”

“No, I'm not. It's offensive. I don't see why I should have to work with this kind of thing stuck to the walls. You might think it's funny, but
I
don't.
Sir
.”

“Susan. Look at it.”

“No. Why—”

“Susan!”

Slowly, Susan turned the picture over and looked at it. There, in all her maternal innocence, Carol Hatchley, with her long blonde hair hanging over her shoulders, held her naked, newborn baby to her breast, which was covered well beyond the point of modesty by a flesh-tone T-shirt. Susan felt herself blush. All she had seen were the woman's face, hair and a lot of skin colour. “I … I thought …” She could think of nothing else to say.

“I know what you thought,” said Hatchley. “You thought my daughter's head was a tit. You
could
apologize.”

Susan felt such a fool she couldn't even bring herself to do that.

“All right,” Hatchley said, putting his feet up on the desk, “then you can listen to me. Now, nobody's ever going to convince me that looking at a nice pair of knockers is wrong. Since time immemorial, since our ancestors scratched images on cave walls, men have enjoyed looking at women's tits. They're beautiful things, nothing dirty or pornographic about them at all.”

“But they're private,” Susan blurted out. “Don't you understand? They're a woman's private parts. You don't see pictures of men's privates all over the place, do you? You wouldn't like people staring at yours, would you?”

“Susan, love, if I thought it would make you happy I'd drop my trousers right now. But that's not the point. What I'm saying is it's my opinion that there's nowt wrong in admiring a nice pair of bristols. A lot of people agree with me, too. But you don't like it.” He held up his large hand. “All right, now I might not be the most sensitive bloke in Christendom, and I certainly reserve my right to disagree with you, but I'm not that much of a monster that I'd use my rank to expose you to something you feel offends you day in, day out, however wrong-headed I think you are. I respect your opinion. I don't agree with you, and I never will, but I respect it. I can live without.

“And another thing. I know you're a bugger about smoking. I'll try and cut down on the cigarettes in the office, too. But don't expect miracles, and don't expect it's going to be all bloody give and no take on my part. You don't like my smoke. I don't like your
perfume. It makes my nose itch and it's probably rotting my lungs as we speak. But for better or for worse, lass, we've got to work together, and we've got to do it in the same damn little cubby-hole for the time being. Mebbe one day we'll have separate offices. Myself, I can hardly wait. But for now, let's just keep the window open and make a bit of an effort to get along, all right?”

Susan nodded. She felt all the wind go out of her sails. She swallowed. “All right. Sorry, sir.”

Hatchley swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his hands together. “We'll say no more, then. Now, about that wadding?”

“Yes, sir?”

Hatchley burped again and put his hamlike hand to his mouth. “Shaved pussies. Smooth and shiny as a baby's bottom.”

“Yes, sir.” Susan felt herself blush again and hated herself for it. Hatchley smiled at her. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Her spirits sank. She had thought for a moment that he might be getting serious about the case, but here he was simply creating another opportunity to embarrass her.

“Aye. Now, I know that's not a lot to go on, but at least we know it's not kiddie porn or the bum brigade. And we've got penetration and a clear image of ‘a penis in an excited state,' as it says in the book, so this is definitely under-the-counter stuff.”

“True, sir.”

“And as far as I can tell,” he went on, “there's no sign of dogs or cats, either.”

“Sir, can you get to the point?” Susan couldn't keep the impatience out of her voice.

“Hold your horses, lass.” He started to laugh. “Get that? No animals. Hold your horses? Never mind. The point is, shaved pussies aren't exactly ten a penny, though if we'd come up with something
really
kinky it would have made my job a lot easier. I mean, there aren't many people sell photos of Rottweilers bonking thirteen-year-old girls that we don't know about.”

“I still don't see what you're getting at, sir,” said Susan, a little calmer. She should have known that, if anyone was, Hatchley would be an expert on pornography. “Surely most of that stuff is sent through the mail from abroad, or from London?”

“Not all of it. There's a fair chance it was bought under the counter somewhere. When I did my stint on Vice with West Yorkshire a few years back, I made one or two useful contacts. Now, if we're assuming these lads were at all local, the odds are they're from the city, as there aren't that many killers-for-hire living in rural areas. Too exposed. That means Leeds, Bradford, Manchester, maybe Newcastle or Liverpool at a stretch. Now if the boss thinks this Clegg chap from Leeds was involved, then Leeds is as good a choice as any, agreed?”

Susan nodded. “Yes. The daughter, Alison, thought the man had a Leeds accent. She could be wrong about that, of course. Not everyone's accurate on voices. I don't reckon I could tell the difference. But it looks like they've found the car used for the job there. Anyway, as I've already told you, West Yorkshire's got some men asking around. Have had for days.”

“Well, you know how I hate sitting idle,” Hatchley said. “Guess where I've been this lunch-time.”

“The Queen's Arms, sir?”

Hatchley smiled. “Not far off. We'll make a detective of you yet, lass. I've been having drinks with an old informer of mine in The Oak, that's what.” He touched the side of his nose. “Lives in Eastvale now, but he used to live in Leeds. Gone straight. See, I thought I probably remembered a few purveyors of this kind of porn—if they're still around, that is—and it's odds on that some wet-behind-the-ears young pansy DC fresh from university doesn't even know they exist. There aren't as many as you think, you know, at least not selling shaved pussy porn. It
is
something of a specialist taste. Anyway, there's still plenty prefer the friendly old corner shop to the impersonal supermarket, if you get my drift. I'm not talking about sex shops—I imagine they've all been checked already—just regular newsagents that sell a bit of imported stuff from under the counter along with their
Woman's Weekly
s and gardening magazines. Harmless enough. Hardly any reason for our lads to be interested, really. So I asked my old friend.”

“And?”

“Yes. They're still in business, still selling the same kind of stuff to the same old customers. Some of them, anyway. A couple have
retired, some have moved on, and one's dead. Heart attack. Not business related. The point is, I knew these blokes were a bit bent, but I left them alone. In exchange, they'd pass on the odd tip if anyone came hawking really serious stuff, like kiddie porn or snuff films. Live and let live. Now, what I propose is that you and me go to Leeds and ask a few questions of our own.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow, of course. Don't worry, I'll arrange permission from the super and from West Yorkshire CID. Are you game?”

Susan was aware of her jaw dropping. He made sense, all right, and that was the problem. She was about to go on a porn hunt with Sergeant Hatchley, she could feel it in her bones. But it could pay off. If it led to the owner of the wadding, that would be feathers in both their caps. She swallowed.

“It's a hell of a long shot,” she said.

Hatchley shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. What do you say?”

Susan thought for a moment. “All right,” she said. “But
you've
got to convince Superintendent Gristhorpe.”

“Right, lass,” Hatchley beamed, rubbing his hands together. “You're on.”