Final Account (24 page)

He was in his early thirties, perhaps a few pounds overweight, about three inches taller than Banks, with curly ginger hair. He had a prominent chin, a ruddy complexion and curious catlike green eyes. He wore a dark brown suit, white shirt and plain green tie. Behind him stood a scruffy-looking youth in a leather jacket. Probably his DC, Banks guessed.

“First things first,” said Banks. “What happened to the woman who lives here?”

“Pamela Jeffreys. Know her?”

“What happened to her? Is she still alive?”

“Oh, aye, sir. Just. Someone worked her over a treat. Broken ribs, broken nose, broken fingers. Multiple lacerations, contusions. In fact, multiple just about everything. And it looks as if she broke her leg when she fell. She was in a coma when we found her. First officer on the scene thought she was dead.”

Banks felt a wave of fear and anger surge through his stomach, bringing the bile to his throat. “When did it happen?” he asked.

“We're not sure, sir. There's a clock upstairs was smashed at twenty past nine, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. A bit too Agatha Christie, if you ask me. Doc thinks last night, but we're still interviewing the neighbours.”

“So you think she lay there for nearly twenty-four hours?”

“Could be, sir. The doctor said she'd have bled to death if she hadn't been a good clotter.”

Banks swallowed. “Raped?”

Waltham shook his head. “Doc says no signs of sexual assault. When we found her she was fully clothed, no signs of interference. Some consolation, eh?”

“Who found her?”

“One of her musician friends got worried when she didn't show up for rehearsals this morning. Some sort of string quartet or something. Apparently she'd been a bit upset lately. He said she was usually reliable and had never missed a day before. He phoned the house several times during the day and only got her answering machine. After work he drove by and knocked. Still no answer. Then he had a butcher's through the window. After that, he phoned the local police. He's in the clear.”

Banks said nothing. DS Waltham leaned against the bannister. The scruffy DC squeezed by them and went upstairs. In the front room, someone laughed out loud again.

Waltham coughed behind his hand. “Er, look, sir, is there something we should know? There'll have to be questions, of course, but we can be as discreet as anyone if we have to be. What with you showing up here and …”

“And what, Sergeant?”

“Well, I recognize your voice from her answering machine. It
was
you, wasn't it?”

Banks sighed. “Yes, yes it was. But no, there's nothing you need to be discreet about. There is probably a lot you should know. Shit.” He looked at his watch. Almost seven. “Look, Sergeant, I'd clean forgot I'm supposed to be meeting DI Blackstone for dinner.”

“
Our
DI Blackstone, sir?”

“Yes. Know him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think you can get one of the PCs to page him or track him down. It's the Shabab on Eastgate.”

Waltham smiled. “I know it. Very popular with the lads at Millgarth. I'll see to it, sir.”

He went to the door and spoke to one of the uniformed constables, then came back. “He's on his way. Look, sir, PC O'Brien there just told me there's an old geezer across the street thinks he might have seen something. Want to come over?”

“Yes. Very much.” Banks followed him down the path and through the small crowd. One or two reporters shouted for comments, but Waltham just waved them aside. PC O'Brien stood by the low, dark stone wall that ran by the allotments, talking to a painfully thin old man wearing a grubby, collarless shirt. Behind them, other allotment workers stood in a semi-circle, watching, some of them leaning on shovels or rakes. Very Yorkshire Gothic, Banks thought.

“Mr Judd, sir,” O'Brien said, introducing Waltham, who, in turn, introduced Banks. “He was working his allotment last night just before dark.” Waltham nodded and O'Brien walked off. “Keep those bloody reporters at bay, will you, please, O'Brien?” Waltham called after him.

Banks sat on the wall and took out his cigarettes. He offered them around. Waltham declined, but Mr Judd accepted one. “Might as well, lad,” he croaked, tapping his chest. “Too late to worry about my health now.”

He did look ill, Banks thought. Sallow flesh hung off the bones of his face above his scrawny neck with its turkey-flaps and puckered skin, like a surgery scar, around his Adam's apple. The whites of his eyes had a yellow cast, but the dark blue pupils glinted with intelligence. Mr Judd, Banks decided, was a man whose observations he could trust. He sat by and let Waltham do the questioning.

“What time were you out here?” Waltham asked.

“From seven o'clock till about half past nine,” said Judd. “This time of year I always come out of an evening after tea for a bit of peace, weather permitting. The wife likes to watch telly, but I've no patience with it, myself. Nowt but daft buggers acting like daft buggers.” He took a deep draw on the cigarette. Banks noticed him flinch with pain.

“Were you the only one working here?” Waltham asked.

“Aye. T'others had all gone home by then.”

“Can you tell us what you saw?”

“Aye, well it must have been close to knocking-off time. It were getting dark, I remember that. And this car pulled up outside Miss Jeffreys's house. Dark and shiny, it were. Black.”

“Do you know what make?”

“No, sorry, lad. I wouldn't know a Mini from an Aston Martin these days, to tell you the truth, especially since we've been getting all these foreign cars. It weren't a big one, though.”

Waltham smiled. “Okay. Go on.”

“Well, two men gets out and walks up the path.”

“What did they look like?”

“Hard to say, really. They were both wearing suits. And one of them was a darkie, but that's nowt to write home about these days, is it?”

“One of the men was black?”

“Aye.”

“What happened next?”

Judd went through a minor coughing fit and spat a ball of red-green phlegm on the earth beside him. “I packed up and went home. The wife needs a bit of help getting up the apples and pears to bed these days. She can't walk as well as she used to.”

“Did you see Miss Jeffreys open the door and let the men in?”

“I can't say I was watching that closely. One minute they were on the doorstep, next they were gone. But the car was still there.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No. Too far away.” He shrugged. “I thought nothing of it. Insurance men, most like. That's what they looked like. Or maybe those religious folks, Jehovah's Witnesses.”

“So you didn't see them leave?”

“No. I'd gone home by then.”

“Where do you live?”

Judd pointed across the street. “Over there. Number fourteen.” It was five houses down from Pamela Jeffreys's. “Been there forty years or more, now. A right dump it was when we first moved in. Damp walls, no indoor toilets, no bathroom. Had it done up over the years, though, bit by bit.”

Waltham paused and looked at Banks, who indicated he would like to ask one or two questions. Waltham, Banks noted, had been a patient interviewer, not pushy, rude and condescending towards the old, like some. Maybe it was because he had a DCI watching over his shoulder. And maybe that was being uncharitable.

“Did you know Miss Jeffreys at all?” Banks asked.

Judd shook his head. “Can't say as I did.”

“But you knew her to say hello to?”

“Oh, aye. She was a right nice lass, if you ask me. And a bonny one, too.” He winked. “Always said hello if she passed me in the street. Always carrying that violin case. I used to ask her if she were in t'mafia and had a machine-gun in it, just joking, like.”

“But you never stopped and chatted?”

“Not apart from that and the odd comment about the weather. What would an old codger like me have to say to a young lass like her? Besides, people round here tend to keep themselves to themselves these days.” He coughed and spat again. “It didn't used to be that way, tha knows. When Eunice and I first came here there used to be a community. We'd have bloody great big bonfires out in the street on Guy Fawkes night—it were still just cobbles, then, none of this tarmac—and everyone came out. Eunice would make parkin and treacle-toffee. We'd wrap taties in foil and put 'em in t'fire to bake. But it's all changed. People died, moved away. See that there Sikh Temple?” He pointed down the street. “It used to be a Congregationalist Chapel. Everyone went there on a Sunday morning. They had Monday whist drives, too, and a youth club, Boys' Brigade and Girl Guides for the young uns. Pantos at Christmas.

“Oh, aye, it's all changed. People coming and going. We've got indoor toilets now, but nobody talks to anyone. Not that I've owt against Pakis, like. As I said, she was a nice lass. I saw them taking her out on that stretcher an hour or so back.” He shook his head slowly. “Nowadays you keep your door locked tight. Will she be all right?”

“We don't know,” Banks said. “We're keeping our fingers crossed. Did she have many visitors?”

“I didn't keep a look out. I suppose you mean boyfriends?”

“Anyone. Male or female.”

“I never saw any women call, not by themselves. Her mum and dad came now and then. At least, I assumed it was her mum and dad. And there was one bloke used to visit quite regularly a few months back. Used to park outside our house sometimes. And don't ask me what kind of car he drove. I can't even remember the colour. But he stopped coming. Hasn't been anyone since, not that I've noticed.”

“What did this man look like?”

“Ordinary really. Fair hair, glasses, a bit taller than thee.”

Keith Rothwell—or Robert Calvert, Banks thought. “Anyone else?”

Judd shook his head then smiled. “Only you and that young woman, t'other day.”

Banks felt Waltham turn and stare at him. If Judd had seen Banks and Susan visit Pamela Jeffreys on Saturday, then he obviously didn't miss much—morning, afternoon or evening. Banks thanked him.

“We'll get someone to take a statement soon, Mr Judd,” said Waltham.

“All right, son,” said the old man, turning back to his allotment. “I won't be going anywhere except my final resting place, and that'll be a few months off, God willing. I only wish I could have been more help.”

“You did fine,” said Banks.

“What the bloody hell was all that about, sir?” Waltham asked as they walked away. “You didn't tell me you'd been here before.”

Banks noticed Ken Blackstone getting out of a dark blue Peugeot opposite the Sikh Temple. “Didn't have time,” he said to Waltham, moving away. “Later, Sergeant. I'll explain it all later.”

II

Banks and Blackstone sat in an Indian restaurant near Woodhouse Moor, a short drive across the Aire valley from Pamela Jeffreys's house, drinking lager and nibbling at pakoras and onion bhaji as they waited for their main courses. Being close to the university, the place was full of students. The aroma was tantalizing—cumin, coriander, cloves, cinnamon, mingled with other spices Banks couldn't put a name to. “Not exactly the Shabab,” Blackstone had said, “but not bad.” A Yorkshire compliment.

In the brief time they had been there, Banks had explained as succinctly as he could what the hell was going on—at least to the extent that he understood it himself.

“So why do you think they beat up the girl?” Blackstone asked.

“They must have thought she knew where Daniel Clegg was, or that she was hiding something for him. They ripped her place up pretty thoroughly.”

“And you think they're working for Martin Churchill?”

“Burgess thinks so. It's possible.”

“Do you think it was the same two who visited Clegg's secretary and his ex-wife?”

“Yes. I'm certain of it.”

“But they didn't beat up either of them, or search their places. Why not?”

“I don't know. Maybe they were getting desperate by the time they got to Pamela. Let's face it, they'd found out nothing so far. They must have been frustrated. They felt they'd done enough pussyfooting around and it was time for business. Either that or they phoned their boss and he told them to push harder. They also probably thought she was lying or holding out on them for some reason, maybe something in her manner. I don't know. Perhaps they're just racists.”

Banks shook his head, feeling a sudden ache and rage. He couldn't seem to banish the image of Pamela Jeffreys at the hands of her torturers: her terror, her agony, the smashed viola. And would her broken fingers ever heal enough for her to play again? But he didn't know Blackstone well enough to talk openly about his feelings. “They'd been polite but pushy earlier,” he said. “Maybe they just ran out of patience.”

The main course arrived: a plate of steaming chapatis, chicken bhuna and goat vindaloo, along with a selection of chutneys and raita. They shared out the dishes and started to eat, using the chapatis to shovel mouthfuls of food and mop up the sauce. Blackstone ordered a couple more lagers and a jug of ice water.

“There is another explanation,” Blackstone said between mouthfuls.

“What?”

“That she
did
know something. That she was involved in the double-cross, or whatever it was. From the quick look I got at her house, I'd agree there's no doubt they were looking for something. DS Waltham suggested the same thing.”

“Don't think I haven't considered it,” Banks said, carefully piling a heap of the hot vindaloo on a scrap of chapati. “But I'm sure she didn't even know Clegg.”

“That's only what she told you, remember.”

“Nobody else contradicted her, Ken. Not Melissa Clegg, not the secretary, not even Mr Judd.”