Dead Right (37 page)

“But why would he do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You had him against the ropes. I mean, fine, early blood evidence doesn’t necessarily mean a hell of a lot, but Wood
knew
he’d done it, and both he and Varney probably knew it was just a matter of time before we got results from DNA testing. And that they’d be positive. In the meantime, if Mark Wood admits to a lesser charge of manslaughter, denying that he’s ever even met Motcombe, then the heat’s off. It was just a fight that went wrong.

“And you can also bet that Varney will milk as much sympathy from the jury as he can from the fact that the fight started over Jason Fox making racist remarks about Mark Wood’s wife and child. All Motcombe has to promise is that Wood will get a short
sentence
and
that his family will be financially taken care of while he’s inside. That and a nice bonus when he gets out. I think it’s an offer I’d probably take if my balls were in the wringer like Wood’s are.”

“
If
he pays a penny.”

“Yes. I suppose he could renege. And arrange for an accident in jail. I’m assuming he’s not doing all this out of the kindness of his heart. He’s doing it because Wood has something on him. Like the truth about what happened.”

“What can we do about it, if you’re right?”

“
We
can’t do anything, Susan. Remember, you’re still on the job, but you’re off the case. I, on the other hand, can do whatever I want.”

“But—”

Banks held his hand up. “Susan, I appreciate what you’ve done so far, but I don’t want to risk getting you into trouble again. Even Superintendent Gristhorpe wouldn’t approve if he knew what I was up to.”

“He would if you told him, sir. I told you he had his doubts, too. But Jimmy Riddle just barged in and steamrollered everything.”

“I know. But the super’s not here. It’s better this way for the time being. Believe me.”

“What next, then?”

Banks looked at his watch. “Next, I think I’ll get right back to basics and pay George Mahmood another visit. There’s something missing from those statements. Some connection I’m missing, and it’s starting to irritate me. It might be worth eating a mouthful or two of humble pie to find out what it is.”

III

Banks walked down King Street towards the Mahmoods’ shop. As he passed School Lane, he could hear kids shouting on the rugby pitch and was almost tempted to go and watch. He had played rugby at school and when he first joined the Met. He’d been a pretty good winger, if he said so himself. Strong, slippery and fast.

Is this what private eyes feel like? he wondered as he cut down along Tulip Street, on the northern edge of the Leaview Estate. Walking the mean streets of Eastvale? He didn’t even have a licence to validate what he was doing. How did you go about getting a private-eye licence in Yorkshire? Did you even need a licence?

He did, however, still have his warrant card. Riddle hadn’t got the chance to ask for it, and Banks hadn’t managed the cliché of slapping it down on the table. He supposed it would be an offence to use it while under suspension, but that was the least of his worries.

The builders were busy at work in the fields around Gallows View, mixing concrete, climbing ladders with hods resting on their shoulders, or just idling around chatting and smoking cigarettes. Soon, the row of old cottages would be swallowed up. Banks wondered if they’d change the name of the street and the fields when the new estate was finished.
Gallows Estate
probably wouldn’t sit too well with the local council.

For Banks, approaching the Mahmoods’ shop felt like coming full circle. Not only had the Jason Fox case led him there, but his first case in Eastvale had involved the previous owner. And the way things looked, this might be his last case.

George stood behind the counter, wearing his white shirt with its Nehru collar, serving a young woman with a baby strapped to her breast. When he saw Banks, he scowled. His mother, Shazia, came over from the freezer area, where she’d been stamping prices on packages of frozen pizza.

Though she only came up to Banks’s shoulders, her eyes challenged him. “What do you want this time, Mr Banks? Haven’t you caused enough trouble around here?”

“As far as I know, I haven’t caused any trouble, Mrs Mahmood. Not intentionally, at any rate. I have a job to do.” A small lie, he realized.
Had
a job would be more like it. “I have a job to do, and it’s sometimes difficult. I’m sorry if it caused you any pain.”

“Oh, are you? Such as throwing my son in a cell overnight, worrying his poor parents to death?”

“Mrs Mahmood, George wasn’t
thrown
anywhere, and he exercised his right to make a telephone call. If he didn’t ring you—”

She waved her hand impatiently. “Oh, yes, he rang us, all right. But we still worried. A young boy being put in jail with all those criminals.”

“He was in a cell by himself. Look, I don’t know where you’ve got this from—”

“And only because of his colour. Don’t think we don’t know that’s why you pick on us.”

Banks took a deep breath. “Look, Mrs Mahmood, I’m getting sick of this. We took your son in because he and his friends had an altercation with the victim’s party on the night of the killing, because they live in pretty much the same area of town, because they refused to co-operate with us and because we found something suspicious on George’s trainer.”

“Suspicious? Animal blood?”

“We didn’t know that at the time. It
could
have been human blood.”

She shook her head. “My son would never hurt anyone.”

“I’m sorry, but my business isn’t always as trusting as it might be.”

“And what about the second time? Wasn’t that persecution?”

“My colleagues turned up a witness who said he
saw
George and his two friends beat up Jason Fox. What could they do?”

“But he was lying.”

“Yes. But again, we didn’t know that at the time.”

“So why have you come here pestering us all over again?”

“It’s all right, Mother,” George said, walking over. The woman with the baby seemed torn between leaving and staying to eavesdrop on the conversation. She took a long time putting her change back in her purse, then Banks gave her a sharp glance and she scurried out murmuring comforting sounds to the baby, who had started to cry.

“Can we go somewhere and talk, Mohammed?” Banks asked.

George nodded towards the stockroom in the back of the shop.

“I’m going to call a solicitor,” Mrs Mahmood said.

“No need to, Mum,” said George. “I can handle this.”

Banks followed him into the back. The stockroom was full of boxes and smelled of cumin and shoe polish. There were no windows, or if there were, they were covered by the stacks of
boxes. A bare bulb shone in the centre of the room. Banks fancied it looked rather like a film-maker’s idea of one of those interrogation rooms from the old days. He’d seen a film not too long ago in which two detectives had actually sat a woman in a chair with two bright desk lights pointed at her. He’d never tried that in interrogations himself; he wondered if it worked.

“What do you want?” George said. There wasn’t a trace of friendliness in his voice. Whatever friendship there had ever been, through Brian, was gone now.

“I need your help.”

George snorted and leaned against a stack of crates, arms crossed. “That’s a laugh. Why should I help you?”

“To find out who really killed Jason Fox.”

“Who cares? From what I’ve heard, the racist bastard deserved everything he got. Besides, I read in the paper that his mate confessed. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Will you just answer a few straightforward questions, please?”

He shrugged. “All right. No skin off my nose. But hurry up.”

“Cast your mind back to that Saturday night at The Jubilee. Why were you there?”

George frowned. “Why? To listen to the band. Why else? Kobir was up visiting from Bradford, like I said, so Asim and me thought he’d enjoy it.”

“I understand The Jubilee has a good reputation for music?”

“Yeah.”

“Girls?”

“Yeah, it’s a good place to meet girls.”

“And drugs?”

“If you’re interested in that sort of thing. I’m not.”

“People come from miles around.”

“So?”

“And it was really busy that night?”

“Yeah. Well, Scattered Dreams are really popular. They’re pretty new on the scene and they haven’t got to the expensive venues yet. But they’re already recording for an indie label. Pretty soon you’ll be paying through the nose to go see them at Wembley or somewhere.”

“Okay. Now, apart from that little contretemps you had with Jason, did you notice anything else about him and his pal?”

“Never paid any attention, really. Except that they seemed to be talking pretty intensely a lot of the time.”

“Arguing?”

“Not loudly, not so’s you’d notice. But they didn’t look too happy with one another.”

“Did they try to chat up any girls?”

“Not that I saw.”

“They weren’t listening to the music?”

“Not really. Some of the time. But they were sitting towards the back, closer to the bar. We were near the front, but the way the chairs were angled around the table, they were pretty much in my line of vision. When they weren’t talking, the other one, the one that killed him, would seem to be listening, but the one that got killed even put his fingers in his ears every now and then.”

“What kind of music was it?”

George shifted position and put his hands in his pockets. “Hard to describe, really. Sort of a mix between rap, reggae and acid rock. That’s about the best I can do.”

No wonder Jason had put his fingers in his ears, Banks thought. He obviously hadn’t known what kind of music to expect. But Mark Wood probably had.

“Did you see either of them talk to anyone else?”

George frowned. “No. I was far more interested in the music than in those two pillocks.” The shop bell pinged. “I’d better get back and help my mum. My dad’s down at the cash and carry.”

“Just a couple more questions. Please.”

“Okay. But hurry up.”

“What about those Jamaicans selling drugs you mentioned when I first talked to you?”

“What about them?”

“Was that true?”

“Yes, of course it was. I suppose I should admit I don’t know for certain they were from Jamaica, but they looked like Rastas, and one of them had dreadlocks.”

“And the drugs?”

“I saw a bit of money change hands now and then, then one of them would talk on his mobile. A while later he’d nip outside and bring back the Ecstasy or crack or hash or whatever from the person who was carrying it. They don’t carry it on them. That’s how they usually do it.”

“And you saw them doing that?”

“Sure. You think I should have reported it? You think the police don’t know what’s going on? You told me yourself The Jube has a reputation for drugs.”

“I’m sure the Drugs Squad are quite well aware of what’s going on. It doesn’t sound as if these lads are major dealers, though. Were they regulars?”

“I’d never seen them before.”

“Doing good business?”

“By the looks of it.” George sneered. “Some of the white kids think it’s cool to buy from spades.”

“Were they with anyone?”

“They were with the band as far as I could tell.”

A few connections started to form in Banks’s mind. This was the link that had been eluding him. “Were they actually playing with the band?”

George shrugged. “No, maybe roadies or something. Hangers-on.” The bell pinged again. “Look, I’d better get back. Really.”

“Right. Just one more thing. Did you see any contact at all between the Jamaicans and Jason, or Mark?”

“What? That would have been hardly likely, would it? I mean … wait a minute …”

“What?”

“Once, when I was going for a piss, I saw them pass one another in the corridor. Anyway, now I think of it, they sort of nodded at each other. Very quick, like, and expressionless. I thought it was a bit weird at the time, then I forgot about it.”

“Who nodded at whom?”

“The kid who confessed. He nodded at one of the Jamaicans. Like I said, I thought it was odd because he was with the bloke who called me a ‘Paki bastard’ and there he was, on nodding terms with a Rasta.”

“So this was
after
your little conflict with Jason Fox?”

“Yes.”

“That makes sense,” Banks muttered, mostly to himself. “You were very nicely set up.”

“Come again?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud.” Banks followed George back into the shop. “Thanks for your time, Mohammed.” He became aware of Shazia Mahmood glaring at him as he walked out onto the street.

For a moment, Banks just stood there on Gallows View as the chaotic thoughts settled into some sort of pattern, like iron filings when you hold a magnet under them. Motcombe’s drug deal with the Turk and Devon, using Mark Wood as a go-between. Mark Wood’s Jamaican wife, Mark’s connection with a reggae band and with drug dealing. Scattered Dreams. That signal between Wood and the drug dealer. Jason’s death warrant. There was a pattern all right, but now he had to come up with a way of
proving
it.

Banks set off towards King Street. A pneumatic drill from the building site broke the silence and sent a pack of scavenging sparrows spiralling off into the sky.

FOURTEEN

I

“Ken, you’re a mate,” said Banks, “so I want to let you know before you agree to anything that I’m under suspension.”

“Bloody hell!” Blackstone nearly spilled his drink. It was Thursday lunch-time, and they were in The City of Mabgate, near Millgarth, finishing bowls of chilli. “What’s it all about?” Blackstone asked when he’d recovered his equilibrium.

Banks told him.

Blackstone shook his head. “They can’t make it stick,” he said. “It sounds like a personal vendetta to me.”

“It is. But don’t underestimate personal vendettas, Ken. Especially when Chief Constable Jimmy Riddle’s the one carrying them out. And for the record, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else around here where I was over the weekend. It could mean real trouble for Craig McKeracher.”