Dead Right (40 page)

“Who came up with the plan?”

“That was down to me. You know the rest. Motcombe wanted it done out of the way. I mean, he knew you’d find out who the victim was eventually, and what organization he belonged to, but he needed time to get his files out of Jason’s house. He sent two of his blokes to do that. Anyway, Scattered Dreams were playing in Eastvale and Jason had mentioned possible trouble with some Pakistani kids who went there. Told me he’d already chucked a brick through one of their windows. It couldn’t have been better.”

“What about the actual killing? How did it happen?”

Wood swallowed. “Frankie and Wes were waiting at the other end of the ginnel, as we’d arranged, and when I hit Jason with the bottle they came forward and started booting him. I kicked him a couple of times, to make it look like I was with them all the way. But only a couple of times. And not very hard. He—” Wood
stopped for a moment and put his head in his hands. “Christ, he
begged
us to stop. I just thought about Connor and the damp walls and the yobs that taunt Sheri, call her a black bitch and threaten to gang-bang her every time she goes to the shops. I didn’t think about Jason lying there till it was too late. You have to believe me, I didn’t mean to kill him. It was Wes and Frankie. They’re fucking maniacs. They’d been out in the van smoking crack.”

“All right, Mark,” said Banks. “Calm down. Tell me, what happened when we first arrested you? Why did you change your story?”

Mark shifted in his chair. “Well, the evidence. It was getting pretty strong against me. I was up shit creek. So when Varney took me aside, I phoned Motcombe and basically explained the situation.”

“What did he say?”

“To tell you it was just a fight between the two of us, to leave him out of it, and he’d see I got the best legal help available. He’d also take care of Sheri and Connor financially while I was inside, if it came to that. What a laugh, Motcombe taking care of a black woman and a mixed-race kid.”

“But he didn’t know that.”

“No. And I didn’t tell him.”

“Have you had any contact with him since your arrest?”

Mark shook his head.

“What about Devon?”

“No. I phoned my fucking bastard of a brother-in-law, though, Wes.”

“What did you talk to him about?”

“I told him who Mr H was, where he lived. Just in case something went wrong and Motcombe didn’t keep up his end of the bargain. You know, like maybe when he
did
find out Sheri’s black and all, then he wouldn’t help them. I needed some sort of insurance.”

“Okay, Mark, I need to know just one more thing before we start taking fresh statements and making this all official.”

“Yes?”

“Will you testify that Neville Motcombe instigated this conspiracy to murder Jason Fox?”

Wood’s lips curled. “Motcombe? Bloody right I will. No way that bastard’s going to get away with it.”

“And Devon?”

Mark looked away. “I don’t know. That’s different. I’d need some sort—”

“We’ll see you and your family are protected, Mark, like I told you earlier.”

“I’ll think about it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Banks smiled. “I think that just about wraps it up for now. Thanks, Mark, you’ve been a great help.”

“What happens to me now?”

“You make your official statement, then you go back to Armley. Eventually, there’ll be committal proceedings and a trial, but we’ll cross those bridges when we get to them. In the meantime, we’ll make sure your family is protected.” Banks looked at his watch. Just after three-thirty. Then he turned to Ken Blackstone. “For the moment, though, I think it’s about time we paid Mr Motcombe another visit.”

IV

Leaving one of Blackstone’s most trusted DCs to take Mark Wood’s official statement, Banks and Blackstone set off in the Cavalier for Motcombe’s house. Most of the journey, they talked about getting enough evidence together for the CPS to take on Motcombe.

“I’m still not sure about this,” Banks said, driving along through Pudsey. “I can’t help feeling I’m jumping the gun. How bloody long’s Motcombe likely to get for conspiracy to commit murder? That’s assuming we can prove it. Giles Varney will whittle it down to conspiracy to assault, if he’s got any brains. We might be better off leaving him to the Drugs Squad. He’d get longer for dealing heroin. And I promised Craig McKeracher I’d wait till I had something really solid before I moved in.”

Ken Blackstone shook his head. “At this point, I don’t think we have much choice. We’ve got evidence we have to act on. Mark Wood has actually
named
Motcombe as one of the blokes who
requested Jason Fox’s murder. Now Wood’s blurted it all out, we
have
to go ahead. I don’t think he’ll get such a light sentence. Plus this way we also get Wes and Frankie in the bargain, and maybe even Devon, too. That’d be a real bonus.”

“Maybe so,” said Banks. “I hope you’re right.”

“Besides,” Blackstone added, “I’d say we’re best getting Motcombe off the streets as soon as possible. And none of what we’re doing blows Craig McKeracher’s cover. What we’ve got all came from Mark Wood.”

Banks turned down the hill to Motcombe’s house and they got out of the car. The sky was clear and the countryside shone green and gold and silver. A chill wind from the valley whistled around their ears as they stood and knocked at the front door.

No answer.

“What’s that noise?” Blackstone asked.

Straining his ears, Banks could detect a faint whining above the sound of the wind. “Sounds like an electric drill or something. He must be down in the workshop. That’s why he can’t hear us.”

“Let’s try the back.”

They walked around to the back of the house, which over-looked the valley and parkland. The sound of the drill was louder now.

Banks hammered on the back door. Still nothing. Just on the off chance, he tried the doorknob. It opened.

“Mr Motcombe!” he called out as the two of them walked down the stairs to the workshop. “We’re coming in.” He began to feel a slight shiver of trepidation. It looked dark at the bottom, and they could be walking into a trap. Motcombe could have a Kalashnikov or an Uzi with him. He might be hiding away in a dark corner ready to start blasting away at them.

But still they advanced slowly towards where the sound was coming from. Then Banks noticed something odd. The high-pitched whine the drill was making hadn’t changed the entire time they’d been there. Surely if Motcombe were working on something and really couldn’t hear them, there would be variations in the pitch of the drill—when he stuck it into a piece of wood, for example. And if he were making so much noise when he worked,
he would hardly leave the back door unlocked so that anyone could walk in, would he? Banks felt the back of his neck tingle.

At last, they approached the workroom and pushed the door open slowly on the brightly lit room.

Motcombe was there all right.

His body hung at an awkward angle, naked to the waist, his polo-neck tunic hanging in shreds around his hips as if it had been ripped or cut off. His left wrist had been wedged in a vice, which had been tightened until the bones cracked and poked through the flesh. Blood caked the oiled metal. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with iron filings, shaved wood and linseed oil. And cordite. The room felt crowded, claustrophobic, even with only the two of them there. Three, if you counted the dead man.

The drill lay on the workbench. Banks didn’t want to touch it, but he wanted the sound to stop. He went over to the wall and pulled out the plug, using a handkerchief carefully, and hoping he wasn’t smudging any valuable prints. Old habits die hard. Somehow, he doubted that there would be any. People who do things like this don’t leave fingerprints.

The scene was a gruesome one. More so because of the unnaturally bright lights that Motcombe had rigged up so he could see clearly what he was working on. What Banks at first took to be bullet holes in Motcombe’s chest and stomach turned out, on further examination, to be spots where the drill had been inserted. When the bit stopped spinning, he could see it was clogged with blood and tissue.

Motcombe’s right arm was practically in shreds, striped with lacerations, patches of skin hanging off as if he’d been flayed. Someone had obviously shredded the flesh with a saw, cutting deep into the muscle and bone. Banks noticed the blood and chips of bone on the edge of a circular saw that lay on the floor beside the body.

The
coup de grâce
looked like two gunshot wounds to the head, one through the left eye and the other in the middle of the temple, both leaving large exit wounds.

“Well, Ken,” said Banks finally, backing away from the scene. “I can’t say I envy you sorting this little lot out.”

“Me neither,” said Blackstone, visibly pale. “Let’s get outside. I don’t think I can stand being in here much longer.”

They stood outside the back door overlooking the valley and the peaceful village of Tong in the distance. Three large crows circled high in the blue air. Banks lit a cigarette to take the taste and smell of the workshop out of his mouth. “Want to call it in?” he asked.

“Yes. Just give me a minute.”

“What do you think?”

Blackstone took a deep breath before answering. “You probably know as well as I do, Alan,” he said. “Either Wes Campbell or Frankie Robertson phoned Devon the minute they saw Mark Wood at Millgarth. That was, what, over four hours ago now. This pisses Devon off mightily, and he sends a couple of lads over right away to help him vent his rage. You don’t get far in Devon’s business unless you’re seen to act, and to act
fast
. He relies heavily on pure fear. Who knows, maybe he’s even made a down payment to Motcombe and wants his money back, too? So they either torture him to find out where the money is, or they do it for fun, just to teach him a lesson. Then they execute him. Bang, bang.”

Banks nodded. “Either that or they decided they didn’t like Mr H’s politics when Mark told them who he really was.”

“It’s Devon’s style, Alan,” Blackstone went on. “Two head shots with a .38, by the looks of it. Remember those murders I told you about in New York, Toronto, Chapeltown?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Same MO. Torture and two head shots. It still doesn’t help us prove anything. I don’t suppose anyone can tie Devon to the scene. He’ll have an alibi you can’t break, and there’ll never be any trace of a murder weapon.”

“We’ve still got Mark Wood to use against him.”

“If he doesn’t suddenly lose his memory the minute he hears about what happened to Motcombe. I probably would if I were him.”

“And don’t forget Campbell and Robertson. You’ve got them, too. They might not be quite as tough as they seem once you put the pressure on. Especially if they’re deprived of their narcotic
sustenance. And I’ll bet you’ve got records of any telephone calls they made from Millgarth.”

Blackstone nodded and looked around, then he sighed. “Well, we’d better set things in motion. Can I use your mobile?”

“Be my guest.”

They walked around to Banks’s car at the front of the house and Banks handed him the phone. Blackstone tapped in the numbers, gave the details and requested more police, a murder van and a SOCO team.

“I’ll tell you something,” he said when he’d finished. “Your chief constable isn’t going to like it, is he? Remember the song and dance he made in the paper about solving the murder, keeping race out of it?”

“Bugger Jimmy Riddle,” said Banks. “This isn’t a matter of race, it’s drugs and greed. Anyway, they’re West Yorkshire’s Jamaicans, not ours. And I wasn’t even here.”

“What do you think now?” Blackstone asked, handing Banks the phone. “Still want to come and work for West Yorkshire?”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette on the wall and put the butt in his pocket to avoid contaminating the scene. “I don’t know, Ken. I really don’t know. I might not have much choice, might I? Anyway, right now, I think I’d better make myself scarce before the troops arrive and all hell breaks loose. You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll catch a lift back to Millgarth from one of the patrol cars. Go. Go.”

Banks shook Blackstone’s hand. “Thanks, Ken. I’d be interested to hear you tell them why you’re here and how you got here, but I really can’t stay.”

“I’ll tell them I got the bus,” said Blackstone. “Now be a good lad, Alan, and bugger off back to Eastvale. I think I hear the sound of sirens.”

Banks got in his car. He couldn’t hear sirens, but the sound of Neville Motcombe’s electric drill still whined in his ears.

A mile or so down the road, the first patrol cars passed him, lights and sirens going. No hurry, Banks thought. No hurry at all. He lit another cigarette and switched on the tape player. Robert Louis Stevenson, sung by Bryn Terfel:

Now when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,

Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.

Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,

The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Banks looked at his watch. Just gone half past four. Hard to believe, but they had hardly been half an hour at Motcombe’s house. He still had plenty of time to go and pick up Tracy for the weekend, even with the rush-hour traffic. Plenty of time.

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