Dead Right (9 page)

“People listened, then? The same ones who were sickened by his racism?”

Wayne spread his hands. “What can I say? There’s nothing like an enthusiasm for sports to make a person seem more human. And we seem able to overlook an awful lot in our sports heroes, don’t we? I mean, look at Gazza. The bugger beats up his wife and he’s still a national hero.”

“What about enemies?”

Wayne raised his eyebrows. “Probably just about every immigrant in the country. At least the ones who knew what he was.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“What was he like as a person? How would you describe him?”

Wayne put a pencil against his lips and thought for a moment, then he said, “Jason was one of those people who can frighten you with their intensity. I mean, mostly he was withdrawn, quiet, in his own world. On first impression, he seemed rather shy, but when he did come out, whether to talk about a football game or comment on some political article in the paper, then he became very passionate, very fervent. He had charisma. You could imagine him speaking to groups, swaying their opinions.”

“A budding Hitler, then? Interesting.” Banks closed his notebook and stood up. He could think of nothing more to ask. “Thanks for your time,” he said, holding out his hand. “I might want to talk to you about this again.”

Wayne shook hands and nodded. “I’ll be here.”

And Banks walked through the busy office, back out into the bleak factory yard, the oil smell, the machinery noise, overflowing skips, the rainbowed puddles. Just as he got to the car, his mobile beeped.

IV

“No, Gavin, I can’t possibly go out for a drink with you tonight. We’re very busy.”

“The boy wonder got you working overtime, then?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

Susan heard Gavin chuckle over the line. “Who’s he got pegged for this one, then? Our local MP? Leader of the hunt?” He laughed again.

Susan felt herself flush. “That’s not very funny.” She hated it when Gavin made fun of Banks.

“How about Saturday? We can go—”

“Maybe,” Susan said. “Maybe Saturday. I’ll have to see. Got to go now, Gavin. Work to do.”

“Okay. See you Saturday.”

“I said
maybe
. Just a minute … What’s that?” Susan could hear sounds of shouting and scuffling, and they seemed to be coming from downstairs. “Got to go, Gavin,” she said. “I’ll ring you back.”

“Susan, what’s—”

Susan dropped the receiver on its cradle and walked to the top of the stairs. The scene below was utter chaos. Every Asian in Eastvale— all nine or ten of them—seemed to be pushing through the front doors: George Mahmood’s parents, Ibrahim Nazur, owner of the Himalaya, and a handful of students from Eastvale College. A number of uniformed officers were holding them back, but they wanted to see the detectives, and Susan was the only CID officer in the station.

“Would you
please
not all shout at once!” Susan yelled from halfway down the stairs.

“What are you going to do about our children?” asked an angry Charles Mahmood. “You can’t just lock them up for nothing. This is racism, pure and simple. We’re British citizens, you know.”

“Please believe me, Mr Mahmood,” said Susan, advancing down the stairs. “We’re only keeping them until we get—”

“No!” yelled Ibrahim Nazur. “It’s not fair. One law for whites and another law for us.”

That met a chorus of agreement and they surged forward again.

Suddenly, the front doors opened and a loud voice bellowed,
“What in God’s name is going on here?” It had enough authority to command silence. Then Susan saw over the crowd the shiny, bald head of Chief Constable Jeremiah “Jimmy” Riddle, and for the first time ever, she was grateful for the sight.

“Sergeant Rowe,” she heard Riddle say, “would you please order your officers to remove these people from the police station? Tell them if they’ll kindly wait outside we’ll have some news for them in just a few minutes.” Then Riddle made his way through the silent crowd, cutting a swath rather like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Behind him, Sergeant Rowe muttered, “Yes, sir,” and ordered three constables to usher the group out onto the street. They went without putting up a fight.

“That’s better,” said Riddle, approaching Susan. “It’s DC Gay, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s DCI Banks?”

“Leeds, sir. Pursuing enquiries.”

“‘Pursuing enquiries,’ is he? Shopping, more bloody like. That Classical Record Shop of his. Anyone else here?”

“No, sir. Just me.”

Riddle jerked his head. “Right, you. Upstairs.”

Susan turned and started walking up the stairs, feeling, she imagined, somewhat like a prisoner being sent down by the judge.

It could hardly be a worse time to piss off Jimmy Riddle.

Susan had passed the first parts of her sergeant’s exam, the written, almost a year ago. But police promotion is a long-drawn-out process. The last stage consisted of an appearance before the promotion board—presided over by an Assistant Chief Constable and a Chief Superintendent from Regional HQ.

That was six months ago now, but Susan still broke into a cold sweat every time she remembered the day of her board.

She had spent weeks reading up on policy, national guidelines and equal opportunities, but none of it prepared her for what lay behind the door. Of course, they kept her waiting in the corridor for about half an hour, just to make her extra nervous, then the Chief Superintendent came out, shook her hand and led her in. She could have sworn there was a smirk on his face.

First they asked her a few personal questions to get some idea of her overall bearing, confidence and articulateness. She thought she managed to answer clearly, without mumbling or stuttering, except when they asked what her parents thought of her choice of career. She was sure that she flushed, but rather than flounder around trying to explain, she simply paused to collect herself and said, “They didn’t approve, sir.”

Next came the scenarios. And her interviewers added complications, changed circumstances and generally did everything they could to confuse her or get her to change her mind.

“One of the men on your shift is regularly late in the morning,” the ACC began, “putting extra pressure on his mates. What do you do?”

“Have a private word with him, sir, ask him why he’s being late all the time.”

The ACC nodded. “His mother’s dying and she needs expensive care. He can’t afford it on a copper’s salary, so he’s playing in a jazz band until the wee hours to make a bit extra.”

“Then I’d tell him he needs permission to work outside the force and advise him to get help and support from our Welfare Department, sir.”

“He thanks you for your concern, but he keeps on playing with the band and turning up late.”

“Then I’d think some disciplinary action would be in order, sir.”

The ACC raised his eyebrows. “Really? But his mother is dying of cancer. He
needs
the extra income. Surely this is a reasonable way of earning it? After all, it’s not as if he’s taking bribes or engaging in other criminal acts.”

Susan stuck to her guns. “He’s causing problems for his fellow officers on the shift, sir, and he’s disobeying police regulations. I think disciplinary action is called for if all other avenues have been exhausted.”

And she passed. Now she was due to go up before the chief next week for her
official
promotion. And that “Chief,” of course, was Chief Constable Riddle.

Still, she reminded herself as she walked into the small office she shared with Sergeant Hatchley, there was nothing Riddle could do
now to block her promotion. She had already earned it, and the next step was purely a formality, a bit of pomp and circumstance. Unless, of course, she
really
screwed up. Then, she supposed, he could do whatever he wanted. He was, after all, the chief constable. And, if nothing else, he could certainly make her life uncomfortable.

The office seemed crowded with Riddle in it. The man’s restless, pent-up energy consumed space and burned up the oxygen like a blazing fire. Susan sat in her chair and Riddle perched on the edge of Hatchley’s desk. He was a tall man, and he seemed to tower over her.

“Who authorized the arrest?” he asked.

“They’re not exactly under arrest, sir,” Susan said. “Just detained for questioning.”

“Very well. Who authorized their detention?”

Susan paused, then said softly, “I think it was DCI Banks, sir.”

“Banks. I knew it.” Riddle got up and started to pace, until he found out there was not enough room to do so, then he sat down again, his pate a little redder. Banks always said you could tell how angry Riddle was by the shade of his bald head, and Susan found herself stifling a giggle as she thought she could see it glow. It was like one of those mood rings that were a fad when she was a child, only Riddle’s mood never softened to a peaceful green or calm, cool blue.

“On what evidence?” Riddle continued.

“There’d been some trouble earlier in the pub, sir. The Jubilee. It involved the Mahmood boy and the victim, Jason Fox. When DCI Banks questioned George Mahmood about it, he refused to co-operate. So did his friends. They asked for a lawyer.”

“And did they get one?”

“No, sir. Well, not until this morning. It was Sunday.”

“Any rough stuff?”

“No, sir.”

Riddle slid his hand across his head. “Well, let’s at least be thankful for small mercies. Have you any idea who Ibrahim Nazur
is
?”

“Owner of the Himalaya, sir.”

“More than that. He owns a whole bloody chain of restaurants, all over Yorkshire, and the Himalaya’s just the latest. He’s also a
highly respected member of the Muslim community and one of the prime movers in that new mosque project down Bradford way.”

“Ah,” said Susan.

“‘Ah,’ indeed. Anything from forensics?”

“Nothing conclusive, sir. Not yet.”

“Witnesses?”

“None, sir. Not so far. We’re still looking.”

Riddle stood up. “Right. I want the three of them out of here. Now. Do you understand?”

Susan stood too. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“And tell Banks I’ll be seeing him very soon.”

Susan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

And with that, Jimmy Riddle straightened his uniform and marched downstairs to face his public.

V

Late that afternoon, Banks walked up to the bar of The Black Bull in Lyndgarth and ordered a double Bell’s for Frank Hepplethwaite and a half of Theakston’s XB for himself.

According to Susan, who had phoned Banks earlier, Hepplethwaite was Jason Fox’s granddad, and he said he had some information about Jason. He insisted on talking to the “man in charge.” Banks had phoned Frank and, finding out that he didn’t own a car, agreed to meet him in The Black Bull.

Before setting off back for Swainsdale, though, Banks had called at the Leeds address Jason Fox’s parents had given him and found that Jason hadn’t lived there for at least eighteen months. The flat was now occupied by a student called Jackie Kitson, and she had never heard of Jason Fox. There, the trail ended.

The barman of The Black Bull was a skinny, hunched, crooked-shouldered fellow in a moth-eaten, ill-fitting pullover. His greasy black hair and beard obscured most of his face, except the eyes that stared out in a way reminiscent of photos of Charles Manson. He served the drinks without a word, then took down Banks’s order for one chicken-and-mushroom pie and one Old Peculier casserole.
The Black Bull was one of those rare exceptions to the no-food-after-two-o’clock rule that blights most pubs.

Banks took the drinks and joined Frank at a round table by the door. At the bar, one man started telling the barman how much more cosy it was now most of the tourists had gone. He had a whiny, southern accent, and actually lowered his voice when he said “tourists.” The barman, who clearly knew it was the tourist business that kept the place going, grunted “Aye” without looking up from the glass he was drying.

Two other bar-stool regulars working at a crossword puzzle seemed overjoyed to discover that “episcopal” was an anagram of “Pepsi-Cola.” To the left, down the far end where the billiard tables were, two American couples were stuffing coins into the fruit machine, shifting occasionally to the video trivia game opposite.

“You must know Mr Gristhorpe, young lad?” said Frank after thanking Banks for the drink.

Banks nodded. “He’s my boss.”

“Lives here in Lyndgarth, he does. Well, I suppose you know that. Can’t say I know him well, mind you. I’m a fair bit older, myself, and he’s been away a lot. Good family, though, the Gristhorpes. Got a good reputation around these parts, anyroad.” He nodded to himself and sipped his Bell’s.

Frank Hepplethwaite was a compact man with a thin, lined face, all the lines running vertically, and a fine head of grey hair. His skin was pale and his eyes a dull bottle-green. He looked as if he had once had quite a bit more flesh on his bones but had recently lost weight due to illness.

“Anyway,” he said, “thank you for coming all the way out here. I don’t get around so well these days.” He tapped his chest. “Angina.”

Banks nodded. “I’m sorry. No problem, Mr Hepplethwaite.”

“Call me Frank. Of course,” he went on, tapping his glass, “I shouldn’t be indulging in this.” He pulled a face. “But there’s limits to what a sick man will put up with.” He glanced at the table, where Banks had unconsciously rested his cigarettes and lighter. “Smoke if you like, lad. I like the smell of tobacco. And second-hand smoke be buggered.”

Banks smiled and lit up.

“Nice state of affairs, isn’t it,” said Hepplethwaite, “when a man has to indulge his vices by proxy.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. The words sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place them.

“Raymond Chandler,” said Hepplethwaite with a sly grin. “General Sternwood at the beginning of
The Big Sleep
. One of my favourite films. Bogey as Philip Marlowe. Must have seen it about twenty times. Know it by heart.”

So that was it. Banks had seen the film on television just a few months ago, but he had never read the book. Ah well, another one for the lengthening list. As a rule, he didn’t read detective fiction, apart from Sherlock Holmes, but he’d heard that Chandler was good. “I’m sorry about what happened to your grandson,” he said.