Final Account (23 page)

Oh my God, thought Susan, with that sinking feeling.
A porn hunt
. What have I let myself in for?

III

By the looks of it, the heat had drawn one or two refugees from the Magistrates Court over to the Park Square. Two skinheads, stripped to the waist, dozed on the grass under a tree. One, lying on his back, had tattoos up and down his arms and scars criss-crossing his abdomen, old knife wounds by the look of them; the other, on his stomach, boasted a giant butterfly tattoo between his shoulder-blades.

In Clegg's offices, Betty Moorhead was still holding the fort and fighting off her cold.

“Oh, Mr Banks,” she said when he entered the anteroom. “It's nice to see a friendly face. There's been nothing but police coming and going since you were last here, and nobody will tell me anything.”

Had she forgotten he was a policeman, too? he wondered. Or was it just that he had been the first to arrive and she had somehow latched onto him as a lifeline?

“Some men in suits took most of his papers,” she went on, “and there's been others asking questions all day. They've got someone keeping an eye on the building as well, in case those two men come back. Then there was that man from Scotland Yard. I don't know what's what. They all had identification cards, of course, but I don't know whether I'm coming or going.”

Banks smiled. “Don't worry, Betty,” he said. “I know it sounds complicated, but we're all working together.”

She nodded and pulled a tissue from the box in front of her and blew her nose; it looked red raw from rubbing. “Is there any news of Mr Clegg?” she asked.

“Nothing yet. We're still looking.”

“Did you talk to Melissa?”

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

Banks didn't really know what to say. He wasn't used to giving out information, just digging it up, but Betty Moorhead was obviously concerned. “She didn't seem unduly worried,” he said. “She's sure he'll turn up.”

Betty's expression brightened. “Well, then,” she said. “There you are.”

“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions?”

“Oh, no. I'd be happy to be of help.”

“Good.” Banks perched at the edge of her desk and looked around the room. “Sitting here,” he said, “you'd see everyone who called on Mr Clegg, wouldn't you? Everyone who came in and out of his office.”

“Yes.”

“And if people phoned, you'd speak to them first?”

“Well, yes. But I did tell you Mr Clegg has a private line.”

“Did he receive many calls on it?”

“I can't say, really. I heard it ring once in a while, but I was usually too busy to pay attention. I'm certain he didn't give the number out to just anyone.”

“So you didn't unintentionally overhear any of the conversations?”

“I know what you're getting at,” she said, “and you can stop right there. I'm not that sort of a secretary.”

“What sort?”

“The sort that listens in on her boss's conversations. Besides,” she added with a smile, “the walls are too thick. These are old houses, solidly built. You can't hear what's being said in Mr Clegg's office with the door shut.”

“Even if two people are having a conversation in there?”

“Even then.”

“Or arguing?”

“Not that it happened often, but you can only hear the raised voices, not what they're saying.”

“Did you ever hear Mr Clegg arguing with Mr Rothwell?”

“I don't remember. I don't think so. I mean if they ever
did,
it would certainly have been a rarity. Normally they were all cordial and businesslike.”

“Mr Clegg specializes in tax law, doesn't he?”

“Yes.”

“How many clients does he have?”

“That's very hard to say. I mean, there are regular clients, and then people you just do a bit of work for now and then.”

“Roughly? Fifty? A hundred?”

“Closer to a hundred, I'd say.”

“Any new ones?”

“He's been too busy to take on much new work this year.”

“So there's been no new clients in, say, the past three months?”

“Not really, no. He's done a bit of extra work for friends of friends here and there, but nothing major.”

“What I'm getting at,” Banks said, leaning forward, “is whether there's been anyone new visiting him often or phoning in the past two or three months.”

“Not visiting, no. There's been a few funny phone calls, though.”

“What do you mean, funny?”

“Well, abrupt. I mean, I know I told you people are sometimes rude and brusque, but usually they at least tell you what they want. Since you were here last, I've been thinking, trying to remember, you know, if there was anything odd. My head's so stuffed up I can hardly think straight, but I remembered the phone calls. I told the other policeman, too. “

“That's okay. Tell me. What did this brusque caller say?”

“I don't know if it was the same person each time, and it only happened two or three times. It was about a month ago.”

“Over what time period?”

“What? Oh, just a couple of days.”

“What did he say? I assume it was a
he
?”

“Yes. He'd just say, ‘Clegg?' And if I said Mr Clegg was out or busy, he'd hang up.”

“I see what you mean. What kind of voice did he have?”

“I couldn't say. That's all I ever heard him say. It just sounded ordinary, but clipped, impatient, in a hurry.”

“And this happened two or three times over a couple of days?”

“Yes.”

“You never heard the voice again?”

“I never had that sort of call again, if that's what you mean.”

“Nobody visited the office who sounded like the man?”

She sneezed, then blew her nose. “No. But I told you I don't think I would recognize it.”

“It wasn't anything like one of the men who came around asking questions?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. I'm sorry.”

“That's all right.”

“What's going on?”

“We don't know,” Banks lied. He was testing Gristhorpe's theory about Clegg's involvement in Rothwell's murder, but he didn't want Betty Moorhead to realize he suspected her boss of such a crime. Certainly the odd phone calls
could
have been from someone giving him orders, or from the people he hired to do the job. The timing was about right. “Do you think Mr Clegg might have given this caller his private number?”

She nodded. “That's what must have happened. The first two times, Mr Clegg was out or with a client. The third time, I put the caller through, and he never called me again.”

“And you're sure you never put a face to the voice?”

“No.”

Banks stood up and walked around the small room. Well-tended potted plants stood on the shelf by the small window at the back that looked out onto narrow Park Cross Street. Clegg had obviously been careful where Betty Moorhead was concerned. If he had been mixed up with hired killers and Caribbean dictators, he had been careful to keep them at arm's length. He turned back to Betty. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Mr Clegg?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“How would you describe him as a person?”

“Well, I wouldn't know.”

“You never socialized?”

She blushed. “Certainly not.”

“Had he been depressed lately?”

“No.”

“Did Mr Clegg have many women calling on him?”

“Not as far as I know. What are you suggesting?”

“Did you ever see or hear mention of a woman called Pamela Jeffreys? An Asian woman.”

She looked puzzled. “No. She wasn't a client.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“I wouldn't know. He kept his private life private.”

Banks decided to give up. Melissa Clegg might know a bit more about her husband's conquests, or Ken Blackstone's men would question his colleagues and perhaps come up with something. It was after five and he was tired of running around in circles. Betty Moorhead clearly didn't know anything else, or if she did she didn't realize its importance. Getting at information like that was like target practice in the dark.

Why not just accept Gristhorpe's theory that Clegg had arranged for Rothwell to be killed, and that they hadn't a hope in hell of finding either Clegg or the killers? And what could they do to Martin Churchill, if indeed he was behind it all? Banks didn't like the feeling of impotence this case was beginning to engender.

On the walk back to his hotel, Banks picked up a half-bottle of Bell's. It would be cheaper than using the minibar in his room. As he threaded his way among the office workers leaving the British Telecom Building for their bus-stops on Wellington Street, Banks wished he could just go home and forget about the whole Clegg-Rothwell-Calvert mess.

After leaving Blackstone at the car park, he had phoned Pamela Jeffreys at home, half-hoping she might be free for a drink that evening, but he had only got her answering machine. She was probably playing with the orchestra or something. He had left a message anyway, telling her which hotel he was staying at, and now he was feeling guilty. He remembered Blackstone's warning about hotels.

On the surface, he wanted to apologize for their misunderstanding yesterday, but if truth be told, he had let himself get a bit too carried away with his fantasies. Would he do anything if he had the chance? If she agreed to come back to his hotel room for a nightcap, would he try to seduce her? Would he make love to her if she were willing? He didn't know.

He remembered his attraction to Jenny Fuller, a professor of psychology who occasionally helped with cases, and wondered what his life would be like now if he had given in to his desires then. Would he have told Sandra? Would they still be together? Would he and Jenny still be friends? No answer came.

Rather glumly, he recalled the bit at the beginning of the Trollope biography he was reading, where Trollope considers the dreary sermons persuading people to turn their backs on worldly pleasure in the hope of heaven to come and asks, if such is really the case, then “Why are women so lovely?” That set him thinking again about Pamela's shapely, golden body, her bright personality and her passion for music. Well, at least he had a curry with Ken Blackstone to look forward to, and time for a shower and a rest before that. He thought he might even check out the hotel's Health and Leisure Club, maybe have a swim, take a sauna or a whirlpool.

There were no messages. Banks went straight up to his room, took off his shoes and flopped on the bed. He phoned Sandra, who wasn't in, then called the Eastvale station again and spoke to Susan Gay. Nothing new, except that she sounded depressed.

After a brisk shower, much better than the tepid dribble at home, he poured himself a small Scotch and put the television on
while he dried off and dressed. He caught the end of the international news and heard that the St Corona riots had been put down swiftly and brutally by Martin Churchill's forces. And Burgess wanted to give the man a retirement villa in Cornwall?

After that, he was only half paying attention to the local news, but at one point, he saw a house he recognized and heard the reporter say, “… when she failed to report for rehearsals today. Police are still at the scene and so far have refused to comment …”

It was Pamela Jeffreys's house, and outside it stood two patrol cars and an ambulance. Stunned, Banks sat on the side of the bed and tossed back his Scotch, then he got his jacket out of the cupboard and left the room so fast he forgot to turn off the television.

TEN

I

It was hard to imagine that anything terrible could happen on such a fine spring evening, but the activity around the little terrace house in Armley indicated that evil made no allowances for the weather.

Three police cars were parked at angles in front of the house. Beyond the line of white tape, reporters badgered the PCs on guard duty, one of whom jotted down Banks's name and rank before he let him through. Neighbours stood on their doorsteps or by privet hedges and gazed in silence, arms folded, faces grim, and the people working their allotments stopped to watch the spectacle. A small crowd also stood gawping from the steps of the Sikh Temple down the street.

Banks stood on the threshold of the living-room. Whatever had happened here, it had been extremely violent: the glass coffee-table had been smashed in two; the three-piece suite had been slashed and the stuffing ripped out; books lay torn all over the carpet, pages reduced to confetti; the glass front of the cocktail cabinet was shattered and the crystalware itself lay in bright shards; the music stand lay on the floor with the splintered pieces and broken bow of Pamela's viola beside it; even the print of Ganesh over the fireplace had been taken from its frame and torn up. Worst of all, though, was the broad dark stain on the cream carpet. Blood.

One of the officers cracked a racist joke about Ganesh and another laughed. The elephant god was supposed to be the god of good beginnings, Banks remembered. Upstairs, someone was whistling “Lara's Theme” from
Doctor Zhivago
.

“Who the hell are you?”

Banks turned to face the plainclothes man coming out of wreckage of the kitchen.

“Press?” he went on before Banks had time to answer. “You're not allowed in. You ought to bloody well know that. Bugger off.” He grabbed Banks's arm and steered him towards the door. “What does that fucking useless PC think he's up to, letting you in? I'll have his bloody balls for Christmas tree decorations.”

“Hang on.” Banks finally managed to get a word in and jerk his arm free of the man's grasp. He showed his card. The man relaxed.

“Oh. Sorry, sir,” he said. “Detective Sergeant Waltham. I wasn't to know.” Then he frowned. “What's North Yorkshire want with this one, if you don't mind my asking?”