They followed the officer back to the brightly lit garage. Rothwell’s body had, mercifully, been taken to the morgue, where Dr Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, would get to work on it as soon as he could. Two men from the SOC team stood by the barn door. One was holding something with a pair of tweezers and the other was peering at it closely.
“What is it?” Banks asked.
“It’s wadding, sir. From the shotgun,” said the SOCO with the tweezers. “You see, sir, you can buy commercially made shotgun cartridges, but you can also reload the shells at home. Plenty of farmers and recreational shooters do it. Saves money.”
“Is that what this bloke did?” Banks asked.
“Looks like it, sir.”
“To save money? Typical Yorkshireman. Like a Scotsman stripped of his generosity.”
“Cheeky southern bastard,” said Gristhorpe, then turned to the SOCO. “Go on, lad.”
“Well, sir, I don’t know how much you know about shotguns, but they take cartridges, not bullets.”
Banks knew that much, at least, and he suspected that Gristhorpe, from Dales farming stock, knew a heck of a lot more. But they usually found it best to let the SOCOs show off a bit.
“We’re listening,” said Gristhorpe.
Emboldened by that, the officer went on. “A shotgun shell’s made up of a primer, a charge of gunpowder and the pellets, or shot. There’s no slug and there’s no rifling in the barrel, so you can’t get any characteristic markings to trace back to the weapon. Except from the shell, of course, which bears the imprint of the firing and loading mechanisms. But we don’t have a shell. What we do have is this.” He held up the wadding. “Commercial wadding is usually made of either paper or plastic, and you can sometimes trace the shell’s manufacturer through it. But this isn’t commercial.”
“What exactly is it?” asked Banks, reaching out.
The SOCO passed him the tweezers and said, “Don’t know for certain yet, but it looks like something from a colour magazine. And luckily, it’s not too badly burned inside, only charred around the edges. It’s tightly packed, but we’ll get it unfolded and straightened out when we get it to the lab, then maybe we’ll be able to tell you the name, date and page number.”
“Then all we’ll have to do is check the list of subscribers,” said Banks, “and it’ll lead us straight to our killer. Dream on.”
The SOCO laughed. “We’re not miracle workers, sir.”
“Has anyone got a magnifying glass?” Banks asked the assembly at large. “And I don’t want any bloody cracks about Sherlock Holmes.”
One of the SOCOs passed him a glass, the rectangular kind that came with the tiny-print, two-volume edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Banks held up the wadding and examined it through the glass.
What he saw was an irregularly shaped wad of crumpled paper, no more than about an inch across at its widest point. At first he couldn’t make out anything but the blackened edge of the wadded paper, but it certainly looked as if it were from some kind of magazine. He looked more closely, turning the wadding this way and that, holding it closer and farther, then finally the disembodied shapes coalesced into something recognizable. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, letting his arm fall slowly to his side.
“What is it, Alan?” Gristhorpe asked.
Banks handed him the glass. “You’d better have a look for yourself,” he said. “You won’t believe me.”
Banks stood back and watched Gristhorpe scrutinize the wadding, knowing that it would be only a matter of moments before he noticed, as Banks had done, part of a pink tongue licking a dribble of semen from the tip of an erect penis.
TWO
I
Traditional police wisdom has it that if a case doesn’t yield leads in the first twenty-four hours, then everyone is in for a long, tough haul. In practice, of course, the period doesn’t always turn out to be twenty-four hours; it can be twenty-three, nine, fourteen, or even forty-eight. That’s the problem: when do you scale down your efforts? The answer, Banks reminded himself as he dragged his weary bones into the “Boardroom” of Eastvale Divisional Police Headquarters at ten o’clock that morning, is that you don’t.
The Suzy Lamplugh case was a good example. It started as a missing-persons report. One lunch-time, a young woman left the estate agent’s office in Fulham, where she worked, and disappeared. Only after over a year’s intensive detective work, which resulted in more than six hundred sworn statements, thousands of interviews, 26,000 index cards and nobody knew how many man-hours, was the investigation wound down. Suzy Lamplugh was never found, either alive or dead.
By the time Banks arrived at the station, Superintendent Gristhorpe had appointed Phil Richmond Office Manager and asked him to set up the Murder Room, where all information regarding the Keith Rothwell case would be carefully indexed, cross-referenced and filed. At first, Gristhorpe thought it should be established in Fortford or Relton, close to the scene, but later decided that they had better facilities at the Eastvale station. It was only about seven miles from Fortford, anyway.
Richmond was also the only one among them who had training in the use of the HOLMES computer system—acronym for the Home Office Major Enquiry System, with a superfluous “L” for effect. HOLMES wasn’t without its problems, especially as not all the country’s police forces used the same computer languages. Still, if no developments occurred before long, Richmond’s skill might prove useful.
Gristhorpe had also given a brief press conference first thing in the morning. The sooner photographs of Keith Rothwell and descriptions of the killers, balaclavas and all, were sitting beside the public’s breakfast plates or flashing on their TV screens, the sooner information would start to come in. The news was too late for that morning’s papers, but it would make local radio and television, the Yorkshire Evening Post and tomorrow’s national dailies.
Of course, Gristhorpe had given hardly any details about the murder itself. At first, he had even resisted the idea of releasing Rothwell’s name. After all, there had been no formal identification, and they didn’t have his fingerprints on file for comparison. On the other hand, there was little doubt as to what had happened, and they were hardly going to drag Alison or her mother along to the mortuary to identify the remains.
Gristhorpe had also been in touch with the anti-terrorist squad at Scotland Yard. Yorkshire was far from a stranger to IRA action. People still remembered the M62 bomb in 1974, when a coach carrying British servicemen and their families was blown up, killing eleven and wounding fourteen. Many even claimed to have heard the explosion from as far away as Leeds and Bradford. More recently, two policemen had been shot by IRA members during a routine traffic check on the A1.
The anti-terrorist squad would be able to tell Gristhorpe whether Rothwell had any connections, however tenuous, that would make him a target. As an accountant, he could, for example, have been handling money for a terrorist group. In addition, forensic information and details of the modus operandi would be made known to the squad, who would see if the information matched anything on file.
While Gristhorpe handled the news media and Richmond set up the Murder Room, Banks and Susan Gay had conducted a breakfast-time house-to-house of Relton and Fortford—including a visit to the Rose and Crown and a generous breakfast from Ian Falkland— trying to find out a bit about Rothwell, and whether anyone had seen or heard anything unusual on the night of the murder.
Gristhorpe, Richmond and Susan Gay were already in the room when Banks arrived and poured himself a large black coffee. The conference room was nicknamed the “Boardroom” because of its well-polished, heavy oval table and ten stiff-backed chairs, not to mention the coarse-textured burgundy wallpaper, which gave the room a constant aura of semi-darkness, and the large oil painting (in ornate gilt frame) of one of Eastvale’s most successful nineteenth-century wool merchants, looking decidedly sober and stiff in his tight-fitting suit and starched collar.
“Right,” said Gristhorpe, “time to get up to d
ate. Alan?”
Banks slipped a few sheets of paper from his briefcase and rubbed his eyes. “Not much so far, I’m afraid. Rothwell was trained as an accountant. At least we’ve got that much confirmed. Some of the locals in Relton and Fortford knew him, but not well. Apparently, he was a quiet sort of bloke. Kept himself to himself.”
“Who did he work for?”
“Self-employed. We got this from Ian Falkland, landlord of the Rose and Crown in Fortford. He said Rothwell used to drop by now and then for a quick jar before dinner. Never had more than a couple of halves. Well-liked, quiet, decent sort of chap. Anyway, he used to work for Hatchard and Pratt, the Eastvale firm, until he started his own business. Falkland used him for the pub’s accounts. I gather Rothwell saved him a bob or two from the Inland Revenue.” Banks scratched the small scar by his right eye. “There’s a bit more to it than that, though,” he went on. “Falkland got the impression that Rothwell owned a few businesses as well, and that accountancy was becoming more of a sideline for him. We couldn’t get any more than that, but we’ll be having a close look at his office today.”
Gristhorpe nodded.
“And that’s about it,” Banks said. “The Rothwell family had been living at Arkbeck Farm for almost five years. They used to live in Eastvale.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going out to Arkbeck Farm again after this meeting. I’m hoping Mrs Rothwell will have recovered enough to tell us something about what happened.”
“Good. Any leads on the two men?”
“Not yet, but Susan spoke to someone who thinks he saw a car.”
Gristhorpe looked at Susan.
“That’s right, sir,” she said. “It was around sunset last night, before it got completely dark. A retired schoolteacher from Fortford was coming back home after visiting his daughter in Pateley Bridge. He said he liked to take the lonely roads over the moors.”
“Where did he see this car?”
“At the edge of the moors above Relton, sir. It was parked in a turn-off, just a dip by the side of the road. I think it used to be an old drover’s track, but it’s not used any more, and only the bit by the road is clear. The rest has been taken over by moorland. Anyway, sir, the thing is that the way the road curves in a wide semi-circle around the farm, this spot would only be about a quarter of a mile away on foot. Remember that copse opposite the farmhouse? Well, it’s the same one that straggles up the daleside as far as this turn-off. It would provide excellent cover if someone wanted to get to the farm without being seen, and Alison wouldn’t have heard the car approaching if it had been parked way up on the road.”
“Sounds promising,” said Gristhorpe. “Did the witness notice anything about the car?”
“Yes, sir. He said it looked like an old Escort. It was a light colour. For some reason he thought pale blue. And there was either rust or mud or grass around the lower chassis.”
“It’s hardly the bloody stretch-limousine you associate with hit men, is it?” Gristhorpe said.
“More of a Yorkshire version,” said Banks.
Gristhorpe laughed. “Aye. Better follow it up, then, Susan. Get a description of the car out. I don’t suppose your retired schoolteacher happened to see two men dressed in black carrying a shotgun, did he?”
Susan grinned. “No, sir.”
“Rothwell didn’t do any farming himself, did he?” Gristhorpe asked Banks.
“No. Only that vegetable patch we saw at the back. He rented out the rest of his land to neighbouring farmers. There’s a fellow I know farms up near Relton I want to talk to. Pat Clifford. He should know if there were any problems in that area.”
“Good,” said Gristhorpe. “As you know, a lot of locals don’t like newcomers buying up empty farms and not using them properly.”
Gristhorpe, Banks knew, had lived in the farmhouse above Lyndgarth all his life. Perhaps he had even been born there. He had sold off most of the land after his parents died and kept only enough for a small garden and for his chief off-duty indulgence, a dry-stone wall he worked on periodically, which went nowhere and fenced nothing in.
“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “there’s been some bad feeling. I can’t see a local farmer hiring a couple of killers—people like to take care of their own around these parts—but stranger things have happened. And remember: shotguns are common as cow-clap around farms. Anything on that wadding yet?”
Banks shook his head. “The lab’s still working on it. I’ve already asked West Yorkshire to make a few enquiries at the kind of places that sell that sort of magazine. I talked to Ken Blackstone at Millgarth in Leeds. He’s a DI there and an old mate.”
“Good,” said Gristhorpe, then turned to Richmond. “Phil, why don’t you go up to Arkbeck Farm with Alan and have a look at Rothwell’s computer before you get bogged down managing the office?”
“Yes, sir. Do you think we should have it brought in after I’ve had a quick look?”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Aye, good idea.” He scratched his pock-marked cheek. “Look, Phil, I know you’re supposed to be leaving us for the Yard at the end of the week, but—”
“It’s all right, sir,” Richmond said. “I understand. I’ll stick around as long as you need me.”
“Good lad. Susan, did you find anything interesting in the appointment book?”
Susan Gay shook her head. “Not yet, sir. He had a doctor’s appointment for yesterday morning with Dr Hunter. I called the office and it appears he kept it. Routine physical. No problems. I’m working my way through. He didn’t write much down—or maybe he kept it on computer—but there’s a few names to check out, mostly local businesses. I must say, though, sir, he didn’t exactly have a full appointment book. There are plenty of empty days.”
“Maybe he didn’t need the money. Maybe he could afford to pick and choose. Have a word with someone at his old firm, Hatchard and Pratt. They’re just on Market Street. They might be able to tell us something about his background.” Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Okay, we’ve all got plenty to do, better get to it.”
II
“I’m afraid my mother’s still in bed,” Alison told Banks at Arkbeck Farm. “I told her you were here …” She shrugged.
That was odd, Banks thought. Surely a mother would want to comfort her daughter and protect her from prying policemen? “Have you remembered anything else?” he asked.
Alison Rothwell looked worn out and worried to death. She wore her hair, unwashed and a little greasy, tied back, emphasizing her broad forehead, a plain white T-shirt and stonewashed designer jeans. She sat with her legs tucked under her, and as she talked, she fiddled with a ring on the little finger of her right hand. “I don’t know,” she said. The lisp made her sound like a little girl.
They sat in a small, cheerful room at the back of the house with ivory-painted walls and Wedgwood blue upholstery. A bookcase stood against one wall, mostly full of paperbacks, their spines a riot of orange, green and black. Against the wall opposite stood an upright piano with a highly lacquered cherry-wood finish. On top of it stood an untidy pile of sheet music. WPC Smithies, who had stayed with the Rothwells, sat discreetly in a corner, notebook open. Phil Richmond was upstairs in Keith Rothwell’s study, clicking away on the computer.
The large bay window, open about a foot to let in the birdsongs and fresh air, looked out over Fortford and the dale beyond. It was a familiar enough view to Banks. He had seen it from “Maggie’s Farm” on the other side of Relton, and from the house of a man called Adam Harkness on the valley bottom. The sight never failed to impress, though, even on a dull day like today, with the grey- brown ruins of Devraulx Abbey poking through the trees of its grounds, the village of Lyndgarth clustered around its lopsided green and, towering over the patchwork of pale green fields and dry-stone walls that rose steeply to the heights, the forbidding line of Aldington Edge, a long limestone scar streaked with fissures from top to bottom like gleaming skeleton’s teeth.
“I know it’s painful to remember,” Banks went
on, “but we need all the help we can get if we’re to catch these men.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Do you remember hearing any sounds between the time they went outside and when you heard the bang?”
Alison frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“No sounds of a struggle, or screaming?”
“No. It was all so quiet. That’s what I remember.”
“No talking?”
“I didn’t hear any.”
“And you don’t know how long they were out there before the explosion?”
“No. I was scared and I was worried. Mum was sitting facing me. I could see how frightened she was, but I couldn’t do anything. I just felt so powerless.”
“When it was all over, did you hear any sounds then?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Try to remember. Did you hear what direction they went off in?” “No.”
“Any sounds of a car?”
She paused. “I think I heard a car door shut, but I can’t be sure. I mean, I didn’t hear it drive it away, but I think I kept sort of drifting in and out. I think I heard a sound like the slam of a car door in the distance.”
“Do you know which direction it came from?”
“Farther up the daleside, I think. Relton way.”
“Good. Now, can you remember anything else about the men?” “One of them, the one who touched me. I’ve been thinking about it. He had big brown eyes, a sort of light hazel colour, and watery. There’s a word for it. Like a dog.”
“Spaniel?”
“Yes. That’s it. Spaniel eyes. Or puppy dog. He had puppy-dog eyes. But they’re usually … you know, they usually make you feel sorry for the person, but these didn’t. They were cruel.”
“Did either of the men say anything else?”
“No.”
“Did they go anywhere else in the house? Any other rooms?” “No.”
“Did you see them take anything at all?”
Alison shook her head.
“When your father saw them and later went outside with them, how did he seem?”
Final Account Page 3
