Blood at the Root (28 page)

“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 lunchtime, and they were in the City of Mabgate, a pub near Millgarth, finishing bowls of chili. “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.”

Blackstone tilted his head and squinted at Banks. “Are you hinting that one of our lads is bent?”

Banks sighed. “Look, there’s no evidence, but it seems clear that someone, most likely someone from West Yorkshire, is doing a few little favors for Neville Motcombe and his league of merry men.”

Blackstone’s expression hardened. “Are you certain?”

“No, not certain. It just seems to be the most obvious explanation. As far as I know, so far it’s just been a matter of accessing criminal records. If you use the PNC, you wouldn’t have to be in West Yorkshire to do that, I’ll admit, but that’s where Motcombe lives. Logical deduction.”

“Brilliant, my dear Holmes,” said Blackstone. “But ve haff vays of finding out who’s been using the PNC, and what they’ve been looking for. I’ll catch the bastard and have his bollocks for golf balls.”

“Maybe it’s a ‘her’?”

“Maybe. But how many women do you find hanging around with these white-power groups? Not a lot. It inclines me to believe they’ve got more sense.”

“Well, not many of them like playing soldiers, that’s for certain. I don’t know what odds I’d take against how many of them actually
agree
with some of the stuff Motcombe’s lot comes out with, though. Anyway, can I ask you one more favor, Ken?”

“Go ahead. You’re doing pretty well for a suspended copper so far.”

“Thanks. Don’t move on the mole until I’ve played out my hand.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason I asked you to keep quiet about Amsterdam. It could jeopardize Craig’s cover as Rupert Francis. Or even his life. I don’t think Motcombe’s the forgiving sort.”

Blackstone squirmed and scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. My lips are sealed. Want to tell me more?”

Banks told him about Motcombe’s gangs of steamers and muggers, then about the Turkish connection and the possible heroin deal with Devon, the deal that Mark Wood was to play such a big part in. Blackstone listened without comment, shaking his head every now and then.

“That’s quite a conspiracy,” he said finally. “It makes me wonder about this suspension business. Do you think there’s anything more to it?”

“Like what?”

Blackstone paused a moment. “More sinister. Remember when John Stalker got taken off that investigation into the RUC’s shoot-to-kill policy in Northern Ireland a few years back?”

“Yes.”

“I seem to remember they mocked up some story about him consorting with criminals just to shut him up and stop him embarrassing them. It was all political.”

Banks shook his head. “A week or two ago I might have been paranoid enough to agree with you,” he said. “The old conspiracy theory has its appeal. Especially when Dirty Dick Burgess appeared on the scene. And it wouldn’t have surprised me if Jimmy Riddle had been in the BNP at the very least. But I don’t think so. Whatever he is, Riddle isn’t a card-carrying fascist. He’s just a pushy, bullheaded arse-hole, a frustrated headmaster with a mean streak. Put him on the inner-city streets where the real coppers work and he’d shit himself in five minutes.”

“Maybe so. But you’re certain there’s nothing more to it?”

“Pretty much. He’s been looking for an excuse to nobble me ever since he took the job, and now he thinks he’s found it.”

“Okay. So how can I help?”

“I’m going to ask you a couple more favors and I want to give you the chance to say no. I don’t want you to stick your neck out for me. I’m giving you fair warning.”

Blackstone paused, then said, “Go ahead. I’ll tell you if I don’t want to hear any more. Or when.”

“Fair enough.” Banks lit a cigarette. “The way I see it, though, is that most of what’s going on here is on
your
patch anyway, so you can regard me as informant, consultant, whatever the hell you like, as far as official records go.”

Blackstone laughed. “Clever bugger. Thought it all out, haven’t you? You’d have made a good lawyer. All right. I’m interested. I only hope you don’t expect paying, that’s all.”

Banks smiled. “This is for free, Ken. First off, I’d like to know whether a solicitor called Giles Varney has ever acted for Neville Motcombe. There might be some record in the paperwork on that receiving charge. Or, better still, last Thursday, after that fracas at Frank Hepplethwaite’s funeral. Someone got Motcombe out of Halifax nick pretty damn quickly.”

Blackstone got his notebook out. “How d’you spell that?”

Banks spelled “Varney” for him.

Blackstone smiled. “Well, that ought to be easy enough to do without compromising my career.”

“The next request might be a bit tougher, and I’ll understand if you say no. There was a band from Leeds playing at the Jubilee in Eastvale on the Saturday Jason Fox was killed. They’re called Scattered Dreams. Someone who was there told me that there were a couple of Jamaicans dealing small quantities of hash, crack and Ecstasy. Apparently, they might have been with the band in some capacity. Roadies, hangers-on, what have you.”

Blackstone nodded. “A lot of small dealers are mobile now they’ve saturated the urban markets. And it makes sense they’d target places where there’s loud music and lots of kids. I think I’ve heard of the Jubilee. Is that the one that advertises in the
Evening Post
?”

“That’s the one. I suppose the Drugs Squad keeps tabs on these bands and their itinerant dealers?”

“I hope so,” said Blackstone. “Though you never quite know what the DS is up to. They’re a law unto themselves half the time.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, ticking off on his fingers, “Mark Wood had passing contact with one of these lads at the Jubilee. My thinking is that they might have been in this together. First off, I need to know if this band is the same one Mark Wood roadied for a couple of years back, when he was arrested on the drugs charge.”

Blackstone nodded.

“And then I’d like the names of the Jamaicans who were on the fringes of Scattered Dreams that night, if you can get them. I know that might be a bit more difficult.”

“I can only try,” said Blackstone. “Actually, I know a bloke on the Drugs Squad who can keep his mouth shut. We did some courses at Bramshill together a few years back. Bloke called Richie Hall. He’s a Jamaican himself, and he’s done a fair bit of undercover work over the years. Anyway, the point is, he knows the music and drugs scene up north better than anyone I know. If he doesn’t know who they are, nobody does.”

“Great. There might even be a short cut. Mark Wood’s wife’s Jamaican. Her maiden name is Shirelle Jade Campbell. They seem to have met up around the time Wood got involved with the band, and I’m wondering if there isn’t maybe a family connection. A brother, cousin or something. At least that gives you a name to work on.”

“I’ll pass it on to Richie. Like I said, if anyone knows, Richie does.”

“You sure you don’t mind doing this, Ken?”

Blackstone shook his head. “Nah. What are mates for. I’ll warn you, though, you’ll be bloody lucky to get anything out of these lads even if we do track them down.”

“I know that. Actually, if I’m right, I was thinking of a slightly more devious approach to the truth. But let’s wait and see, shall we?”

“Just as long as your expectations aren’t too high. Who knows, there might even be a bit of glory in this for me.”

Banks smiled. “Maybe. Whatever happens, there’ll be no Brownie points for me from Jimmy Riddle. But I promise you, if there’s any credit to be taken, it’s yours. And lunch is on me.”

“Will you do
me
one small favor, Alan?”

“Name it.”

“Just be bloody careful, that’s all.”

By nine o’clock on Friday morning, Banks felt edgy and restless alone in the house. He was pleased with himself, however, for avoiding the booze completely on Thursday evening, and for actually managing to finish
The Power and the Glory
as he listened to Beethoven’s late quartets. So he felt full of energy when he woke up on Friday. There was nothing he could do until he heard from Ken Blackstone except pace the floor.

When his phone rang at about half past nine, he grabbed the receiver on the first ring. “Yes? Banks here.”

“Alan, it’s Ken.”

“What have you got?”

“Some answers for you. I hope. In answer to your first question, yes, Giles Varney is Neville Motcombe’s solicitor and has acted for him on a number of occasions. Their professional relationship goes back to the time Motcombe started buying property in the Leeds area, about four years ago. It seems like they’ve been bosom buddies ever since.”

“Does Varney have any other known right-wing connections?”

“Yes. I checked around and he’s pretty well known in some of the more extreme right circles.”

“Great. That would seem to indicate that Mark Wood did a deal with Motcombe through Varney. Anything else?”

“This is where it gets a bit more complicated, I’m afraid. And you owe me. I had to spend yesterday evening in a pub with Richie Hall, and he drinks like a bloody fish. I’ll be sending you the bill.”

Banks laughed. “Find anything out?”

“Yes. The band Mark Wood worked with at the time of his first arrest was called Cloth Ears. They split up shortly after the drug bust. But this Scattered Dreams was formed partly from the ashes. Phoenix-like, you might say. Apparently the blokes you’re interested in used to play with Cloth Ears, but now they just hang around the fringes of Scattered Dreams and sell dope. Seems drugs have sapped whatever talents they might once have had, and most of the time they’re too stoned to strum a chord. And you were right about the family connection. The one with the dreadlocks is Shirelle Wood’s brother, Wesley Campbell, and the other’s a mate of his called Francis Robertson. ‘Wes’ and ‘Frankie,’ as they’re known locally. Both of them have been seen to associate with Devon recently, according to Richie.”

“Low-level dealers?”

“Looks that way.”

“Excellent.”

“And in Shirelle Wood’s favor, Richie says she’s not connected with any of this. In fact, she stopped talking to her brother Wes as soon as she discovered he was involved in getting Mark busted the first time, and she hasn’t talked to him since. Cut him off completely.”

Good for her, Banks thought. There were very few people he had come to have respect for in this whole business. Frank Hepplethwaite was one of them, and Shirelle Jade Wood was another. Pity about her husband. He should have followed her lead and cut off communications with Wesley Campbell, too. But no, Mark Wood thought he could make an easy fortune. And it was a sad thought that Shirelle and Connor would be the ones to suffer the most if the truth did come out.

“Thanks, Ken,” Banks said. “You’ve done a great job.”

“No problem.”

“Now for the hard part.”

He heard Blackstone sigh. “Somehow I had a feeling there might be more to it than this. I assume this is your ‘cunning plan’ for getting to the truth?”

Banks laughed. “Hear me out, Ken, then let me know if you think we can do it.”

About an hour later, Banks drove down to Leeds alone. There was no point involving Susan Gay or Jim Hatchley in his scheme. It was risky and could backfire, then he’d have their jobs on his conscience, too. Ken Blackstone would be fine; he was simply carrying out an investigation on his own patch, based on information received. The fact that Banks was along for the ride really didn’t matter.

Banks lit a cigarette and turned up the volume on Bryn Terfel’s renditions of Robert Louis Stevenson’s
Songs of Travel
. He looked at the digital clock. Eleven o’clock. Plenty of time to do what he had to and pick up Tracy at the residence by six o’clock.

As he pulled up behind Millgarth, he looked at his watch. Just after twelve. If Ken Blackstone had done his work, everything ought to be set up and ready to roll by now. He checked at the front desk and went straight up to Blackstone’s office. In the corridor outside the CID offices, as arranged, sat Mark Wood, who had been brought in from Armley Jail shortly after Banks’s nine-thirty talk with Ken Blackstone, just to answer a few more questions and help make the paperwork flow more smoothly.

Apparently, Wood had been more than willing to show his cooperation. And even though he’d been sitting there for probably a couple of hours already, he hadn’t asked for Giles Varney yet. If he did, they’d have to lie and tell him they couldn’t get in touch. With Varney present, the plan would be useless.

Mark Wood didn’t look like much, Banks thought. Muscular, yes, but basically just another sullen, nervous kid chewing his fingernails in a police station.

Banks introduced himself. They hadn’t met before, and it was important that Wood know
someone
from Eastvale was involved in all this. As expected, Wood looked puzzled and confused. When he asked Banks why he had come down all this way, Banks said it was nothing to worry about, he would find out in a while. He sounded like a doctor about to tell a patient he has a terminal illness.

Leaving Wood under guard in the corridor, they went into Ken Blackstone’s office, where Wood could watch them through the glass partition if he wanted, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying. That would make him even more nervous. Especially if they glanced his way once in a while as they spoke.

They had been standing behind the glass chatting about Leeds United’s abysmal season and occasionally looking at Mark for about fifteen minutes, when three large uniformed officers led Wesley Campbell and Francis Robertson along the corridor, as arranged. The two had been passive and compliant when picked up over an hour earlier, Ken said. That was either a mark of confidence that they’d be out again in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Banks thought, or they were too stoned to care. Both had been found in possession of small amounts of marijuana, and neither had had time to flush it down the toilet, so they had been languishing in the charge room for a while. By now, they weren’t quite as complacent.

As they passed Mark Wood, they glanced down at him, and Mark looked even more confused. His eyes widened with fear. Campbell actually struggled against his guards for a moment and tried to get closer to Wood, as if he wanted to warn or threaten him. But the guards held on. Campbell and Robertson were taken to separate interview rooms around the corner. Both seemed to know the PACE regulations by heart, and they asked to make their phone calls immediately.

At about two o’clock, after Banks and Blackstone had enjoyed a leisurely lunch across the road, it was time to start. They went back upstairs and took Mark into an interview room. It was agreed that Banks, being more familiar with the case, would do most of the questioning. Blackstone would give the occasional prod if things got slow. They weren’t taping this one. There would be time for formalities later, with Banks well out of the way, if the plan worked. If it didn’t, then all hell might break loose as far as disciplinary actions were concerned. Banks had already warned Ken and given him the option of staying well away, but Ken had insisted on being involved.

“Well, Mark,” said Banks, “I know we haven’t met until today, but I’ve had a great interest in you ever since I saw Jason Fox’s body a couple of weeks ago.”

“I’ve told the police all about that,” Wood said. “I’ve pleaded guilty to manslaughter. What’s all this about?”

Banks raised an eyebrow. “It’s not quite settled yet,” he said. “Not to
my
satisfaction, anyway.”

Wood folded his arms. “I don’t know what you mean. First you leave me hanging about in the corridor for hours, now you start interrogating me. I’m not saying anything. I want my solicitor.”

“Mr. Varney? Well, we’ll see what we can do. For the moment, though, I suggest you hold your horses, Mark, and listen to me. Certain new evidence has come to light that puts an entirely different complexion on the Jason Fox killing.”

“Oh? What’s that, then?”

Banks jerked his head toward the door. “We’ve just had a long chat with Mr. Campbell and Mr. Robertson, and they’ve told us some very interesting things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the truth about what you did to Jason Fox.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Mark, surely you can do much better than that?”

“I’m not saying a word.”

“Listen to me, then. According to your brother-in-law, Mr. Campbell, an old mate of yours from the Cloth Ears days, the two of you were commissioned by Neville Motcombe to get rid of Jason Fox. Jason had become a major risk in a heroin deal you were planning, and a serious threat to Motcombe’s power. Motcombe couldn’t get any of his own members to do it because Jason was too popular with them. Instead, he got two of the people who were already involved in the drug deal – one from each side, so to speak – two people who also stood to gain a lot. I should imagine Devon wanted one or two of his own lads along just to make sure you did what you agreed, didn’t he? From what I hear, he’s not the kind of bloke to take undue risks. How am I doing so far?”

Wood’s eyes widened. “You know about Devon? Jesus Christ, does he know about this? Does he know I’m here? Have Wes and Frankie been talking to him? Shit, if Devon thinks I’m talking to the coppers, he’ll fucking kill me.”

Banks ignored him. “When Scattered Dreams played at the Jubilee, it gave you the perfect opportunity. Jason was going to be in Eastvale anyway – he had a football match in the afternoon – so you told him you were coming up and that the two of you could go see the band. Maybe it would be a chance to settle your differences and talk a bit of business, try to save the partnership somehow. I’d imagine you were compliant, more than willing to make compromises. You knew Scattered Dreams weren’t Jason’s cup of tea, but suggested he might like to broaden his horizons a bit. Who knows, maybe you promised to go to the next Celtic Warrior concert if he gave your lot a try. Jason had been to the Jubilee before, and he had mentioned that a couple of Pakistani youths went there on a fairly regular basis. I’m only guessing at this part, but I think he’d already chucked a brick through one of their windows, and he’d said he was looking for trouble with them. Perfect for you, if something like that happened in public, wasn’t it? A bonus. As long as it was just a minor incident, enough to draw just a bit of attention.

“Anyway, according to Mr. Campbell, you accompanied Jason toward the ginnel, where he and Mr. Robertson were waiting at the other end to render any necessary assistance. According to them, you whacked Jason on the back of the head with the bottle a couple of times, and he went down. After that, you managed to kick him to death all by yourself. They didn’t have to do a thing. And that, Mark, with two eyewitnesses to testify against you, makes it murder.”

Wood turned pale. “That’s not true,” he said. “It didn’t happen like that at all. They’re lying.”

Banks leaned forward. “What didn’t happen like what, Mark?”

“It was like I said. There was just me and Jason. We got into a fight. He slagged off Sheri and Connor. I didn’t mean for him to die.”

Banks shook his head. “I’m afraid that story’s gone right down the toilet now, Mark, along with all your other stories. Let me see if I can get them right.” He began counting them off on his fingers, looking toward Ken Blackstone, who nodded at each one. “First, you weren’t anywhere near Eastvale the night Jason got killed. Second, you were at the Jubilee but you never went anywhere near the ginnel. Third, you
were
there and you saw George Mahmood and his mates kill Jason. And, fourth, you killed him yourself in a fair fight. How am I doing so far?”

Wood licked his lips and shifted in his chair.

“Problem is, Mark,” Banks went on, “you’re a liar. The only version we have any independent corroboration of is the one I just put to you, the one Mr. Campbell told us about. So it looks as if that’s the way it’s going to go down now.” He paused, then went on. “After this interview, DI Blackstone and I will be having a word with Crown Prosecution Service about changing the charges from manslaughter to murder. That carries a much longer jail sentence, as I’m sure you know.”

“You can’t be serious? You can’t believe those bastards.”

“Why not? I certainly can’t believe
you
. Look at your track record, Mark. No, I’m afraid this is the end of the line for you. You get charged with murder now, and you don’t get out of jail for a long, long time. In fact, by the time you get out, your wife will have run off with another bloke long since, and your kid will have grown up and forgotten you. In the meantime, you’ll be fending off the arse-bandits in Wormwood Scrubs or Strangeways. And that’s
if
you last that long. I suspect both Devon and Neville Motcombe have long reaches.”

Wood seemed to shrivel, to draw in on himself like a bank of ashes collapsing. Banks could tell he was trapped. He knew lies wouldn’t save him now, but he didn’t know the best course of action. Time to tell him, time to give him a ray of hope. After pulling the carpet from under him, give him a foam mattress to land on.

“There’s only one way out for you, Mark,” he said.

“What’s that?” Mark’s voice was no louder than a whisper.

“The truth. Right from the top.”

“How will that help?”

“I’m not saying it’ll get you off scot-free. Nothing will do that. We don’t have the power to make deals with criminals, reduce their sentences in exchange for information. That only happens on American TV shows. But I can guarantee it’ll make things easier for you.”

Wood chewed on his knuckles for a few seconds, then said, “I need protection. They’ll kill me. My family, too.”

“We can help you with that, Mark. If you help us.”

Mark rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I never meant to kill him,” he said. “Honest, I didn’t. It was those two.” He was close to tears.

“Who?”

“Frankie and Wes.”

“What happened, Mark? Right from the beginning.”

Banks took out his cigarettes and offered Mark one. He took it with a shaking hand. “All right,” he said. “But what guarantee have I got that things will go easier for me if I tell you the truth? What are you offering me?”

“You’ve got my word,” said Banks.

“For what?”

“That you and your family will be protected and that your cooperation will be considered.”

“I want relocation for me and Sheri,” he said. “And new identities. The Witness Protection Program. That’s what I want.”

“I’ve already told you, this isn’t America, Mark. We don’t do things that way in England. Look, like I said, I’m not telling you you’re going to walk out of here a free man. You’re not. One way or another, you’ll serve some time. What I’m saying is that if you give us what we want, the charge can remain manslaughter, not murder.”

“It doesn’t sound like that good a deal to me.”

“Well, it is,” Ken Blackstone chipped in. “The difference is between, say, twenty-five years in a very nasty place – where you’ll be vulnerable to anyone Devon or Motcombe cares to send along – and maybe five in minimum-security prison. Protected environment. Telly and conjugal visits thrown in.” He glanced at Banks, who nodded. “Your choice, Mark. It’s as simple as that.”

Wood looked between the two of them and his gaze finally settled on Banks again. “What about Sheri and Connor?”

“We’ll take care of them, make sure they’re safe,” said Banks. “You have my word. What about it?”

Wood looked at Blackstone again, who assured him that Banks was right, then he rested back in his chair and said, “All right. Okay. Neville Motcombe approached me several weeks ago and said he knew about my record for drugs offenses. At first I didn’t know what he was getting at, then it became clear that he’d made a contact for getting his hands on some pretty large amounts of heroin through Turkey at a rock-bottom price, and he hadn’t a clue what to do about it. Drugs just weren’t part of his gig, but he saw a way to make a lot of money and fuck up the ‘niggers’ in the bargain, as he put it. He really does talk like that. Makes you sick. Anyway, he found out about my drug bust and decided I was to be the go-between.”

“What was in it for you?”

“Something in the region of fifty thousand quid over a period of a few months, if all went well. Maybe more in the future, if the supply didn’t dry up.” He leaned forward and gripped the sides of the chair. “Look, you can judge me all you like, but have you any idea what that would have meant to Sheri and me? It would have got us out of that fucking prefab, for a start, and it would have given me a good chance at expanding the business, buying some up-to-date equipment, making something out of it. And all I had to do was play go-between for Motcombe and Devon.” He laughed. “It was a bit of a joke on Motcombe, too. He didn’t know Sheri’s Jamaican and that his money would actually be going to help one of the people he wanted to destroy.”

“Didn’t that bother you, Mark? That he was intending to cause so much suffering in the West Indian community?”

“That was just a load of bollocks he came up with for Jason’s benefit. He was after profits, pure and simple.”

“Takes one to know one?”

“Something like that. Anyway, once you get heroin out on the streets, there’s no telling what color your buyers will be, is there? There’s no color bar on H. Even Jason knew that. Like I said, I thought it was funny that Sheri and Connor were going to get some benefit from this.”