Final Account

“And?”

“And he’s dead, isn’t he? What’s more there’s no way you can put it down to me. So don’t say there’s no justice in the world, Banks. Goodbye. Have a good life.” Burgess hung up abruptly, leaving Banks to glare into the receiver. He slammed it down so hard that Sergeant Rowe popped his head around the door. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Yes, fine,” said Banks. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his short hair. “Everything’s just bloody fine and dandy.” He sat in the empty office gaining control of his breathing. Susan’s words echoed in his mind. “It’s not over yet, is it, sir?” No, it bloody well wasn’t.

Chapter 17

1

Banks sat at a tavérna by the quayside sipping an ice-cold Beck’s and smoking a duty-free Benson and Hedges Special Mild. When he had finished his cigarette, he popped a dolmáde into his mouth and followed it with a black olive. One or two of the locals, mostly mustachioed and sun-leathered fishermen, occasionally glanced his way during a pause in their conversation.

It was a small island, just one village built up the central hillside, and though it got its share of tourists in season, none of the big cruise ships came. Banks had arrived half an hour ago on a regular ferry service from Piraeus and he needed a while to collect his thoughts and get his land-legs back again. He had a difficult interview ahead of him, he suspected. He had already contacted the Greek police. Help had been offered, and the legal machinery was ready to grind into action at a word. But Banks had something else he wanted to try first.

By Christ, it was hot, even in the shade. The sun beat down from a clear sky, a more intense, more saturated blue than Banks had ever seen, especially in contrast to the white houses, shops and tavérnas along the quayside. A couple of sailboats and a few fishing craft were moored in the small harbor, bobbing gently on the calm water. It was hard to describe the sea’s color; certainly there were shades of green and blue in it, aquamarine, ultramarine, but in places it was a kind of inky blue, too, almost purple. Maybe Homer was right when he called it “wine-dark,” Banks thought, remembering his conversation with Superintendent Gristhorpe before the trip. Banks had never read The Odyssey, but he probably would when he got back.

He paid for his food and drink and walked out into the sun. On his way, he popped into the local police station in the square near the harbor, as promised, then set off along the dirt track up the hill.

The main street itself was narrow enough, but every few yards a side-street branched off, narrower still, all white, cubist, flat-roofed houses with painted shutters, mostly blue. Some of the houses had red pantile roofs, like the ones in Whitby. Many people had put hanging baskets of flowers out on the small balconies, a profusion of purple, pink, red and blue, and lines of washing hung over the narrow streets. By the roadside were poppies and delicate lavender flowers that looked like morning glories.

Mingled with the scents of the flowers were the smells of tobacco and wild herbs. Banks thought he recognized thyme and rosemary. Insects with red bodies and transparent wings flew around him. The sun beat relentlessly. Before Banks had walked twenty yards, his white cotton shirt stuck to his back. He wished he had worn shorts instead of jeans.

Banks looked ahead. Where the white houses ended halfway up the hillside, scrub and rocky outcrops took over. The house he wanted, he had been told, was on his right, a large one with a high-gated white wall and a shaded courtyard. It wasn’t difficult to spot, now about fifty yards ahead, almost three-quarters of the length of the road.

He finally made it. The ochre gate was unlocked, and beyond it, Banks found a courtyard full of saplings, pots of herbs and hanging plants by a krokalia pathway of black and white pebbles winding up to the door. Expensive, definitely. The door was slightly ajar, and he could hear voices inside. By the plummy tones, it sounded like the BBC World Service news. He paused a moment for breath, then walked up to the door and knocked.

He heard a movement inside, the voices stopped, and in a few seconds someone opened the door. Banks looked into the face that he had thought for so long had been blown to smithereens.

“Mr. Rothwell?” he said, slipping his card out of his wallet and holding it up. “Mr. Keith Rothwell?”

2

“You’ve come, then?” Rothwell said simply.

“Yes.”

He looked over Banks’s shoulder. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“You’d better come in.”

Banks followed Rothwell into a bright room where a ceiling fan spun and a light breeze blew through the open blue shutters. It was sparsely furnished. The walls were plastered white, the floor was flagged, covered here and there by rugs, and the ceiling was panelled with dark wood. Outside, he could hear birds singing; he didn’t know what kind.

He sat down in the wicker chair Rothwell offered, surprised to be able to see the sea down below through the window. Now he was at the end of his journey, he felt bone weary and more than a little dizzy. It had been a long way from Eastvale and a long uphill walk in the sun. Sweat dribbled from his eyebrows into his eyes and made them sting. He wiped it away with his forearm. At least it was cooler inside the room.

Rothwell noticed his discomfort. “Hot, isn’t it?” he said. “Can I get you something?”

Banks nodded. “Thanks. Anything as long as it’s cold.”

Rothwell went to the kitchen door and turned, with a smile, just as he opened it. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t run away.”

“There’s nowhere to run,” replied Banks.

A minute or so later he came back with a glass of ice water and a bottle of Grölsch lager. “I’d drink the water first,” he advised. “You look a bit dehydrated.”

Banks drained the glass then opened the metal gizmo on the beer. It tasted good. Imported, of course. But Rothwell could afford it. Banks looked at him. The receding sandy hair, forming a slight widow’s peak, had bleached in the sun. He had a good tan for such a fair-ski

He wore a peach short-sleeve shirt, white shorts and brown leather sandals. His toenails needed cutting. He was an inch or so taller than Banks, slim and in good shape – about all he did have in common with Clegg, apart from the color of his hair, his blood group and the appendicitis scar. When he went to get the drinks, Banks noticed, he moved with an athlete’s grace and economy. There was nothing of the sedentary penpusher about his bearing.

“Anyone else here?” Banks asked.

“Julia’s gone to the shops,” he said, glancing at his watch. “She shouldn’t be long.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“How did you find me?” Rothwell asked, sitting opposite, opening a tin of Pepsi. The gas hissed out and liquid frothed over the edge. Rothwell held it at arm’s length until it had stopped fizzing, then wiped the tin with a tissue from a box on the table beside him.

“It wasn’t that difficult,” said Banks. “Once I knew who I was looking for. We found you partly through Julia.” He shrugged. “After that it was a matter of routine police work, mostly boring footwork. We checked travel agents, then we contacted the local police through Interpol. It didn’t take that long to get word back about two English strangers who resembled your descriptions taking a lease on a captain’s house here. Did you really believe we wouldn’t find you eventually?”