Final Account

“You must be mad if you think I’d give all this up willingly,” Rothwell said.

“You can’t buy paradise with blood, Keith,” said Banks. “Come on home. Tell us everything about Martin Churchill’s finances, everything you know about the bastard. Let’s go public, make plenty of noise, sing louder than a male-voice choir. We can make sure he never sets foot in the country even if he turns up looking like Mr. Bean. We could offer you protection, then perhaps another identity, another new life. You’d do some time, of course, but I’m willing to bet that by the time you got out, Martin Churchill would be just another of history’s unpleasant footnotes, and Julia would be still waiting.”

“You’re insane, do you know that? I’d kill you before I’d do what you’re suggesting.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Keith. Besides, there’d be others after me.”

Rothwell paused on his way to the door and stared at Banks, eyes wide open and wild, no longer calm and steady. “Do you know what will happen if I go home?”

“It might not be half as bad as what will happen if I let Churchill know you’re still alive,” said Banks. “They say he has a long reach and a nasty line in revenge.” Julia had almost reached the door. “It wouldn’t stop at you,” Banks said.

Rothwell froze. “You wouldn’t. No. Not even you would do a thing like that.”

At that moment, Banks hated himself probably more than at any other time in his life. He felt sorry for Rothwell, and he found himself on the verge of relenting.

Then he remembered Mary Rothwell, living in a haze of tranquillizers; Alison, burying her head deep in her books and fast losing touch with the real world; and Tom, flailing around in his own private mire of guilt and confusion. Rothwell could have helped these people. Then he thought of Pamela Jeffreys, just out of hospital, physically okay, but still afraid of every knock at her door and unsure whether she would get back the confidence to play her viola again.

For this man’s gamble on paradise, Daniel Clegg lay in his grave with his head blown off, Barry Miller had died on a wet road at midnight, and Grant Everett might have to spend the next few years of his life relearning how to walk and talk. Even Arthur Jameson and Donald Pembroke were Rothwell’s victims, in a way.

And, much farther away but no less implicated, was a dictator who got fat while his people starved, a man who liked to watch people eat glass, a man who, now, if Banks could help it, would never enjoy a peaceful retirement in the English countryside, no matter what he had on some powerful members of the establishment.

And the more Banks thought about these people, victims and predators alike, the less able he was to feel sorry for the fallen lovers.

“Try me,” he said.

Rothwell glared at him, then all the life seemed to drain out of him until he resembled nothing more than a tired, middle-aged accountant. Banks still felt dirty and miserable, and despite his resolve, he wasn’t certain he could go through with his threat. But Rothwell believed him now, and that was all that mattered. This bastard had caused enough trouble already. There was no more room for pity. Banks felt his pulse race, his jaw clench. Then the door opened and Julia drifted in, all blonde and yellow, with a big smile for Rothwell.

“Hello, darling! Oh,” she said, noticing Banks. “We’ve got company. How nice.”

Acknowledgments

My thanks are long overdue to Cynthia Good, my editor from the begi

About the Author

PETER ROBINSON’S award-wi