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Banks heard a sound like a harsh cough or bark at the other end. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Frog in my throat. That’s all. It’s okay, sir. Really it is.”
“Are you sure? If Jimmy Riddle turns up-”
“If Jimmy Riddle turns up, I’m buggered. I know that. But there’s far too much stuff to photocopy. And that would look suspicious, especially the way you have to account for every pe
“All right.”
“But I’d still like to know why you’re not satisfied.”
“I’ll tell you about it when I know more myself. At the moment it’s mostly just a feeling. That and a few bits of information about Mark Wood I picked up in Amsterdam.”
“Why don’t you just come to the station as soon as you can, then. I’ll be waiting.” And she hung up hurriedly.
Banks grabbed his coat and left the house. It was another su
He needed the exercise, so he decided to walk. He plugged in his earphones and turned the Walkman on: Billie Holiday singing “Strange Fruit.”
He walked along Market Street past the roundabout, the zebra crossing, garage and school, the local shopping center with its Safeway supermarket and collection of smaller shops and banks. There was a lot of traffic on Market Street today and the acrid smell of petrol and diesel fumes mingled with dry, dusty air.
He paused across from the Jubilee, whose large stone-and-red-brick frontage curved around the junction of Market Street and Sebastopol Terrace. That was where Jason Fox had spent his last evening on earth before being dispatched to whatever circle of hell was reserved for racists. Why on earth did it matter who had killed him, or why? Banks wondered as he walked on. Wasn’t it good enough that he was dead? Was it only Banks’s insatiable bloody curiosity that made it so important, or was there some absolute standard of justice and truth to be served?
Banks had no answer. All he knew was that if he didn’t get to spin it out until he thought it was all over, then it would stay with him like a sore that won’t heal. And he knew that, in some way, it was the murder of Frank Hepplethwaite he was out to avenge, not Jason Fox’s.
One or two pairs of curious eyes followed him up the stairs at the station, but nobody said anything. Susan was in her office waiting for him with a thick pile of papers in front of her.
“I feel like a schoolboy sneaking a look at naughty pictures,” Banks said. “Can I take them to my office?”
“Of course,” said Susan. “You don’t have to ask my permission.” She stood up.
“Look, I appreciate this.”
“No problem.”
“Susan, is-”
“Sorry, sir. I’ve got to go.”
She dashed out and left him standing in her office. Well, he thought, it didn’t take long to become a pariah around here, did it? But he could hardly blame Susan for wanting to put a bit of distance between them. Not after all that had happened. And she had put herself out to help him.
Checking to see that the coast was clear, he tiptoed across the corridor to his own office with the papers and shut the door behind him. Nothing had changed. Even the desk was still at the same odd angle after Riddle had fallen back on it. Embarrassed at the memory of what he’d done, Banks straightened it, sat down with the pile of papers, packet of cigarettes and ashtray beside him, window a couple of inches open, and settled in to read.
II
What the hell am I doing here? Susan wondered, as Banks stood aside and held the door of the Duck and Drake open for her. Why did I agree to this? I must be insane.
The Duck and Drake was a small hideaway in Ski
They had the snug to themselves. Banks bought the drinks and sat against the wall, opposite her, a small table between them.
Sipping her St. Clement’s, Susan could hear the occasional kerchunk of the fruit machine and chink of the cash register coming from the other rooms. If they wanted the barman’s attention, they had to ring a little bell on the bar. It was an altogether too intimate and cozy setup for Susan, but there was nothing she could do about it. Banks had been right in that the Queen’s Arms was far too public a place for them to meet. And he was clearly oblivious to her discomfort, drinking his Sam Smith’s Old Brewery Bitter and chewing on a cheese-and-onion sandwich. Susan had no appetite at all. Between mouthfuls, he told her about what he had discovered in Amsterdam.
Susan listened, frowning and biting her lower lip in concentration. When Banks had finished, she said, “It makes sense, sir, but how does it change things? We already know Mark Wood killed Jason. He admitted it.”
Banks finished his sandwich, sipped some Sam Smith’s and reached for his cigarettes.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve just read through his statements. The kid’s a pathological liar. He’s confessed to manslaughter, but if I’m right, it was murder. Premeditated murder.”
“I don’t see how you can prove that.”
“There’s the rub. According to the postmortem report, Jason Fox was hit on the back of the head with the beer bottle, right?”
Susan nodded. “That’s where Dr. Glende
“But in his statement, Mark Wood said he hit Jason on the side of the head.”
“I noticed that,” said Susan, “but, quite honestly, sir, I didn’t think much of it. He was confused, under pressure. Basically, he was saying he just lashed out.”
“Yes, I understand that. The point is, that doesn’t happen in a fight.”
“Sir?”
“Stand up.”
Banks edged out from the bench. The room itself was just about high enough for him to stand up in. There was no one else around. Susan got to her feet and stood facing him, almost close enough to feel the warmth of his body.
She concentrated on the demonstration, focusing on little details. He didn’t look well, she noticed. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his face was pale. There was also a deep sadness in him that she had never noticed before.
“Pretend to hit me on the back of the head with an imaginary beer bottle,” he said.
“I can’t, sir,” Susan said. “Not from this angle. Jason must have had his back to Wood, walking either in front of or beside him. Or he must at least have been partly turned sideways.”
“Like this?” Banks turned sideways.
“Yes, sir.”
Banks went back to his seat and lit a cigarette. “Been in many fights?” he asked.
“No, sir. But that-”
“Let me finish. I have. At school. And, believe me, you would never get your opponent to stand in that position. Not willingly. Not unless you’d hit him with your fist first and knocked him sideways.”
“Maybe that’s what happened?”
Banks shook his head again. “Listen to what you’re saying, Susan. To do that, he’d have to have been holding the beer bottle in the same hand he punched Fox with and then swung back very quickly and hit him before he moved. Even if he had the beer bottle in the other hand and switched after he’d hit him, it still doesn’t make sense. And remember, Jason was no slouch when it came to physical strength. You’d need every advantage to get the better of him. Let me ask you a question.”