“But why would he do that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You had him against the ropes. I mean, fine, early blood evidence doesn’t necessarily mean a hell of a lot, but Wood knew he’d done it, and both he and Varney probably knew it was just a matter of time before we got results from DNA testing. And that they’d be positive. In the meantime, if Mark Wood admits to a lesser charge of manslaughter, denying that he’s ever even met Motcombe, then the heat’s off. It was just a fight that went wrong.
“And you can also bet that Varney will milk as much sympathy from the jury as he can from the fact that the fight started over Jason Fox making racist remarks about Mark Wood’s wife and child. All Motcombe has to promise is that Wood will get a short sentence and that his family will be financially taken care of while he’s inside. That and a nice bonus when he gets out. I think it’s an offer I’d probably take if my balls were in the wringer like Wood’s are.”
“If he pays a penny.”
“Yes. I suppose he could renege. And arrange for an accident in jail. I’m assuming he’s not doing all this out of the kindness of his heart. He’s doing it because Wood has something on him. Like the truth about what happened.”
“What can we do about it, if you’re right?”
“We can’t do anything, Susan. Remember, you’re still on the force, but you’re off the case. I, on the other hand, can do whatever I want.”
“But-”
Banks held his hand up. “Susan, I appreciate what you’ve done so far, but I don’t want to risk getting you into trouble again. Even Superintendent Gristhorpe wouldn’t approve if he knew what I was up to.”
“He would if you told him, sir. I told you he had his doubts, too. But Jimmy Riddle just barged in and steam-rollered everything.”
“I know. But the super’s not here. It’s better this way for the time being. Believe me.”
“What next, then?”
Banks looked at his watch. “Next, I think I’ll get right back to basics and pay George Mahmood another visit. There’s something missing from those statements. Some connection I’m missing, and it’s starting to irritate me. It might be worth eating a mouthful or two of humble pie to find out what it is.”
III
Banks walked down King Street toward the Mahmoods’ shop. As he passed School Lane, he could hear kids shouting on the rugby pitch and was almost tempted to go and watch. He had enjoyed rugby at school, and when he first joined the Met. He’d been a pretty good winger, if he said so himself. Strong, slippery and fast.
Is this what private eyes feel like? he wondered as he cut down along Tulip Street, on the northern edge of the Leaview Estate. Walking the mean streets of Eastvale? He didn’t even have a license to validate what he was doing. How did you go about getting a private-eye license in York-shire? Did you even need a license?
He did, however, still have his warrant card. Riddle hadn’t had the chance to ask for it, and Banks hadn’t managed the cliché of slapping it down on the table. He supposed it would be an offense to use it while under suspension, but that was the least of his worries.
The builders were busy at work in the fields around Gallows View, mixing concrete, climbing ladders with hods resting on their shoulders, or just idling around chatting and smoking cigarettes. Soon, the row of old cottages would be swallowed up. Banks wondered if they’d change the name of the street and the fields when the new estate was finished. Gallows Estate probably wouldn’t sit too well with the local council.
For Banks, approaching the Mahmoods’ shop felt like coming full circle. Not only had the Jason Fox case led him there, but his first case in Eastvale had involved the previous owner. And the way things looked, this might be his last case.
George stood behind the counter, wearing his white shirt with its Nehru collar, serving a young woman with a baby strapped to her breast. When he saw Banks, he scowled. His mother, Shazia, came over from the freezer area, where she’d been stamping prices on packages of frozen pizza.
Though she only came up to Banks’s shoulders, her eyes challenged him. “What do you want this time, Mr. Banks? Haven’t you caused enough trouble around here?”
“As far as I know, I haven’t caused any trouble, Mrs. Mahmood. Not intentionally, at any rate. I have a job to do.” A small lie, he realized. Had a job would be more like it. “I have a job to do, and it’s sometimes difficult. I’m sorry it has caused you pain.”
“Oh, are you? Such as throwing my son in a cell overnight, worrying his poor parents to death?”
“Mrs. Mahmood, George wasn’t thrown anywhere, and he exercised his right to make a telephone call. If he didn’t ring you-”
She waved her hand impatiently. “Oh, yes, he rang us, all right. But we still worried. A young boy being put in jail with all those criminals.”
“He was in a cell by himself. Look, I don’t know where you’ve got this from-”
“And only because of his color. Don’t think we don’t know that’s why you pick on us.”
Banks took a deep breath. “Look, Mrs. Mahmood, I’m getting sick of this. We took your son in because he and his friends had an altercation with the victim’s party on the night of the killing, because they live in pretty much the same area of town, because they refused to cooperate with us and because we found something suspicious on George’s trainer.”
“Suspicious? Animal blood?”
“We didn’t know that at the time. It could have been human blood.”
She shook her head. “My son would never hurt anyone.”
“I’m sorry, but my business isn’t always as trusting as it might be.”
“And what about the second time? Wasn’t that persecution?”
“My colleagues turned up a witness who said he saw George and his two friends beat up Jason Fox. What could they do?”
“But he was lying.”
“Yes. But again, we didn’t know that at the time.”
“So why have you come here pestering us all over again?”
“It’s all right, Mother,” George said, walking over. The woman with the baby seemed torn between leaving and staying to eavesdrop on the conversation. She took a long time putting her change back in her purse, then Banks gave her a sharp glance and she scurried out murmuring comforting sounds to the baby, who had started to cry.
“Can we go somewhere and talk, Mohammed?” Banks asked.
George nodded toward the stockroom in the back of the shop.
“I’m going to call a solicitor,” Mrs. Mahmood said.
“No need to, Mum,” said George. “I can handle this.”
Banks followed him into the back. The stockroom was full of boxes and smelled of cumin and shoe polish. There were no windows, or if there were, they were covered by the stacks of boxes. A bare bulb shone in the center of the room. Banks fancied it looked rather like a filmmaker’s idea of one of those interrogation rooms from the old days. He’d seen a film not too long ago in which two detectives had actually sat a woman in a chair with two bright desk lights pointed at her. He’d never tried that in interrogations himself; he wondered if it worked.
“What do you want?” George said. There wasn’t a trace of friendliness in his voice. Whatever friendship there had ever been, through Brian, was gone now.
“I need your help.”
George snorted and leaned against a stack of crates, arms crossed. “That’s a laugh. Why should I help you?”
“To find out who really killed Jason Fox.”
“Who cares? From what I’ve heard, the racist bastard deserved everything he got. Besides, I read in the paper that his mate confessed. Isn’t that good enough for you?”