“I’m not going to argue with you. Will you just answer a few straightforward questions, please?”
He shrugged. “All right. No skin off my nose. But hurry up.”
“Cast your mind back to that Saturday night at the Jubilee. Why were you there?”
George frowned. “Why? To listen to the band. Why else? Kobir was up visiting from Bradford, like I said, so Asim and me thought he’d enjoy it.”
“I understand the Jubilee has a good reputation for music?”
“Yeah.”
“Girls?”
“Yeah, it’s a good place to meet girls.”
“And drugs?”
“If you’re interested in that sort of thing. I’m not.”
“People come from miles around.”
“So?”
“And it was really busy that night?”
“Yeah. Well, Scattered Dreams are really popular. They’re pretty new on the scene and they haven’t got to the really expensive venues yet. But they’re already recording for an independent label. Pretty soon you’ll be paying through the nose to go see them at Wembley or somewhere.”
“Okay. Now, apart from that little contretemps you had with Jason, did you notice anything else about him and his pal?”
“Never paid any attention, really. Except that they seemed to be talking pretty intensely a lot of the time.”
“Arguing?”
“Not loudly, not so’s you’d notice. But they didn’t look too happy with one another.”
“Did they try to chat up any girls?”
“Not that I saw.”
“They weren’t listening to the music?”
“Not really. Some of the time. But they were sitting toward the back, closer to the bar. We were near the front, but the way the chairs were angled around the table, they were pretty much in my line of vision. When they weren’t talking, the other one, the one that killed him, would seem to be listening, but the one that got killed even put his fingers in his ears every now and then.”
“What kind of music was it?”
George shifted position and put his hands in his pockets. “Hard to describe, really. Sort of a mix between rap, reggae and acid rock. That’s about the best I can do.”
No wonder Jason had put his fingers in his ears, Banks thought. He obviously hadn’t known what kind of music to expect. But Mark Wood probably had.
“Did you see either of them talk to anyone else?”
George frowned. “No. I was far more interested in the music than in those two pillocks.” The shop bell pinged. “I’d better get back and help my mum. My dad’s down at the cash-and-carry.”
“Just a couple more questions. Please.”
“Okay. But hurry up.”
“What about those Jamaicans selling drugs you mentioned when I first talked to you?”
“What about them?”
“Was that true?”
“Yes, of course it was. I suppose I should admit I don’t know for certain they were from Jamaica, but they looked like Rastas, and one of them had dreadlocks.”
“And the drugs?”
“I saw a bit of money change hands now and then, then one of them would talk on his mobile. A while later he’d nip outside and bring back the Ecstasy or crack or hash or whatever from the person who was carrying it. They don’t carry it on them. That’s how they usually do it.”
“And you saw them doing that?”
“Sure. You think I should have reported it? You think the police don’t know what’s going on? You told me yourself the Jube has a reputation for drugs.”
“I’m sure the Drugs Squad are quite well aware of what’s going on. It doesn’t sound as if these lads are major dealers, though. Were they regulars?”
“I’d never seen them before.”
“Doing good business?”
“By the looks of it.” George sneered. “Some of the white kids think it’s cool to buy from spades.”
“Were they with anyone?”
“They were with the band as far as I could tell.”
A few connections started to form in Banks’s mind. This was the link that had been eluding him. “Were they actually playing with the band?”
George shrugged. “No, maybe roadies or something. Hangers-on.” The bell pinged again. “Look, I’d better get back. Really.”
“Right. Just one more thing. Did you see any contact at all between the Jamaicans and Jason, or Mark?”
“What? That would have been hardly likely, would it? I mean… wait a minute…”
“What?”
“Once, when I was going for a piss, I saw them pass one another in the corridor. Anyway, now I think of it, they sort of nodded at each other. Very quick, like, and expressionless. I thought it was a bit weird at the time, then I forgot about it.”
“Who nodded at whom?”
“The kid who confessed. He nodded at one of the Jamaicans. Like I said, I thought it was odd because he was with the bloke who called me a ‘Paki bastard’ and there he was, on nodding terms with a Rasta.”
“So this was after your little conflict with Jason Fox?”
“Yes.”
“That makes sense,” Banks muttered, mostly to himself. “You were very nicely set up.”
“Come again?”
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud.” Banks followed George back into the shop. “Thanks for your time, Mohammed.” He became aware of Shazia Mahmood glaring at him as he walked out onto the street.
For a moment, Banks just stood there on Gallows View as the chaotic thoughts settled into some sort of pattern, like iron filings when you hold a magnet under them. Motcombe’s drug deal with the Turk and Devon, using Mark Wood as a go-between. Mark Wood’s Jamaican wife, Mark’s connection with a reggae band and with drug dealing. Scattered Dreams. That signal between Wood and the drug dealer. Jason’s death warrant. There was a pattern all right, but now he had to come up with a way of proving it.
Banks set off toward King Street. A pneumatic drill from the building site broke the silence and sent a pack of scavenging sparrows spiraling off into the sky.
FOURTEEN
I
“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.”