“Well, not many of them like playing soldiers, that’s for certain. I don’t know what odds I’d take against how many of them actually agree with some of the stuff Motcombe’s lot comes out with, though. Anyway, can I ask you one more favor, Ken?”
“Go ahead. You’re doing pretty well for a suspended copper so far.”
“Thanks. Don’t move on the mole until I’ve played out my hand.”
“Why not?”
“Same reason I asked you to keep quiet about Amsterdam. It could jeopardize Craig’s cover as Rupert Francis. Or even his life. I don’t think Motcombe’s the forgiving sort.”
Blackstone squirmed and scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. My lips are sealed. Want to tell me more?”
Banks told him about Motcombe’s gangs of steamers and muggers, then about the Turkish connection and the possible heroin deal with Devon, the deal that Mark Wood was to play such a big part in. Blackstone listened without comment, shaking his head every now and then.
“That’s quite a conspiracy,” he said finally. “It makes me wonder about this suspension business. Do you think there’s anything more to it?”
“Like what?”
Blackstone paused a moment. “More sinister. Remember when John Stalker got taken off that investigation into the RUC’s shoot-to-kill policy in Northern Ireland a few years back?”
“Yes.”
“I seem to remember they mocked up some story about him consorting with criminals just to shut him up and stop him embarrassing them. It was all political.”
Banks shook his head. “A week or two ago I might have been paranoid enough to agree with you,” he said. “The old conspiracy theory has its appeal. Especially when Dirty Dick Burgess appeared on the scene. And it wouldn’t have surprised me if Jimmy Riddle had been in the BNP at the very least. But I don’t think so. Whatever he is, Riddle isn’t a card-carrying fascist. He’s just a pushy, bullheaded arse-hole, a frustrated headmaster with a mean streak. Put him on the inner-city streets where the real coppers work and he’d shit himself in five minutes.”
“Maybe so. But you’re certain there’s nothing more to it?”
“Pretty much. He’s been looking for an excuse to nobble me ever since he took the job, and now he thinks he’s found it.”
“Okay. So how can I help?”
“I’m going to ask you a couple more favors and I want to give you the chance to say no. I don’t want you to stick your neck out for me. I’m giving you fair warning.”
Blackstone paused, then said, “Go ahead. I’ll tell you if I don’t want to hear any more. Or when.”
“Fair enough.” Banks lit a cigarette. “The way I see it, though, is that most of what’s going on here is on your patch anyway, so you can regard me as informant, consultant, whatever the hell you like, as far as official records go.”
Blackstone laughed. “Clever bugger. Thought it all out, haven’t you? You’d have made a good lawyer. All right. I’m interested. I only hope you don’t expect paying, that’s all.”
Banks smiled. “This is for free, Ken. First off, I’d like to know whether a solicitor called Giles Varney has ever acted for Neville Motcombe. There might be some record in the paperwork on that receiving charge. Or, better still, last Thursday, after that fracas at Frank Hepplethwaite’s funeral. Someone got Motcombe out of Halifax nick pretty damn quickly.”
Blackstone got his notebook out. “How d’you spell that?”
Banks spelled “Varney” for him.
Blackstone smiled. “Well, that ought to be easy enough to do without compromising my career.”
“The next request might be a bit tougher, and I’ll understand if you say no. There was a band from Leeds playing at the Jubilee in Eastvale on the Saturday Jason Fox was killed. They’re called Scattered Dreams. Someone who was there told me that there were a couple of Jamaicans dealing small quantities of hash, crack and Ecstasy. Apparently, they might have been with the band in some capacity. Roadies, hangers-on, what have you.”
Blackstone nodded. “A lot of small dealers are mobile now they’ve saturated the urban markets. And it makes sense they’d target places where there’s loud music and lots of kids. I think I’ve heard of the Jubilee. Is that the one that advertises in the Evening Post?”
“That’s the one. I suppose the Drugs Squad keeps tabs on these bands and their itinerant dealers?”
“I hope so,” said Blackstone. “Though you never quite know what the DS is up to. They’re a law unto themselves half the time.”
“Anyway,” Banks went on, ticking off on his fingers, “Mark Wood had passing contact with one of these lads at the Jubilee. My thinking is that they might have been in this together. First off, I need to know if this band is the same one Mark Wood roadied for a couple of years back, when he was arrested on the drugs charge.”
Blackstone nodded.
“And then I’d like the names of the Jamaicans who were on the fringes of Scattered Dreams that night, if you can get them. I know that might be a bit more difficult.”
“I can only try,” said Blackstone. “Actually, I know a bloke on the Drugs Squad who can keep his mouth shut. We did some courses at Bramshill together a few years back. Bloke called Richie Hall. He’s a Jamaican himself, and he’s done a fair bit of undercover work over the years. Anyway, the point is, he knows the music and drugs scene up north better than anyone I know. If he doesn’t know who they are, nobody does.”
“Great. There might even be a short cut. Mark Wood’s wife’s Jamaican. Her maiden name is Shirelle Jade Campbell. They seem to have met up around the time Wood got involved with the band, and I’m wondering if there isn’t maybe a family connection. A brother, cousin or something. At least that gives you a name to work on.”
“I’ll pass it on to Richie. Like I said, if anyone knows, Richie does.”
“You sure you don’t mind doing this, Ken?”
Blackstone shook his head. “Nah. What are mates for. I’ll warn you, though, you’ll be bloody lucky to get anything out of these lads even if we do track them down.”
“I know that. Actually, if I’m right, I was thinking of a slightly more devious approach to the truth. But let’s wait and see, shall we?”
“Just as long as your expectations aren’t too high. Who knows, there might even be a bit of glory in this for me.”
Banks smiled. “Maybe. Whatever happens, there’ll be no Brownie points for me from Jimmy Riddle. But I promise you, if there’s any credit to be taken, it’s yours. And lunch is on me.”
“Will you do me one small favor, Alan?”
“Name it.”
“Just be bloody careful, that’s all.”
II
By nine o’clock on Friday morning, Banks felt edgy and restless alone in the house. He was pleased with himself, however, for avoiding the booze completely on Thursday evening, and for actually managing to finish The Power and the Glory as he listened to Beethoven’s late quartets. So he felt full of energy when he woke up on Friday. There was nothing he could do until he heard from Ken Blackstone except pace the floor.
When his phone rang at about half past nine, he grabbed the receiver on the first ring. “Yes? Banks here.”
“Alan, it’s Ken.”
“What have you got?”
“Some answers for you. I hope. In answer to your first question, yes, Giles Varney is Neville Motcombe’s solicitor and has acted for him on a number of occasions. Their professional relationship goes back to the time Motcombe started buying property in the Leeds area, about four years ago. It seems like they’ve been bosom buddies ever since.”
“Does Varney have any other known right-wing connections?”
“Yes. I checked around and he’s pretty well known in some of the more extreme right circles.”