“Okay.” Banks smiled. “I think that just about wraps it up for now. Thanks, Mark, you’ve been a great help.”
“What happens to me now?”
“You make your official statement, then you go back to Armley. Eventually, there’ll be committal proceedings and a trial, but we’ll cross those bridges when we get to them. In the meantime, we’ll make sure you’re protected.” Banks looked at his watch. Just after three-thirty. Then he turned to Ken Blackstone. “For the moment, though, I think it’s about time we paid Mr. Motcombe another visit.”
IV
Leaving one of Blackstone’s most trusted DCs to take Mark Wood’s official statement, Banks and Blackstone set off in the Cavalier for Motcombe’s house. Most of the journey, they talked about getting enough evidence together for the CPS to take on Motcombe.
“I’m still not sure about this,” Banks said, driving along through Pudsey. “I can’t help feeling I’m jumping the gun. How bloody long’s Motcombe likely to get for conspiracy to commit murder? That’s assuming we can prove it. Giles Varney will whittle it down to conspiracy to assault, if he’s got any brains. We might be better off leaving him to the Drugs Squad. He’d get longer for dealing heroin. And I promised Craig McKeracher I’d wait till I had something really solid before I moved in.”
Ken Blackstone shook his head. “At this point, I don’t think we have much choice. We’ve got evidence we have to act on. Mark Wood has actually named Motcombe as one of the blokes who requested Jason Fox’s murder. Now Wood’s blurted it all out, we have to go ahead. I don’t think he’ll get such a light sentence. And this way we also get Wes and Frankie in the bargain, and maybe even Devon, too. That’d be a real plus.”
“Maybe so,” said Banks. “I hope you’re right.”
“Besides,” Blackstone added, “I’d say we’re best getting Motcombe off the streets as soon as possible. And none of what we’re doing blows Craig McKeracher’s cover. What we’ve got all came from Mark Wood.”
Banks turned down the hill to Motcombe’s house and they got out of the car. The sky was clear and the country-side shone green and gold and silver. A chill wind from the valley whistled around their ears as they stood and knocked at the front door.
No answer.
“What’s that noise?” Blackstone asked.
Straining his ears, Banks could detect a faint whining above the sound of the wind. “Sounds like an electric drill or something. He must be down in the workshop. That’s why he can’t hear us.”
“Let’s try the back.”
They walked around to the back of the house, which over-looked the valley and parkland. The sound of the drill was louder now.
Banks hammered on the back door. Still nothing. Just on the off chance, he tried the doorknob. It opened.
“Mr. Motcombe!” he called out as the two of them walked down the stairs to the workshop. “We’re coming in.” He began to feel a slight shiver of trepidation. It looked dark at the bottom, and they could be walking into a trap. Motcombe could have a Kalishnikov or an Uzi with him. He might be hiding in a dark corner ready to start blasting away at them.
But still they advanced slowly toward where the sound was coming from. Then Banks noticed something odd. The high-pitched whine the drill was making hadn’t changed the entire time they’d been there. Surely if Motcombe was working on something and really couldn’t hear them, there would be variations in the pitch of the drill – when he stuck it into a piece of wood, for example. And if he was making so much noise when he worked, he would hardly leave the back door unlocked so that anyone could walk in, would he? Banks felt the back of his neck tingle.
At last, they approached the workroom and pushed the door open slowly on the brightly lit room.
Motcombe was there all right.
His body hung at an awkward angle, naked to the waist, his polo-neck tunic hanging in shreds around his hips as if it had been ripped or cut off. His left wrist had been wedged in a vise, which had been tightened until the bones cracked and poked through the flesh. Blood caked the oiled metal. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with iron filings, shaved wood and linseed oil. And cordite. The room felt crowded, claustrophobic, even with only the two of them there. Three, if you counted the dead man.
The drill lay on the workbench. Banks didn’t want to touch it, but he wanted the sound to stop. He went over to the wall and pulled out the plug, using a handkerchief carefully, and hoping he wasn’t smudging any valuable prints. Old habits die hard. Somehow, he doubted that there would be any. People who do things like this don’t leave fingerprints.
The scene was a gruesome one. More so because of the unnaturally bright lights that Motcombe had rigged up so he could see clearly what he was working on. What Banks at first took to be bullet holes in Motcombe’s chest and stomach turned out, on further examination, to be spots where the drill had been inserted. When the bit stopped spinning, he could see it was clogged with blood and tissue.
Motcombe’s right arm was practically in shreds, striped with lacerations, patches of skin hanging off as if he’d been flayed. Someone had obviously shredded the flesh with a saw, cutting deep into the muscle and bone. Banks noticed the blood and chips of bone on the edge of a circular saw that lay on the floor beside the body.
The coup de grâce looked like two gunshot wounds to the head, one through the left eye and the other in the middle of the temple, both leaving large exit wounds.
“Well, Ken,” said Banks finally, backing away from the scene, “I can’t say I envy you sorting this little lot out.”
“No,” said Blackstone, visibly pale. “Let’s get outside. I don’t think I can stand being in here much longer.”
They stood outside the back door overlooking the valley and the peaceful village of Tong in the distance. Three large crows circled high in the blue air. Banks lit a cigarette to take the taste and smell of the workshop out of his mouth.
“Want to call it in?” he asked.
“Yes. Just give me a minute.”
“What do you think?”
Blackstone took a deep breath before answering. “You probably know as well as I do, Alan,” he said. “Either Wes Campbell or Frankie Robertson phoned Devon the minute they saw Mark Wood at Millgarth. That was what? – over four hours ago now. This pisses Devon off mightily, and he sends a couple of lads over right away to help him vent his rage. You don’t get far in Devon’s business unless you’re seen to act, and to act fast. He relies heavily on pure fear. Who knows, maybe he’s even made a down payment to Motcombe and wants his money back, too? So they either torture him to find out where the money is, or they do it for fun, just to teach him a lesson. Then they execute him. Bang, bang.”
Banks nodded. “Either that or they decided they didn’t like Mr. H’s politics when Mark told them who he really was.”
“It’s Devon’s style, Alan,” Blackstone went on. “Two head shots with a thirty-eight, by the looks of it. Remember those murders I told you about in New York, Toronto, Chapeltown?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Same MO. Torture and two head shots. It still doesn’t help us prove anything. I don’t suppose anyone can tie Devon to the scene. He’ll have an alibi you can’t break, and there’ll never be any trace of a murder weapon.”
“We’ve still got Mark Wood to use against him.”
“If he doesn’t suddenly lose his memory the minute he hears about what happened to Motcombe. I probably would if I were him.”
“And don’t forget Campbell and Robertson. You’ve got them, too. They might not be quite as tough as they seem once you put the pressure on. Especially if they’re deprived of their narcotic sustenance. And I’ll bet you’ve got records of any telephone calls they made from Millgarth.”