“How would I know anything? I’ve been out of the country since the end of March.”
“It’s possible,” Banks said, weighing his words carefully, “that the roots of the crime lie farther back than that.”
“That’s ridiculous. You lot have far too much imagination for your own good.”
“Oh? What do you think happened?”
Tom curled his lip and looked at the carpet. “It was clearly a robbery gone wrong. Or a kidnap attempt. Dad was quite well off, you know.”
Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. “Kidnapping, eh? We’d never thought of that. Can you explain?”
“Well, that’s your job, isn’t it? But it’s hardly difficult to see how it could have been a kidnap attempt gone wrong. My father obviously wouldn’t cooperate, so they had to kill him.”
“Why not just knock him out and take him away?”
Tom shrugged. “Perhaps the gun went off by accident.”
“Then why not take the body and pretend he was still alive till they got the money?”
“How would I know? You’re supposed to be the professionals. I only said that’s what it might have been. I also suggested a bungled robbery.”
“Look, Tom, this is a pointless game we’re playing. Believe me, we’ve covered all the possibilities, and it wasn’t a kidnap attempt or a bungled burglary. I realize how difficult it is for the family to accept that a member may have been involved in something illegal, but all the evidence points that way.”
“Absurd,” spat Mary Rothwell. “Keith was an honest businessman, a good person. And if you persist in spreading these vicious rumors, we’ll have to contact our solicitor.”
“Mrs. Rothwell,” Banks said, “I’m trying to talk to your son. I’d appreciate it if you would keep quiet.” More than once he had thought about breaking the news that her husband led another existence as Robert Calvert, but he held back. In the first place, it would be cruel, and in the second, Gristhorpe said the Chief Constable wanted it kept from the press and family, if possible, at least until they developed a few more leads on the case.
Mary Rothwell glared at him, lips pressed so tight they were white around the edges.
Banks turned back to Tom. “Were you close to your father?”
“Close enough. He wasn’t… ” Tom turned up his nose. “He wasn’t a clinging, emotional sort of person.”
“But you were on good terms?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then you might know something that could help us.”
“I still don’t see how, but if I can be of any use… Ask away.”
“Did he ever mention a man called Martin Churchill?”
“Churchill? No.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“That chap in the Caribbean?”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious?” Tom looked puzzled. “You are, aren’t you? The answer’s no, of course he didn’t. Why would he?”
“Did you ever see your father with two well-dressed men, both about six feet tall, one black, one white?”
Tom frowned. “No. Look, I’m sorry but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did he ever talk to you about business?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet any of his business associates?”
“Only if they came over to dinner. And even then, I wasn’t generally invited.” Tom looked at his mother. “I had to find something else to do for the evening. Which usually wasn’t much trouble.” He glanced over at Susan, and Banks sensed a softening in his expression as he did so. He seemed interested in her presence, curious about her.
The radio had been playing a request program quietly in the background, and Banks suddenly picked out the haunting chorus of Delibes’s “Viens, Mallika… Dôme épais,” popularized as the “Rower Duet” by a television advert. Even trivialization couldn’t mar its beauty and clarity. After pausing for a moment, he went on.
“When did you leave for your holiday?”
“March,” he said. “The thirty-first. But I don’t see-”
“What about your job?”
“What job?”
“The one in the video shop in Eastvale.”
“Oh, that. I packed it in.”
“What kind of videos did they deal in?”
“All sorts. Why?”
“Under-the-counter stuff?”
“Oh, come off it, Chief Inspector. Suddenly my father’s a crook and I’m a porn merchant? You should be writing for television.” Alison looked up from her book and giggled. Tom smiled at her, obviously pleased with his insolence. “It was called Monster Videos, that place in the arcade by the bus station. Ask them if you don’t believe me.”
“Why did you leave?” Banks pressed on.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was hardly a fast track to a career.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I’m going to film school in the States.”
“I see.”
“I want to be a movie director.”
“Was that what your father wanted?”
“I don’t see that what he wanted has anything to do with it.”
It was there, the rancor, Banks thought. Time to push a little harder. “It’s just that I understood you had a falling out over your career choice. I gather he wanted you to become an accountant or a lawyer but he thought you preferred to be an idle, shiftless sod.”
“How dare you?” Mary Rothwell jumped to her feet.
“It’s all right, Mother,” Tom sneered. “Sit down. It’s all part of their game. They only say things like that to needle you into saying something you’ll regret. Just ignore it.” He looked at Susan again, as if expecting her to defend Banks, but she said nothing. He seemed disappointed.
Mary Rothwell sat down again slowly. Alison, at the other side of Tom, glanced up from Villette again for a couple of seconds, raised the corners of her lips in what passed for a smile, then went back to her book.
“Well?” said Banks.
“Well what?”
“What is it that I might needle you into regretting you said?”
“Clever. It was just a figure of speech.”