Blackstone nodded and looked around, then he sighed. “Well, we’d better set things in motion. Can I use your mobile?”
“Be my guest.”
They walked around to Banks’s car at the front of the house and Banks handed him the phone. Blackstone tapped in the numbers, gave the details and requested more police, a murder van and a SOCO team.
“I’ll tell you something,” he said when he’d finished. “Your chief constable isn’t going to like it, is he? Remember the song and dance he made in the paper about solving the murder, keeping race out of it?”
“Bugger Jimmy Riddle,” said Banks. “This isn’t a matter of race, it’s drugs and greed. Anyway, they’re West Yorkshire’s Jamaicans, not ours. And I wasn’t even here.”
“What do you think now?” Blackstone asked, handing Banks the phone. “Still want to come and work for West Yorkshire?”
Banks stubbed out his cigarette on the wall and put the butt in his pocket to avoid contaminating the scene. “I don’t know, Ken. I really don’t know. I might not have much choice, might I? Anyway, right now, I think I’d better make myself scarce before the troops arrive and all hell breaks loose. You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll catch a lift back to Millgarth from one of the patrol cars. Go. Go.”
Banks shook Blackstone’s hand. “Thanks, Ken. I’d be interested to hear you tell them why you’re here and how you got here, but I really can’t stay.”
“I’ll tell them I got the bus,” said Blackstone. “Now be a good lad, Alan, and bugger off back to Eastvale. I think I hear the sound of sirens.”
Banks got in his car. He couldn’t hear sirens, but the sound of Neville Motcombe’s electric drill still whined in his ears.
A mile or so down the road, the first patrol cars passed him, lights and sirens going. No hurry, Banks thought. No hurry at all. He lit another cigarette and switched on the tape player. Robert Louis Stevenson, sung by Bryn Terfeclass="underline"
Banks looked at his watch. Just gone half past four. Hard to believe, but they had hardly been half an hour at Mot-combe’s house. He still had plenty of time to go and pick up Tracy for the weekend, even with the rush-hour traffic. Plenty of time.
About the Author
PETER ROBINSON grew up in Yorkshire, England, and has lived in North America for twenty-five years. His previous Inspector Banks novels include In a Dry Season – which was nominated for the Edgar®, won the Anthony Award, and was named a New York Times Notable Book – and the international bestsellers Aftermath, Close to Home, and Playing with Fire. You can visit his website at www.inspectorbanks.com.
