“Clegg?”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Let’s put it this way. If Rothwell were laundering money for someone, there’d be little, if any, contact between him and his masters, wouldn’t there?”
“That would seem to be one point of a laundering operation,” Banks agreed. “Certainly Tom Rothwell seemed genuinely puzzled when I brought up Martin Churchill.”
“Right. And Clegg was the only other person we suspect was involved, and he had information about Rothwell’s personal life.”
“So you reckon Clegg was behind it?”
“It’s a theory, isn’t it? They weren’t exactly friends, Alan. Not according to what you’ve told me. They were business colleagues. Different thing. It was a matter of you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Strange bedfellows, maybe. And crooked too. It’s an odd thing is a professional gone bad. They talk about bent coppers, but what about bent lawyers, bent accountants, bent doctors? If push came to shove, would you expect one crooked businessman to stick up for another?”
“So you think Clegg was not just involved in the laundering business but in Rothwell’s murder, too?”
“Aye. He could be our link.”
“And his disappearance?”
“Scarpered. He knew what was coming, knew when. Maybe they paid him well. It doesn’t matter whether he was scared of us or them, the result was the same. He took his money and ran, collected two hundred pounds when he passed go, didn’t go to jail. Then his bosses couldn’t get in touch with him, so they sent their two goons to find him. The timing’s right.”
“What about this scenario,” Banks offered. “Maybe Churchill had Clegg killed, too. With Rothwell gone, Clegg might just be a nuisance who knew too much, a loose cannon on the deck. If Churchill is planning on coming here, maybe he wanted a clean break.”
Gristhorpe took a sip of his beer. “Possible, I’ll grant you.”
“You know, it’s just struck me,” said Banks, “but do we know if Clegg ever practiced criminal law?”
“Seems to be the only kind he practiced,” replied Gristhorpe, then held up his hand and grinned as Banks groaned. “All right, all right, Alan. I promise. No more bad lawyer jokes. As far as we know he didn’t. He’s a solicitor, not a barrister, so he didn’t represent clients in court. But people might have come to him, and he could have referred them. Why?”
“I was just wondering where a man like Clegg might meet a killer for hire.”
“Local Conservative Club, probably,” said Gristhorpe. “But I see what you mean. It’s a loose end we’ve got to pursue. If we assume Clegg was involved in arranging for Rothwell’s murder, then we can look through his contacts and his activities to find a link with a couple of likely assassins. We’ve got that and the wadding. Not very much, is it?”
“No,” said Banks. “What if Clegg’s dead?”
“Nothing changes. West Yorkshire police keep looking for a body and we keep nosing around asking questions. We could get in touch with Interpol, see if he’s holed up somewhere in Spain.” He looked at his watch. “Look, Alan, I’d better get finished and be off. I’ve got another meeting with the Chief Constable this afternoon.”
“Okay. I’ll be over in a minute.”
Gristhorpe nodded and left, but no sooner had Banks started to let his imagination work on Clegg meeting two hired guns in a smoky saloon than the superintendent poked his head around the door again. “They think they’ve found the killers’ car,” he said. “Abandoned near Leeds city center. Ken Blackstone asks if you want to go and have a look.”
Banks nodded. “All roads lead to Leeds,” he sighed. “I might as well bloody move there.” And he followed Gristhorpe out.
Chapter 9
1
A tape of Satie’s piano music, especially the “Trois Gymnopédies,” kept Banks calm on his way to Leeds, even though the A1 was busy with juggernauts and commercial travellers driving too fast. He found the car park without too much difficulty; it was an old school playground surrounded by the rubble of demolished buildings just north of the city center.
“Cheers, Alan,” said Detective Inspector Ken Blackstone. “You look like a bloody villain with those sunglasses on. How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain.” Banks shook his hand and took off the dark glasses. He had met Blackstone at a number of courses and functions, and the two of them had always got along well enough. “And how’s West Yorkshire CID?”
“Overworked, as usual. Bit of a bugger, isn’t it?” said Blackstone. “The weather, I mean.”
Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. Sometimes when it itched, it was trying to tell him something; other times, like this, it was just the heat. “I remember an American once told me that all we English do is complain about the weather,” he said. “It’s either too hot or too cold for us, too wet or too dry.”
Blackstone laughed. “True. Still, the station could do with a few of those air-conditioner thingies the Yanks use. It’s hotter indoors than out. Sends the crime figures up, you know, a heat wave. Natives get restless.”
A light breeze had sprung up from the west, but it did nothing to quell the warmth of the sun. Banks took off his sports jacket and slung it over his shoulder as they walked across the soft tarmac to the abandoned car. His tie hung askew, as usual, and his top shirt button was open so he could breathe easily. He could feel the sweat sticking his white cotton shirt to his back. This weather was following a pattern he recognized; it would get hotter and hazier until it ended in a storm.
“What have you got?” he asked.
“You’ll see in a minute.” Despite the weather, Ken Blackstone looked cool as usual. He wore a lightweight navy-blue suit with a gray herringbone pattern, a crisp white shirt with a stiff collar, and a garish silk tie, secured by a gold tieclip in the shape of a pair of handcuffs. Banks was willing to bet that his top button was fastened.
Blackstone was tall and slim with light brown hair, thin on top but curly over the ears, and a pale complexion, definitely not the sun-worshipping kind. His Cupid’s bow lips and wire-rimmed glasses made him look about thirty, when he was, in fact, closer to Banks’s age. He had a long, dour sort of face and spoke with a local accent tempered by three years at Bath University, where he had studied art history.