Blackstone had, in fact, become something of an expert on art fraud after his degree, and he often found himself called in to help out when something of that nature happened. In addition, he was a fair landscape artist himself, and his work had been exhibited several times. Banks remembered Blackstone and Sandra getting into a long conversation about the Pre-Raphaelites at a colleague’s wedding once, and remembered the stirrings of jealousy he had felt. Though he was eager to learn, read, look and listen as much as his time allowed, Banks was always aware of his working-class background and his lack of a true formal education.
They arrived at a car guarded by two hot-looking uniformed constables and Banks stood back to survey it. Ancient, but not old enough to attract attention as an antique, the light blue Ford Escort was rusted around the bottom of the chassis and had spider-leg cracks on the passenger side of the windscreen. It matched the description, as far as that went.
“How long’s it been here?” Banks asked.
“Don’t know,” said Blackstone. “Our lads didn’t notice it until last night. When they ran the number they found it was stolen.”
Banks knelt by the front tire. Flat. There was plenty of soil and gravel lodged in the grooves. They could have it analyzed and at least discover if it came from around Arkbeck Farm. He looked through the grimy window. The beige upholstery was dirty, cracked and split. A McDonald’s coffee cup lay crushed on the floor at the driver’s side, but apart from that he could see nothing else inside.
“We’ve looked in the boot,” said Blackstone. “Nothing. Not even a jack or a spare tire. I’ve arranged for it to be taken to our police garage for a thorough forensic examination, but I thought you’d like a look at it in situ first.”
“Thanks,” said Banks. “I don’t expect we’ll get any prints, if they were pros, but you never know. Who’s the lucky owner?”
“Bloke called Ronald Hamilton.”
“When did he report it missing?”
Blackstone paused before answering. “Friday morning. Said he left it in the street as usual after he got in about five or six in the evening and it was gone when he went out at ten the next morning. Thought it was maybe kids joy-riding. There’s been a lot of it on the estate lately. It’s not the safest place in the city. He lives on the Raynville estate in Bramley. Ring any bells?”
Banks shook his head. Pamela Jeffreys lived in Armley, which wasn’t far away, and Daniel Clegg lived in Chapel Allerton, a fair distance in both miles and manners. Most likely the killers had picked it at random a good distance from where they lived. “That’s four days ago, Ken,” said Banks. “And nobody spotted it before last night?”
Again, Blackstone hesitated. “ Hamilton ’s an unemployed laborer,” he said finally. “He’s got at least one wife and three kids that we know of, and lately he’s been having a few problems with the social. He’s also got a record. Dealing. Aggravated assault.”
“You thought he’d arranged to have it nicked for the insurance?”
Blackstone smiled. “Something like that. I wasn’t involved personally. I don’t know what you lot do, but here in the big city we don’t send Detective Inspectors out on routine traffic incidents.”
Banks ignored the sarcasm. It was just Blackstone’s manner. “So your lads didn’t exactly put a rush on it?”
“That’s right.” Blackstone glanced toward the horizon and sighed. “Any idea, Alan, how many car crimes we’ve got in the city now? You yokels wouldn’t believe it. So when some scurvy knave comes on with a story about a beat-up old Escort, you think he’d have to pay somebody to steal that piece of shit. So let the fucking insurance company pay. They can afford it. In the meantime we’ve got joy-riding kids, real villains and organized gangs of car thieves to deal with. I’m not making excuses, Alan.”
“Yeah, I know.” Banks leaned against a red Orion. The metal burned through his shirt, so he stood up straight again.
“Didn’t you once tell me you came up from the Met for a peaceful time in rural Yorkshire?” Blackstone asked.
Banks smiled. “I did.”
“Getting it?”
“I can only suppose it’s got proportionately worse down there.”
Blackstone laughed. “Indeed. Business is booming.”
“Have you talked to Hamilton?”
“Yes. This morning. He knows nothing. Believe me, he’s so scared of the police he’d sell his own mother down the tubes if he thought we were after her.” Blackstone made an expression of distaste. “You know the type, Alan, belligerent one minute, yelling that you’re picking on him because he’s black, then arse-licking the next. Makes you want to puke.”
“Where’s he from?”
“ Jamaica. He’s legit; we checked. Been here ten years.”
“What’s his story?”
“Saw nothing, heard nothing, knows nothing. To tell you the truth, I got the impression he’d driven back from the pub after a skinful then settled in front of the telly with a few cans of lager while his wife fed the kiddies and put them to bed. After that he probably passed out. Whole bloody place smelled of shitty nappies and roll-ups and worse. We could probably do him for possession if it was worth our while. At ten the next morning he staggers out to go and sign on, finds his car missing and, bob’s your uncle, does the outraged citizen routine on the local bobby, who’s got more sense, thank the lord.”
Blackstone stood, slightly hunched, with his hands in his pockets, and kicked at small stones on the tarmac. You could see your face in his shoes.
“Do me a favor, Ken, and have another go at him. You said he was done for dealing?”
“Uh-huh. Small stuff. Mostly cannabis, a little coke.”
“It’s probably just a coincidence that the car used belongs to a drug dealer, but pull his record and have another go at him all the same. Find out who his suppliers are. And see if he has any connections with St. Corona. Friends, family, whatever. There might be a drug connection or a Caribbean connection in Rothwell’s murder, and it’s a remote possibility that Mr. Hamilton might have done some work for the organization behind it, whoever they are.”
“You mean he might have loaned his car?”
“It’s possible. I doubt it. I think we’re dealing with cleverer crooks than that, but we’d look like the rear end of a pantomime horse if we didn’t check it out.”
“Will do.”
“Have you questioned the neighbors?”
“We’re doing a house-to-house. Nothing so far. Nobody sees anything on these estates.”
“So that’s that?”
“Looks like it. For the moment, anyway.”
“No car-park attendant?”