Gristhorpe had also given a brief press conference first thing in the morning. The sooner photographs of Keith Rothwell and descriptions of the killers, balaclavas and all, were sitting beside the public’s breakfast plates or flashing on their TV screens, the sooner information would start to come in. The news was too late for that morning’s papers, but it would make local radio and television, the Yorkshire Evening Post, and tomorrow’s national dailies.
Of course, Gristhorpe had given hardly any details about the murder itself. At first, he had even resisted the idea of releasing Rothwell’s name. After all, there had been no formal identification, and they didn’t have his fingerprints on file for comparison. On the other hand, there was little doubt as to what had happened, and they were hardly going to drag Alison or her mother along to the mortuary to identify the remains.
Gristhorpe had also been in touch with the antiterrorist squad at Scotland Yard. Yorkshire was far from a stranger to IRA action. People still remembered the M62 bomb in 1974, when a coach carrying British servicemen and their families was blown up, killing eleven and wounding fourteen. Many even claimed to have heard the explosion from as far away as Leeds and Bradford. More recently, two policemen had been shot by IRA members during a routine traffic check on the A1.
The antiterrorist squad would be able to tell Gristhorpe whether Rothwell had any connections, however tenuous, that would make him a target. As an accountant, he could, for example, have been handling money for a terrorist group. In addition, forensic information and details of the modus operandi would be made known to the squad, who would see if the information matched anything on file.
While Gristhorpe handled the news media and Richmond set up the Murder Room, Banks and Susan Gay had conducted a breakfast-time house-to-house of Relton and Fortford – including a visit to the Rose and Crown and a generous breakfast from Ian Falkland – trying to find out a bit about Rothwell, and whether anyone had seen or heard anything unusual on the night of the murder.
Gristhorpe, Richmond and Susan Gay were already in the room when Banks arrived and poured himself a large black coffee. The conference room was nicknamed the “Boardroom” because of its well-polished, heavy oval table and ten stiff-backed chairs, not to mention the coarse-textured burgundy wallpaper, which gave the room a constant aura of semi-darkness, and the large oil painting (in ornate gilt frame) of one of Eastvale’s most successful nineteenth-century wool merchants, looking decidedly sober and stiff in his tight-fitting suit and starched collar.
“Right,” said Gristhorpe, “time to get up to date. Alan?”
Banks slipped a few sheets of paper from his briefcase and rubbed his eyes. “Not much so far, I’m afraid. Rothwell was trained as an accountant. At least we’ve got that much confirmed. Some of the locals in Relton and Fortford knew him, but not well. Apparently, he was a quiet sort of bloke. Kept to himself.”
“Who did he work for?”
“Self-employed. We got this from Ian Falkland, landlord of the Rose and Crown in Fortford. He said Rothwell used to drop by now and then for a quick jar before dinner. Never had more than a couple of halves. Well-liked, quiet, decent sort of chap. Anyway, he used to work for Hatchard and Pratt, the Eastvale firm, until he started his own business. Falkland used him for the pub’s accounts. I gather Rothwell saved him a bob or two from the Inland Revenue.” Banks scratched the small scar by his right eye. “There’s a bit more to it than that, though,” he went on. “ Falkland got the impression that Rothwell owned a few businesses as well, and that accountancy was becoming more of a sideline for him. We couldn’t get any more than that, but we’ll be having a close look at his office today.”
Gristhorpe nodded.
“And that’s about it,” Banks said. “The Rothwell family had been living at Arkbeck Farm for almost five years. They used to live in Eastvale.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going out to Arkbeck Farm again after this meeting. I’m hoping Mrs. Rothwell will have recovered enough to tell us something about what happened.”
“Good. Any leads on the two men?”
“Not yet, but Susan spoke to someone who thinks he saw a car.”
Gristhorpe looked at Susan.
“That’s right, sir,” she said. “It was around sunset last night, before it got completely dark. A retired schoolteacher from Fortford was coming back home after visiting his daughter in Pateley Bridge. He said he liked to take the lonely roads over the moors.”
“Where did he see this car?”
“At the edge of the moors above Relton, sir. It was parked in a turn-off, just a dip by the side of the road. I think it used to be an old drover’s track, but it’s not used anymore, and only the bit by the road is clear. The rest has been taken over by moorland. Anyway, sir, the thing is that the way the road curves in a wide semi-circle around the farm, this spot would only be about a quarter of a mile away on foot. Remember that copse opposite the farmhouse? Well, it’s the same one that straggles up the daleside as far as this turn-off. It would provide excellent cover if someone wanted to get to the farm without being seen, and Alison wouldn’t have heard the car approaching if it had been parked way up on the road.”
“Sounds promising,” said Gristhorpe. “Did the witness notice anything about the car?”
“Yes, sir. He said it looked like an old Escort. It was a light color. For some reason he thought pale blue. And there was either rust or mud or grass around the lower chassis.”
“It’s hardly the bloody stretch-limousine you associate with hit men, is it?” Gristhorpe said.
“More of a Yorkshire version,” said Banks.
Gristhorpe laughed. “Aye. Better follow it up, then, Susan. Get a description of the car out. I don’t suppose your retired schoolteacher happened to see two men dressed in black carrying a shotgun, did he?”
Susan grinned. “No, sir.”
“Rothwell didn’t do any farming himself, did he?” Gristhorpe asked Banks.
“No. Only that vegetable patch we saw at the back. He rented out the rest of his land to neighboring farmers. There’s a fellow I know farms up near Relton I want to talk to. Pat Clifford. He should know if there were any problems in that area.”
“Good,” said Gristhorpe. “As you know, a lot of locals don’t like newcomers buying up empty farms and not using them properly.”
Gristhorpe, Banks knew, had lived in the farmhouse above Lyndgarth all his life. Perhaps he had even been born there. He had sold off most of the land after his parents died and kept only enough for a small garden and for his chief off-duty indulgence: a dry-stone wall he worked on periodically, which went nowhere and fenced nothing in.
“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “there’s been some bad feeling. I can’t see a local farmer hiring a couple of killers – people like to take care of their own around these parts – but stranger things have happened. And remember: shotguns are common as cow-clap around farms. Anything on that wadding yet?”