Final Account (36 page)

The train rattled out of the station. Banks managed to find a seat next to a young woman who smiled at him briefly as he sat down, then went back to reading her copy of
PC Magazine
. Banks had his battered brown leather briefcase with him, and its chief contents were his omnibus paperback copy of Waugh's
Sword of Honour
and his Walkman. He opened the book at the marker and started to read, but every so often he glanced at the man in the green short-sleeve shirt who sat about four seats down, over to his left. The rucksack and the orange anorak lay on the luggage rack above.

The train moved in a comforting rhythm, but Banks couldn't help feeling tense. He left the Walkman in his briefcase because he was too distracted to listen to music.

They could probably take Jameson right now, he thought. He and Jim Hatchley. Just approach quietly from behind like anyone
going to the toilet and grab an arm each. The gun, surely, was up in the rucksack on the luggage rack.

But it wasn't worth the risk. Something could go wrong. Jameson could hold the entire coach hostage. It didn't bear thinking about. This way was far safer and would, with a little patience, skill and luck, guarantee success.

Banks and Hatchley had got on the train simply to keep an eye on Jameson. At the station, Superintendent Jarrell had talked to the Yard, who promised that there would be a number of plainclothes officers waiting at Marylebone, mixed in with the crowds. These men were experts at surveillance, and they would keep Jameson in sight, no matter how he travelled, without being spotted, until he arrived at his final destination, be it hotel or house.

Some were posing as taxi-drivers, and, with luck, Jameson would get into one of their cabs. Banks had every intention of trying to keep up with the chase, but it was comforting to know that if he lost sight of Jameson, someone else would have him. There were plainclothes officers at all the stops on the way, too, in case he got off, but Jameson had bought a ticket for London and it was almost certain that was where he was heading. Given his past, he would likely know someone there who could help get him out of the country. What Banks hoped—and this was one of the main reasons for letting their quarry go to ground— was that Jameson would lead them to his accomplice in the Rothwell murder.

As the train rattled out of Rickmansworth, Jameson got up and walked past Banks on his way to the toilet. Banks looked down at his book, not registering the words his eyes passed over. While Jameson was gone, he stared at the khaki rucksack and held himself back. How easy it would be, he thought, just to take it, then grab Jameson when he came back. But he had to keep thinking like a policeman, not give in to the maverick instinct, however strong. This way, with a little patience, the catch might be bigger.

And there was another reason. The gun might not be in the rucksack. Jameson's trousers were of the bulky, many-pocketed kind favoured by ramblers. Banks had glanced quickly as he went by and hadn't been able to discern the weight or outline of a gun, but it
could
be there, and there were too many civilians present to make the risk worthwhile. Best wait. He thought of how much money there might be in the rucksack and smiled at how ironic it would be if someone snatched it while Jameson was having a piss.

Jameson came back. They passed Harrow and entered a landscape of factory yards, piles of tires and orange oil drums, pallets, warehouses, schoolyards full of screaming kids, bleak housing estates, concrete overpasses. Before long, the people in the carriage were standing up to get their jackets and bags as the train rumbled slowly into Marylebone station, all anxious to be first off.

Banks spotted Hatchley ahead of him, his head above most people in the crowd that shuffled through the ticket gate. Jameson had his anorak on now and was easy to keep in sight. Banks noticed him look around and lick his lips every now and then, sad, cruel puppy-dog eyes scanning the station forecourt.

But there was nothing to see. Nothing out of the ordinary. The uniformed Transport Police went about their business as usual, people leafed through magazines at the bookstall or headed for the buffet, checked the schedule displays, ran for trains. Carts of luggage and mail threaded in and out of the crowds, announcements about forthcoming departures came over the public-address system in the usual monotone echoing from the roof, where pigeons nested. To Banks, the station smelled of diesel oil and soot, though the age of steam was long gone.

Jameson made his way through the exit and managed to get a taxi. That was their first stroke of good fortune. If things went according to plan, the driver would be a DC; if not, then a taxi crawling through London traffic was easy enough for even a one-legged septuagenarian on foot to follow.

Banks opened the door of the next taxi, Hatchley beside him now. Banks was dying to jump in and say, “Follow that taxi!” but the driver didn't want to let them in. He leaned over and tried to pull the door shut, holding up a police ID card. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “Police business. There's another one behind.” Just in time, Banks managed to get his own card out. “Snap,” he said. “Now open the fucking door.”

“Sorry, sir,” said the driver, eyes on the road, following Jameson's cab through the thick traffic on Marylebone Road. “I wasn't to know. They never said to expect a DCI jumping in the cab.”

“Forget it,” said Banks. “I'm assuming it's one of your men driving in the taxi ahead?”

“Yes, sir. DC Formby. He's a good bloke. Don't worry, we're not going to lose the bastard.”

With excruciating slowness, the taxis edged their way south towards Kensington, along the busy High Street and down a side street of five- or six-storey white buildings with black metal railings at the front. Jameson's taxi stopped outside one that announced itself a HOTEL on the smoked glass over the huge shiny black doors. Across the street came the sound of drilling where workmen stood on scaffolding renovating the building opposite. The air was dry with drifting stone dust and thick with exhaust fumes. Jameson got out, looked around quickly and went into the hotel. His taxi drove off.

“Right,” said Banks. “Looks like we've run the bastard to earth. Now we wait for the reinforcements.”

IV

For grey, the hotel manager could have given John Major a good run for his money. His suit was grey; his hair was grey; his voice was grey. He also had one of those faces—receding chin, goofy teeth, stick-out ears—that attract such abusive and bullying attention at school. At the moment, his face was grey, too.

He reminded Banks of Parkinson, a rather unpleasant large-nosed boy who had been the butt of ridicule and recipient of the occasional thump in the fourth form. Banks had always felt sorry for Parkinson—had even defended him once or twice—until he had met him later in life, fully transformed into a self-serving, arrogant and humourless Labour MP. Then he felt Parkinson probably hadn't been thumped enough.

The manager had obviously never seen so many rough-looking, badly dressed coppers gathered in one place since they stopped showing repeats of
The Sweeney
. Jeans abounded, as did leather jackets, anoraks, blousons, T-shirts and grubby trainers. There wasn't a uniform, a tie or a well-polished shoe in sight, and the only suit was Sergeant Hatchley's blue polyester one, which was so shiny you could see your face in it.

It was also obvious that a number of the officers were armed and that two of them wore bullet-proof vests over their T-shirts.

Short of the SAS, Police Support Units or half a dozen Armed Response Vehicles, none of which the police authorities wanted the public to see mounting a major offensive on a quiet Kensington hotel on a Thursday lunch-time, these two were probably the best you could get. Vest One, the tallest, was called Spike, probably because of his hair, and his smaller, more hirsute associate was called Shandy. Spike was doing all the talking.

“See, squire,” he said to the wide-eyed hotel manager, “our boss tells us we don't want a lot of fuss about this. None of this evacuating the area bollocks you see on telly. We go in, we disarm him nice and quiet, then bob's your uncle, we're out of your hair for good. Okay? No problems for us and no bad publicity for the hotel.”

The manager, clearly not used to being called “squire,” swallowed, bobbing an oversize Adam's apple, and nodded.

“But what we do need to do,” Spike went on, “is to clear the floor. Now, is there anyone else up there apart from this Jameson?”

The manager looked at the keys. “Only room 316,” he said. “It's lunch-time. People usually go out for lunch.”

“What about the chambermaids?”

“Finished.”

“Good,” said Spike, then turned to one of the others in trainers, jeans and leather jacket. “Smiffy, go get number 316 out quietly, okay?”

“Right, boss,” said Smiffy, and headed for the stairs.

Spike tapped his long fingers on the desk and turned to Banks. “You know this bloke, this Jameson, right, sir?” he said.

Banks was surprised he had remembered the honorific. “Not personally,” he said, and filled Spike in.

“He's shot a policeman, right?”

“Yes. Two of them. One's dead and the other's still in the operating room waiting to find out if he's got a brain left.”

Spike slipped a stick of Wrigley's spearmint gum from its wrapper and popped it in his mouth. “What do you suggest?” he asked between chews.

Banks didn't know if Spike was being polite or deferential in asking an opinion, but he didn't get a chance to find out. As Smiffy came down the stairs with a rather dazed old dear clutching a pink dressing-gown around her throat, the phone rang at the desk. The manager answered it, turned even more grey as he listened, then said, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. At once, sir.”

“Well?” Spike asked when the manager had put the phone down. “What's put the wind up you?”

“It was
him
. The man in room 324.”

“What's he want?”

“He wants a roast beef sandwich and a bottle of beer sent up to his room.”

“How'd he sound?”

“Sound?”

“Yeah. You know, did he seem suspicious, nervous?”

“Oh. No, just ordinary.”

“Right on,” said Spike, grinning at Banks. “Opportunity knocks.” He turned back to the manager. “Do the doors up there have those peep-hole things, so you can see who's knocking?”

“No.”

“Chains?”

“Yes.”

“No problem. Right,” said Spike. “Come with me, Shandy. The rest of you stay here and make sure no-one gets in or out. We got the back covered?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the blousons answered.

“Fire escape?”

“That, too, sir.”

“Good.” Spike looked at Banks. “I don't suppose you're armed?” Banks shook his head. “No time.”

Spike frowned. “Better stay down here then, sir. Sorry, but I can't take the responsibility. You probably know the rules better than I do.”

Banks nodded. He gave Spike and Shandy a floor's start, then turned to Sergeant Hatchley. “Stay here, Jim,” he said. “I don't want to lead you astray.”

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped into the stairwell. One of the Yard men in the lobby noticed but made no move to stop him. At the first-floor landing, Banks heard someone wheezing behind him and turned.

“Don't worry, I'm not deaf,” said Hatchley. “I just thought you might like some company anyway.”

Banks grinned.

“Mind if I ask you what we're doing this for?” Hatchley whispered, as they climbed the next flight.

“To find out what happens,” said Banks. “I've got a funny feeling about this. Something Spike said.”

“You know what curiosity did.”

They reached the third floor. Banks peeked around the stairwell and put his arm out to hold Hatchley back.

Glancing again, Banks saw Spike point at his watch and mouth something to Shandy. Shandy nodded. They drew their weapons and walked slowly along the corridor towards Jameson's room.

The worn carpet that covered the floor couldn't stop the old boards creaking with each footstep. Banks saw Spike knock on the door and heard a muffled grunt from inside.

“Room service,” said Spike.

The door rattled open—on a chain, by the sound of it. Someone—Spike or Jameson—swore loudly, then Banks saw Shandy rear back like a wild horse and kick the door open. The chain snapped. Spike and Shandy charged inside and Banks heard two shots in close succession, then, after a pause of three or four seconds, another shot, not quite as loud.

Banks and Hatchley waited where they were for a minute, out of sight. Then, when Banks saw Spike come out of the room and lean against the door jamb, he and Hatchley walked into the corridor. Spike saw them coming and said, “It's all over. You can go in now, if you like. Silly bugger had to try it on, didn't he?”

They walked into the room. Banks could smell cordite from the gunfire. Jameson had fallen backwards against the wall and slid down into a perfect sitting position on the floor, legs splayed, leaving a thick red snail's trail of blood smeared on the wallpaper. His puppy-dog eyes were open. His face bore no expression. The front of his green shirt, over the heart, was a tangle of dark red rag and tissue, spreading fast, and there was a similar stain slightly above it, near his shoulder. His hands lay at his side, one of them holding his gun. Another dark wet patch spread between his legs. Urine.

Banks thought of the chair at Arkbeck Farm, where this man had scared Alison Rothwell so much that she had wet herself. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

“We'd no choice,” Spike said behind him. “He had his gun in his hand when he came to the door. You can see for yourself. He fired first.”

Two shots, in close succession, followed by another, sounding slightly different. Two patches of spreading blood. “Our boss tells us we don't want a lot of fuss about this.”