Final Account (7 page)

“Who else was there?”

“Just us, this time.”

“And Mr Rothwell said nothing that caused you any concern?” “No. He was quiet.”

“Unusually so?”

“He was usually quiet.”

“Secretive?”

Pratt swivelled his chair and gazed out of the window at the upper storey of the Victorian community centre. Susan followed his gaze. She was surprised to see a number of gargoyles there she had never noticed before.

When he spoke again, Pratt still didn't look at Susan. She could see him only in profile. “I've always felt that about him, yes,” he said. “That's why I hesitated to call him a
close
friend. There was always something in reserve.” He turned to face Susan again and placed his hands, palms down, on the desk. “Oh, years ago we'd let loose once in a while, go get blind drunk and not give a damn. Sometimes we'd go fishing together. But over time, Keith sort of reined himself in, cut himself off. I don't really know how to explain this. It was just a feeling. Keith was a very private person … well, lots of people are … But the thing was, I had no idea what he lived for.”

“Did he suffer from depression? Did you think—”

Pratt waved a hand. “No. No, you're getting me wrong. He wasn't suicidal. That's not what I meant.”

“Can you try and explain?”

“I'll try. It's hard, though. I mean, I'd be hard pushed to say what I live for, too. There's the wife and kids, of course, my pride and joy. And we like to go hang-gliding over Semerwater on suitable weekends. I collect antiques, I love cricket and we like to explore new places on our holidays. See what I mean? None of that's what I actually
live for
, but it's all part of it.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, then put them back on again. “I know, I'm getting too philosophical. But I told you it was hard to explain.”

Susan smiled. “I'm still listening.”

“Well, all those are just
things,
aren't they? Possessions or activities. Things we do, things we care about. But there's something behind them all that ties them all together into
my
life, who I am, what I am. With Keith, you never knew. He was a cipher. For example, I'm sure he loved his family, but he never really showed it or spoke much about it. I don't know what really
mattered
to him. He never talked about hobbies or anything like that. I don't know what he did in his spare time. It's more than being private or secretive, it's as if there was a dimension
missing,
a man with a hole in the middle.” He scratched his temple. “This is ridiculous. Please forgive me. Keith was a perfectly nice bloke. Wouldn't hurt a fly. But you never really knew what gripped him about life, what his
dream
was. I mean, mine's a villa in Portugal, but a dream doesn't have to be a thing, does it? I don't know … maybe he valued abstractions too much.”

He paused, as if he had run out of breath and ideas. Susan didn't really know what to jot down, but she finally settled for “dimension missing … interests and concerns elusive.” It would do. She had a good memory for conversations and could recount verbatim most of what Pratt had said, if Banks wished to hear it.

“Let's get back to Mr Rothwell's work with your firm. Is there anything you can tell me about his … style … shall we say, his business practices?”

“You want to know if Keith was a crook, don't you?”

She did, of course, though that wasn't why she was asking. Still, she thought, never look a gift horse in the mouth. She gave him a “you caught me at it” smile. “Well, was he?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh, come on, Mr Pratt. Surely in your business you must sail a little close to the wind at times?”

“I resent that remark, especially coming from a policeman.”

Susan let that one slip by.
“Touché,”
she said. Pratt seemed pleased enough with himself. Let him feel he's winning, she thought, then he'll tell you anyway, just to show he holds the power to do so. She was still sure he was holding something back. “But seriously, Mr Pratt,” she went on, “I'm not just playing games, bandying insults. If there was anything at all unusual in Mr Rothwell's business dealings, I hardly need tell you it could have a bearing on his murder.”

“Hmm.” Pratt swirled the rest of the brandy and tossed it back. He put the snifter in his “Out” tray, no doubt for the secretary to take and wash. “I stand by what I said,” he went on. “Keith Rothwell never did anything truly
illegal
that I knew of. Certainly nothing that could be relevant to his death.”

“But … ?”

He sighed. “Well, maybe I wasn't
entirely
truthful earlier. I suppose I'd better tell you about it, hadn't I? You're bound to find out somehow.”

Susan turned her page. “I'm listening,” she said.

THREE

I

The Black Sheep was the closest Swainsdale had to a well-kept secret. Most tourists were put off by the pub's external shabbiness. Those who prided themselves on not judging a book by its cover would, more often than not, pop their heads around the door, see the even shabbier interior and leave.

The renowned surliness of the landlord, Larry Grafton, kept them away in droves, too. There was a rumour that Larry had once refused to serve an American tourist with a Glenmorangie and ginger, objecting to the utter lack of taste that led her to ask for such a concoction. Banks believed it.

Larry was Dales born and bred, not one of the new landlords up from London. So many were recent immigrants these days, like Ian Falkland in the Rose and Crown. That was a tourist pub if ever there was one, Banks thought, probably selling more lager and lime, pork scratchings and microwaved curries than anything else.

The Black Sheep didn't advertise its pub grub, but anyone who knew about it could get as thick and fresh a ham and piccalilli sandwich as ever they'd want from Elsie, Larry's wife. And on some days, if her arthritis hadn't been bothering her too much and she felt like cooking, she could do you a fry-up so good you could feel your arteries hardening as you ate.

As usual, the public bar was empty apart from one table of old men playing dominoes and a couple of young farm-hands reading the sports news in the
Daily Mirror
.

As Banks had expected, Pat Clifford also stood propping up the bar. Pat was a hard, stout man with a round head, stubble for hair and a rough, red face burned by the sun and whipped by the wind and rain for fifty years.

“Hello, stranger,” said Pat, as Banks stood next to him. “Long time, no see.”

Banks apologized for his absence and brought up the subject of Keith Rothwell.

“So tha only comes when tha wants summat, is that it?” Pat said. But he said it with a smile, and over the years Banks had learned that Yorkshire folk often take the sting out of their criticisms that way. They put a sting
in
their compliments, too, on those rare occasions they get around to giving any.

In this case, Banks guessed that Pat wasn't mortally offended at his protracted absence; he only wanted to make a point of it, let Banks know his feelings, and then get on with things. Banks acknowledged his culpability with a mild protest about the pressures of work, as expected, then listened to a minute or so of Pat's complaining about how the elderly and isolated were neglected by all and sundry.

When Pat's glass was empty, an event which occurred with alarming immediacy at the end of the diatribe, Banks's offer to buy him another was grudgingly accepted. Pat took a couple of sips, put the glass down on the bar and wiped his lips with the back of his grimy hand.

“He came in once or twice, did Mr Rothwell. Local, like. Nobody objected.”

“How often?”

“Once a week, mebbe. Sometimes twice. Larry—?” And he asked the landlord the same question. Larry, who hardly had a charabanc full of thirsty customers to serve, came over and stood with them. He still treated Banks with a certain amount of disdain—after all, Banks was a southerner
and
a copper—but he showed respect, too.

Banks had never tried
too
hard to fit in, to pretend he was one of the crowd like some of the other incomers. He knew there was nothing that annoyed a Dalesman so much as pretentiousness, airs and graces, and that there was nothing more contemptible or condescending than a southerner appropriating Dales speech and
ways, playing the expert on a place he had only just come to. Banks kept his distance, kept his counsel, and in return he was accorded that particular Yorkshire brand of grudging acceptance.

“Just at lunch-times, like,” Larry said. “Never saw him of an evening. He'd come in for one of Elsie's sandwiches and always drink half a pint. Just one half, mind you.”

“Did he talk much?”

Larry drifted off to dry some glasses and Pat picked up the threads. “Nay. He weren't much of chatterbox, weren't Mr Rothwell. Bit of a dry stick, if you ask me.”

“What do you mean? Was he stuck-up?”

“No-o. Just had nowt to talk abaht, that's all.” He tapped the side of his nose. “If you listen as much as I do,” he said, “you soon find out what interests people. There's not much when it comes down to it, tha knows.” He started counting on the stubby fingers that stuck out of his cut-off gloves. “Telly, that's number one. Sport—number two. And sex. That's number three. After that there's nobbut money and weather left.”

Banks smiled. “What about politics?” he asked.

Pat pulled a face. “Only when them daft buggers in t'Common Market 'ave been up to summat with their Common Agricultural Policy.” Then he grinned, showing stained, crooked teeth. “Aye, I suppose that's often enough these days,” he admitted, counting it off. “Politics. Number four.”

“And what did Mr Rothwell talk about when he was here?” Banks asked.

“Nowt. That's what I'm telling thee, lad. Oh, I s'pose seeing as he was an accountant, he was interested in money, but he kept that to himself. He'd be standing there, all right, just where you are, munching on his sandwich, supping his half-pint, and nodding in all the right places, but he never had owt to say. It seemed to me as if he were really somewhere else. And he didn't know ‘Neighbours' from ‘Coronation Street,' if you ask me—or Leeds United from Northampton.”

“There's not a lot of difference as far as their performances go over the last few weeks, if you ask me, Pat.”

Pat grunted.

“So you didn't really know Keith Rothwell?” Banks asked.

“No. Nobody did.”

“That's right, Mr Banks,” added Larry as he stood by them to pull a pint. “He said he came for the company, what with working alone at home and all that, but I reckon as he came to get away from that there wife of his.” Then he was gone, bearing the pint.

Banks turned to Pat. “What did he mean?”

“Ah, take no notice of him,” Pat said with a dismissive wave in Grafton's direction. “Mebbe he was a bit henpecked, at that. It must be hard working at home when the wife's around all the time. Never get a minute's peace, you wouldn't. But Larry's lass, Cathy, did for Mrs Rothwell now and again, like, and she says she were a bit of an interfering mistress, if you know what I mean. Standing over young Cathy while she worked and saying that weren't done right, or that needed a bit more elbow grease. I nobbut met Mrs Rothwell once or twice, but my Grace speaks well of her, and that's enough for me.”

Banks thought he might have a word with Larry's lass, Cathy. He noticed Pat's empty glass. “Another?”

“Oh, aye. Thank you very much.” Banks bought him a pint, but decided to forgo a second himself, much as the idea appealed. “There were one time, when I comes to think on it,” Pat said, “that Mr Rothwell seemed a bit odd.”

“When was this?”

“Abaht two or three weeks ago. He came in one lunch-time, as usual, like, but he must have had a couple of pints, not 'alves. Anyroad, he got quite chatty, told a couple of jokes and we all had a good chuckle, didn't we, Larry?”

“Aye,” shouted Larry from down the bar.

That sounded odd to Banks. According to Mrs Rothwell, her husband had been tense and edgy over the past three weeks. If he could chat and laugh at the Black Sheep, then maybe the problem had been at home. “Is that all?” he asked.

“
All
? Well, it were summat for us to see him enjoying himself for once. I'd say that were enough, wouldn't you?”

“Did he say anything unusual?”

“No. He just acted like an ordinary person. An ordinary
happy
person.”

“As if he'd received some good news or something?”

“He didn't say owt about that.”

Banks gave up and moved on. “I know there's been a bit of ill feeling among the hill-farmers about incomers lately,” he said. “Did any of it spill over to Mr Rothwell?”

Pat sniffed. “You wouldn't understand, Mr Banks,” he said softly, offering an unfiltered cigarette. Banks refused it and lit a Silk Cut. “It's not that there's any ill feeling, as such. We just don't know where we stand, how to plan for the future. One day the government says this, the next day it's something else. Agricultural Policy … Europe … grugh.” He spat on the floor to show his feelings. Either nobody noticed or the practice was perfectly welcome in the Black Sheep, another reason why people stayed away. “It needs years of experience to do it right, does hill-farming,” Pat went on. “Continuity, passed on from father to son. When too many farms fall to weekenders and holiday-makers, pasture gets abused, walls get neglected. Live and let live, that's what I say. But we want some respect and some understanding. And right now we're not getting any.”

“But what about the incomers?”