Free Blood at the Root by Peter Robinson Page A

here?” Banks asked.
    Wayne shook his head. “Not a clue. He never got in touch again, and I can’t say I was exactly eager to seek him out.”
    “So when he left here he disappeared from your life?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did he have any close friends here?”
    “Not really. I wasn’t even particularly close to him myself. He was a bit of a loner. Never talked about his outside interests, family, girlfriends, that sort of thing. He had no patience with the usual office chitchat. Except football. He loved to talk about football. Mad about it. On a Monday morning he’d talk about the weekend games for so long, it was sometimes hard to get him working at all.”
    “People listened, then? The same ones who were sickened by his racism?”
    Wayne spread his hands. “What can I say? There’s nothing like an enthusiasm for sports to make a person seem more human. And we seem able to overlook an awful lot in our sports heroes, don’t we? I mean, look at Gazza. The bugger beats up his wife and he’s still a national hero.”
    “What about enemies?”
    Wayne raised his eyebrows. “Probably just about every immigrant in the country. At least the ones who knew what he was.”
    “Anyone in particular?”
    “Not that I can think of.”
    “What was he like as a person? How would you describe him?”
    Wayne put a pencil against his lips and thought for a moment, then he said, “Jason was one of those people who can frighten you with their intensity. I mean, mostly he was withdrawn, quiet, in his own world. On first impressions, he seemed rather shy, but when he did come out, whether to talk about a football game or comment on some political article in the paper, then he became very passionate, very fervent. He had charisma. You could imagine him speaking to groups, swaying their opinions.”
    “A budding Hitler, then? Interesting.” Banks closed his notebook and stood up. He could think of nothing more to ask. “Thanks for your time,” he said, holding out his hand. “I might want to talk to you about this again.”
    Wayne shook hands and nodded. “I’ll be here.”
    And Banks walked through the busy office, back out into the bleak factory yard, the oil smell, the machinery noise, overflowing skips, the rainbowed puddles. Just as he got to the car, his mobile beeped.

IV
    “No, Gavin, I can’t possibly go out for a drink with you tonight. We’re very busy.”
    “The boy wonder got you working overtime, then?”
    “I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”
    Susan heard Gavin chuckle over the line. “Who’s he got pegged for this one, then? Our local MP? Leader of the hunt?” He laughed again.
    Susan felt herself flush. “That’s not very funny.” She hated it when Gavin made fun of Banks.
    “How about Saturday? We can go-”
    “Maybe,” Susan said. “Maybe Saturday. I’ll have to see. Got to go now, Gavin. Work to do.”
    “Okay. See you Saturday.”
    “I said
maybe
. Just a minute… what’s that?” Susan could hear sounds of shouting and scuffling, and they seemed to be coming from downstairs. “Got to go, Gavin,” she said. “I’ll ring you back.”
    “Susan, what’s-”
    Susan dropped the receiver on its cradle and walked to the top of the stairs. The scene below was utter chaos. Every Asian in Eastvale – all nine or ten of them – seemed to be pushing through the front doors: George Mahmood’s parents, Ibrahim Nazur, owner of the Himalaya, and a handful of students from Eastvale College. A number of uniformed officers were holding them back, but they wanted to see the detectives, and Susan was the only CID officer in the station.
    “Would you
please
not all shout at once!” Susan yelled from halfway down the stairs.
    “What are you going to do about our children?” asked an angry Charles Mahmood. “You can’t just lock them up for nothing. This is racism, pure and simple. We’re British citizens, you know.”
    “Please believe me, Mr. Mahmood,” said Susan, advancing down the