Free Final Account by Peter Robinson Page A

managed to grab a copper-topped table by the window when a party of cashiers from the NatWest Bank gathered their things and left.
    As happened so often in the Dales, the weather had changed dramatically over a very short period. A light breeze had sprung up and blown away the clouds. Now, the early evening sunlight glowed through the red and amber panes and shot bright rays though the clear ones, lighting on a foaming glass of ale and highlighting the smoke swirling in the air.
    The sunlight and smoke reminded Banks of the effect the projection camera created at the cinema when smoking was allowed there. As kids, he and his friends used to put their money together for a packet of five Woodbines, then go to the morning matinee at the Palace: a Three Stooges short, a Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon serial and a black-and-white western, maybe a Hopalong Cassidy. Slumped down in their seats, they would smoke “wild woodies” until they felt sick. He smiled at the memory and reached for a Silk Cut.
    Conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed all around them, and the general mood was ebullient. After all, it was the weekend. For most people in the pub, there would be no work until Monday morning. They could go off shopping to York or Leeds, wallpaper the bedroom, visit Aunt Maisie in Skipton or just lounge around and watch football or racing on telly. It was Cup Final day tomorrow, Banks remembered. Fat chance he’d get of watching it.
    The best he could hope was that he would get home before too late tonight and spend some time with Sandra. It was the ideal opportunity for a bit of bridge-building. Tracy was away in France on a school exchange, and Brian was at Portsmouth Polytechnic, so they had the house to themselves for once. He would be too late for a shared dinner, but maybe a nice bottle of claret, a few Chopin “Nocturnes,” candlelight … then, who knew what might follow?
    It was a nice fantasy. But right now he was waiting for Gristhorpe and Richmond, here to combine the pleasure of a pint and a steak-and-kidney pud with the business of swopping notes and fishing for leads at an informal meeting.
    Once in a while, through the laughter and the arguments, Banks heard the Rothwell case mentioned. “Did you hear about that terrible murder up near Relton … ?” “Hear about that bloke got shot outin the dale? I heard they blew his head right off his shoulders …” By now, of course, everyone had had a chance to read the Yorkshire Evening Post, and people were only too willing to embroider on the scant details the newspaper gave. Rumour and fantasy were rife. What Gristhorpe hadn’t told the media so far was that Rothwell had been executed “gangland” style, and that the weapon used was a shotgun.
    The best the press could manage so far was “LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MURDERED … Not more than a mile above the peaceful Swainsdale village of Fortford, a mild-mannered accountant was shot to death in his own garage in the early hours of this morning …” There followed an appeal for information about “two men in black” and a photograph of Keith Rothwell, looking exactly like a mild-mannered accountant, with his thinning fair hair combed back, showing the slight widow’s peak, his high forehead, slightly prissy lips and the wire-rimmed glasses. The glasses, Banks knew, had been found shattered to pieces along with the other wreckage of Rothwell’s skull.
    Banks waved to Gristhorpe and Richmond, who nudged their way through the crowd to join them at the table. While he was on his feet, Richmond went to get a round of drinks and put in the food orders.
    â€œAt least we don’t have to worry about civilians overhearing classified information,” Gristhorpe said as he sat down and scraped his stool forward along the worn stone flagging. “I can hardly even hear myself think.”
    When Richmond got back with the tray of drinks, Gristhorpe