Blood at the Root by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page B

and the two had become good friends during their last couple of years there. George had spent quite a bit of time at the Banks household, and Banks remembered his love of music, his instinctive curiosity about things and his sense of humor. They had all laughed at the story of the family names, for example.
    Now the kids seemed to have lost touch, drifted apart as people do, and Banks hadn’t seen George for a while. Brian had just started his third year at college in Portsmouth, and George was still in Eastvale, pretty much unemployed, as far as Banks knew, apart from helping his dad out at the shop. Even though they hadn’t see one another in a while, Banks still felt a little uneasy about interviewing George in connection with a criminal matter.
    Charles Mahmood greeted Banks with a smile of recognition; his wife, Shazia, waved from the other side of the shop, where she was stacking shelves with jars of instant coffee.
    “Is it about that brick-chucking?” asked Charles in his broad West Yorkshire accent.
    Banks told him it wasn’t, but assured him that the matter was still under investigation.
    “What’s up, then?” Charles asked.
    “George in?”
    “George?” He flicked his head. “Upstairs. Why, what’s happened?” Banks didn’t think she could have heard, but Shazia Mahmood had stopped putting jars on shelves and seemed to be trying to eavesdrop.
    “We don’t know yet,” Banks said. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’d just like to talk to him. Okay?”
    Charles Mahmood shrugged. “Fine with me.”
    “How’s he doing these days?”
    Charles nodded toward the stairs. “You’d better ask him. See for yourself. He’s in his room.”
    “Problems?”
    “Not really. Just a phase he’s going through. Another seven-day wonder.”
    Banks smiled, remembering the way his father used to say that about every hobby he took up, from Meccano to stamp collecting. He’d been right, too. Banks still felt that he lurched restlessly from interest to interest. “What particular phase is this one?” he asked.
    “You’ll find out soon enough.”
    “I’d better go talk to him, then,” said Banks. “The curiosity’s killing me.”
    He walked upstairs, aware of Shazia Mahmood’s eyes drilling into his back, and didn’t realize until he got to the top that he didn’t know
which
room was George’s. But it didn’t matter by then. At the end of the hallway, beside the bathroom, a door stood slightly ajar, and from inside the room Banks could smell sandalwood incense and hear piano music.
    It was jazz, certainly, but not Monk, Bill Evans or Bud Powell. No one like that. It didn’t even resemble the wild flights of Cecil Taylor, one of whose records Banks had made the mistake of buying years ago on the strength of a review from a usually reliable critic. This music was repetitive and rhythmic, a sort of catchy, jangling melodic riff played over and over again with very few changes. It was vaguely familiar.
    He tapped on the door and George Mahmood opened it. George was a good-looking boy with thick black hair, long eyelashes and loam-brown eyes. He looked at Banks a moment, then said, “You’re Brian’s dad, aren’t you? The copper.”
    It wasn’t exactly the warm welcome Banks had hoped for; he had thought George might have remembered him with more affection. Still, attitudes change a lot in three years, especially when you’re young. He smiled. “Right. That’s me. The copper. Mind if I come in?”
    “Is this a social call?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “I didn’t think so.” George stood aside. “Better come in, anyway. I don’t suppose I could stop you even if I wanted.”
    Banks entered the bedroom and sat on a hardback chair at the desk. George slouched in an armchair. But not before he had turned down the music a couple of notches. He was wearing baggy black trousers and a white top with a Nehru collar.
    “Who is that playing?” Banks asked.
    “Why?”
    “I like it.”
    “It’s