Final Account by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online

was that about a motion picture conservatory?”
    Alison gave a brief smile. “He wants to work in films. He worked in a video shop and saved up. He’s hoping to go to film college in America and learn how to become a director.”
    â€œHow old is he?”
    â€œTwenty-one.”
    Banks stood up. “All right, Alison,” he said. “Thanks very much for all your help. WPC Smithies will be staying here for a while, so if you need anyone … And I’ll ask the doctor to pay your mother another visit.”
    â€œThank you. Please don’t worry about us.”
    Banks looked in on Richmond, who sat bathed in the bluish glow of Rothwell’s monitor, oblivious to the world, then went out to his car and lit a cigarette. He rolled the window down and listened to the birds as he smoked. Birds aside, it was bloody quiet up here. How, he wondered, could a teenager like Alison stand the isolation? As WPC Smithies had said, the Rothwells were an odd family.
    As he drove along the bumpy track to the Relton road, he slipped in a tape of Dr John playing solo New Orleans piano music. He had developed a craving for piano music— any kind of piano music—recently. He was even thinking of taking piano lessons; he wanted to learn how to play everything —classical, jazz, blues. The only thing that held him back was that he felt too old to embark on such a venture. His forty-first birthday was coming up in a couple of weeks.
    In Relton, a couple of old ladies holding shopping baskets stood chatting outside the butcher’s shop, probably about the murder.
    Banks thought again about Alison Rothwell and her mother as he pulled up outside the Black Sheep. What were they holding back? And what was it that bothered him? No matter what Mrs Rothwell and Alison had said, there was something wrong in that family, and he had a hunch that Tom Rothwell might know what it was. The sooner they contacted him the better.
    III
    Laurence Pratt delved deep in his bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier VSOP and two snifters.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he apologized to DC Susan Gay, who sat opposite him at the broad teak desk. “It’s not that I’m a secret tippler. I keep it for emergencies, and I’m afraid what you’ve just told me most definitely constitutes one. You’ll join me?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œNot on duty?”
    â€œSometimes,” Susan said. “But not today.”
    â€œVery well.” He poured himself a generous measure, swirled it and took a sip. A little colour came back to his cheeks. “Ah … that’s better.”
    â€œIf we could get back to Mr Rothwell, sir?”
    â€œYes. Yes, of course. But you must understand Miss, Miss … ?”
    â€œGay, sir. DC Gay.”
    She saw the inadvertent smile flash across his face. People often smiled like that when she introduced herself. “Gay” had been a perfectly good name when she was a kid—her nickname for a while had been “Happy” Gay—but now its meaning was no longer the same. One clever bugger had actually asked, “Did you say AC or DC Gay?” She comforted herself with the thought that he was doing three to five in Strangeways, thanks largely to her court evidence.
    â€œYes,” he went on, a frown quickly displacing the smile. “I’d heard about Keith’s death, of course, on the radio this lunch-time, but they didn’t say how it happened. That’s a bit of a shock, to be honest. You see, I knew Keith quite well. I’m only about three years older than he, and we worked here together for some years.”
    â€œHe left the firm five years ago, is that right?”
    â€œAbout right. A big move like that takes quite a bit of planning, quite a bit of organizing. There were client files to be transferred, that sort of thing. And he had the house to think of, too.”
    â€œHe was a