Blood at the Root by Peter Robinson Page A

its beauty was lost on Banks.
    “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was
that
important to you.”
    Sandra glanced sideways at him. “That’s just it, isn’t it?” she said.
    “What is?”
    “You never do. You never do consider how important something might be to me. It’s always your needs that come first. Like bloody opera. You never bother asking me what
I
might want to listen to, do you? You just go straight to your bloody opera without even thinking.”
    Banks stood up again. “Look, I said I’m sorry. Okay? I’ll take it off if it bothers you so much.”
    “I told you to leave it. It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.”
    “Too late for what?”
    “Oh, Alan, give it a rest. Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?” She gestured at the transparencies spread out across the table.
    “Fine,” said Banks. “Fine. You’re pissed off, but you don’t want to talk about it. You hate opera, but you want me to leave it on. I’m the one who never considers your needs or feelings, but right now you’ve got work to do. Well, just bloody fine.”
    Banks tossed back the rest of his Laphroaig, grabbed his coat from the hall stand and slammed the front door behind him.

FOUR

I
    Banks was first to arrive at Tuesday morning’s CID meeting in the “Boardroom” of Eastvale Divisional Police HQ, shortly followed by DC Susan Gay, Superintendent Gristhorpe and, finally, Sergeant Hatchley.
    Having been warned by Susan, Banks was dreading that Jimmy Riddle himself would show up. Riddle was a notorious early riser, and the thirty miles or so of country roads from Regional HQ to Eastvale at such an hour would mean nothing to him. Especially if it gave him an opportunity to cause Banks grief.
    Banks knew he would have to face the CC before long – Gristhorpe said he had already received
his
bollocking for letting his DCI too far off the leash – but he just didn’t want it first thing in the morning, never his favorite time of day. Especially after he’d gone down to the Queen’s Arms after his argument with Sandra the previous evening and had a jar too many. He hadn’t handled that situation well, he knew. He hadn’t been at all reasonable. He had lived with Sandra long enough to know that when she lashed out like that – which was rare – it meant she had something important on her mind. And he hadn’t bothered to find out what it was. Instead, he had stormed out like a petulant teenager.
    As it happened, Jimmy Riddle hadn’t turned up by the time coffee and biscuits were served. That probably meant he wouldn’t come, Banks thought with relief; usually Riddle liked to be first there, sparkling and spotless, to get a jump on everyone.
    “Right,” said Gristhorpe. “What have we got so far? Alan, have you talked to the lab?”
    Banks nodded. “Nothing yet. They’re still trying, but they haven’t found anything on the shoes or clothes we sent over for analysis. There’s a lot of mud on George Mahmood’s shoes, consistent with walking over the rec in the rain, and some sort of substance that looks a bit suspicious. But the lad was wearing trainers, for Christ’s sake. Hardly what you’d choose if you were intending to kick someone’s head in.”
    “But we don’t know that he was
intending
to do anything, do we?” Gristhorpe pointed out.
    “True. Still, it’d be difficult to kick someone to death wearing trainers. Dr. Glendenning specified heavy boots. Or Doc Martens, something like that.”
    “Wouldn’t the rain have washed any traces of blood away?” Susan asked.
    “Lab says not. If there’s enough of it, which there was, and if it gets in the stitching and seeps between the sole and upper, they say it’s damn near impossible to get rid of.”
    Susan nodded.
    “Vic Manson’s working on fingerprints, too,” Banks said to Gristhorpe, “but he doesn’t hold out a lot of hope.”
    “Fingerprints from where?”
    “The broken bottle. According to the postmortem, there