Blood at the Root Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mrs. Fox asked. “If Jason wasn’t in a car crash, did he hit someone? Was there an accident?”
    “No,” said Banks. “He didn’t hit anyone.” He sighed and looked at the map over the fireplace. He couldn’t really hold back telling them any longer. The best he could do was play up the uncertainty aspect. “I don’t want to alarm you,” he said, “but a boy was killed last night, probably in a fight. DC Gay showed you the artist’s impression, and someone suggested it might resemble Jason. That’s why we need to know his movements and whereabouts.”
    Banks waited for the outburst, but it didn’t come. Instead, Mrs. Fox shook her head and said, “It
can’t
be our Jason. He wouldn’t get into fights or anything like that. And you can’t really tell from the picture, can you?”
    Banks agreed. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “He’s probably gone off somewhere for the weekend with his mates without telling you. Kids. No consideration sometimes, have they? Would Jason do something like that?”
    Mrs. Fox nodded. “Oh, yes. Never tells us owt, our Jason, does he, Steven?”
    “That’s right,” Mr. Fox agreed. But Banks could tell from his tone that he wasn’t quite as convinced as his wife about Jason’s not being the victim. He wondered why. In his experience, mothers often held more illusions about their children than fathers did.
    “Does Jason have any friends on the estate he might have gone out with?” Banks asked. “Anyone local?”
    Mrs. Fox looked at her husband before answering. “No,” she said. “See, we’ve only been living in Eastvale for three years. Since we moved from Halifax. Besides, Jason doesn’t drink. Well, not hardly.”
    “When did he get this job in Leeds?”
    “Just before we moved.”
    “I see,” said Banks. “So he hasn’t really spent much time here, had time to settle in and make friends?”
    “That’s right,” said Mrs. Fox.
    “Does he have any other relations in the area he might have gone to visit? An uncle, perhaps, someone like that?”
    “Only my dad,” said Mrs. Fox. “That’s why we moved here, really, to be nearer my dad. My mam died two years ago, and he’s not getting any younger.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “Up in Lyndgarth, so he’s not far away, in case of emergencies, like. Eastvale was the closest town Steven could get a transfer.”
    “What kind of work do you do, Mr. Fox?”
    “Building society. Abbey National. That big branch on York Road, just north of the market square.”
    Banks nodded. “I know the one. Look, it’s just a thought, but does Jason spend much time with his grandfather? Might he be stopping with him?”
    Mrs. Fox shook her head. “He’d have let us know, Dad would. He’s got a telephone. Didn’t want one, but we insisted. Besides, Jason’s car…”
    “Would your father know anything more about Jason’s friends and his habits?”
    “I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Fox, fidgeting with her wedding ring. “They used to be close when Jason were a young lad, but you know what it’s like when kids grow up.” She shrugged.
    Banks did. He well remembered preferring the company of his grandparents to that of his mother and father when he was young. They were more indulgent with him, for a start, and would often give him a tanner for sweets – which he’d usually spend on sherbet, gobstoppers and a three-penny lucky bag. He also liked his grandfather’s pipe rack, the smell of tobacco around the dark-paneled house, the tarnished silver cigarette case with the dint where a German bullet had hit it, saving his grandfather’s life – or so his grandfather had told him. He had loved the stories about the war – not the second, but the first – and his grandfather had even let him wear his old gas mask, which smelled of rubber and dust. They had spent days walking by the River Nene, standing by the railway tracks to watch the sleek, streamlined Flying Scotsman go by. But all that had changed