“That’s all very interesting,” Banks said at last, resting the backs of his thighs against the table. “But, if you don’t mind, we’ve got some questions for you.”

“Why should I mind? As far as I’m concerned, we’re on the same side.” Motcombe sat, crossed his legs and put his hands together in front of him, fingertips touching, as if in prayer.

“How do you work that one out?” Banks asked, thinking it odd that was the second time he’d heard the same thing today.

“Easy. Jason Fox was killed on your patch. You did your job as best you could under the circumstances. You found his killers quickly. But you had to let them go.”

He narrowed his eyes and gazed at Banks. Just for a moment Banks fancied he saw a gleam of something in them. Conspiracy? Condescension? Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

“How that must have sickened you,” Motcombe went on, his voice a low, hypnotic monotone. “Having to bow to political pressure like that. Believe me, I know how your hands are tied. I know about the conspiracy that renders our police ineffective. You have my every sympathy.”

Banks took a deep breath. It smelled like a non-smoking room, but at this point he didn’t care. He lit up anyway. Motcombe didn’t complain.

“Look,” said Banks, after he blew out his first mouthful. “Let’s get something straight from the start. I don’t want your sympathy. Or your opinions. Let’s stick to the facts. Jason Fox.”

Motcombe shook his head slowly. “You know, I half expected something like that. Deep down, most people agree with us. Just listen to the way they talk in pubs, the jokes they tell about Chinks, Pakis, niggers and Yids. Listen to the way you talk when you let your politically correct guard down.” He pointed toward the window. “There’s a whole silent nation out there who want what we want but are afraid to act. We aren’t. Most people just don’t have the courage of their convictions. We do. All I want to do is make it possible for people to look into their hearts and see what’s really there, to know that there are others who feel the same way, then to give them a way they can act on it, a goal to aim for.”

“A white England?”

“Is that such a bad thing? If you put your prejudices aside for just a few moments and really think about it, is that such a terrible dream to pursue? Look at what’s happened to our schools, our culture, our religious trad-”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Banks asked, his voice calm but hard. “Let’s stick to the facts.”

Motcombe favored him with that conspiratorial, condescending smile, as if he were regarding a wayward child. “Of course,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Please, Chief Inspector, go ahead. Ask your questions. And there’s an ashtray on the sideboard just behind you. I don’t smoke myself, but my guests occasionally do. Secondhand smoke doesn’t bother me.”

Banks picked up the ashtray and held it in his left hand while he spoke. “Tell me about Jason Fox.”

Motcombe shrugged. “What is there to say? Jason was a valued member of the Albion League and we will miss him dearly.”

“How long had you known him?”

“Let me see, now… about a year. Perhaps a little less.”

“How did you meet?”

“At a rally in London. Jason was flirting with the British National Party. I had already left them as they didn’t adequately serve my vision. We talked. At the time, I was just about to start setting up the league, making contacts. A few months later, when we got going, Jason and I met again at a conference. I asked him, and he joined us.”

“Were you close?”

Motcombe tilted his head again. “I wouldn’t say close, no. Not in the personal sense, you understand. In ideas, yes.” He tapped the side of his head. “After all, that’s where it counts.”

“So you didn’t socialize with him?”

“No.”

“What was Jason’s specialty? I heard he was your minister of propaganda.”

Motcombe laughed. “Very good. Yes, I suppose you could put it like that. He wrote most of the pamphlets. He also handled the computer. An essential tool in this day and age, I fear.”

Banks showed him the vague drawing of the boy Jason had been drinking with the night he was killed. “Do you know him?” he asked. “Is he one of yours?”

“I don’t think so,” Motcombe said. “It’s almost impossible to tell, but I don’t think I recognize him.”

“Where were you on Saturday night?”

Motcombe’s black eyebrows shot up and he laughed again. “Me? Do you mean I’m a suspect, too? How exciting. I’m almost sorry to disappoint you, but as a matter of fact I was in Bradford, at a tenants’ meeting. In a block of council flats where some people are becoming very concerned about who, or should I say what they’re getting for neighbors. Crime is-”

“You can prove this, I suppose?”

“If I have to. Here.” He got up and took a slip of paper from the sideboard drawer. “This is the address of the block where the meeting was held. Check up on it, if you want. Any number of people will vouch for me.”

Banks pocketed the slip. “What time did the meeting end?”

“About ten o’clock. Actually, a couple of us went on to a pub and carried on our discussion until closing time.”

“In Bradford?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been to Eastvale?”

Motcombe laughed. “Yes. I’ve been there on a number of occasions. Purely as a tourist, you understand, and not for about a year. It’s a rather pretty little town. I’m a great lover of walking the unspoiled English countryside. What’s left of it.”

“Have you ever heard of George Mahmood?”

“What a ridiculous name.”

“Have you ever heard of him?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. He’s one of the youths responsible for Jason’s death.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Oh, come on, Chief Inspector.” Motcombe winked. “There’s a big difference between what you can prove and what you know. You don’t have to soft-soap me.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Did Jason ever mention any racial problems in Eastvale?”

“No. You know, you’re lucky to live there, Chief Inspector. As I understand it, these Mahmoods are about the only darkies in the place. I envy you.”

“Then why don’t you move?”

“Too much work to be done here first. One day, perhaps.”

“Did Jason ever mention George?”

“Once or twice, yes.”

“In what context?”

“I honestly don’t remember.”

“But you’d remember if he said he chucked a brick through their window?”

Motcombe smiled. “Oh, yes. But Jason wouldn’t have done a thing like that.”

For what it was worth, it was probably the first positive link between Jason Fox and George Mahmood that Banks had come across so far. But what was it worth? So Jason had noticed George in Eastvale and mentioned him to Motcombe. That didn’t mean George knew Jason was a neo-Nazi.

And everything Motcombe said could have come from the newspapers or television. There had been plenty of local coverage of the detainment and release of the three Asian suspects. Ibrahim Nazur had even appeared on a local breakfast television program complaining about systemic racism.

“What about Asim Nazur?” he asked.

Motcombe shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Kobir Mukhtar?”

Motcombe sighed and shook his head. “Chief Inspector, you have to understand, these do not sound like the kind of people I mix with. I told you I remember Jason mentioned a certain George Mahmood once or twice. That’s all I know.”

“By name?”

“Yes. By name.”

The Mahmood part Jason might have known from the shop sign. But George? How could he have known that? Perhaps from the report in the Eastvale Gazette after the brick-throwing incident. As Banks recollected, George had been mentioned by name then.

If Motcombe was lying, then he was playing it very cautiously, careful not to own to knowing too much, just enough. Obviously a story of a full-blown conspiracy between the three Asians to attack Jason Fox would be even better for propaganda purposes, but it would be much more suspicious. A jet flew across the valley, a bright flash of gray against the gray clouds. Suddenly, someone else walked into the room. “Nev, have you got – Sorry, didn’t know you’d got company. Who’s this?”