Dead Right by Peter Robinson Page A

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 towards 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 sandal-wood 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 for 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 to.”
    Banks entered the bedroom and sat on a hardback chair at the desk. George slouched in an armchair. But not before he 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 Abdullah Ibrahim. He’s a South African pianist.”
    Now that George mentioned the name, Banks realized he had heard of Ibrahim and his music before. “Didn’t he used to be called Dollar Brand?” he asked.
    “That’s right. Just like Muhammad Ali used to be called Cassius Clay.”
    Banks hadn’t heard of Cassius Clay in years, and he was surprised that someone as young as George had ever heard Ali’s old name at all. They made a little uneasy small talk about Brian, then Banks got quickly to the point he had come for. “George,” he said, “I’ve come to ask you about Saturday night.”
    “What about it?” George looked away towards the window. “And my name’s not George any more. That’s a stupid name, just my father’s post-colonial genuflection. My