Final Account by Peter Robinson Page B

slip by. “Touché,” she said. Pratt seemed pleased enough with himself. Let him feel he’s winning, she thought, then he’ll tell you anyway, just to show he holds the power to do so. She was still sure he was holding something back. “But seriously, Mr Pratt,” she went on, “I’m not just playing games, bandying insults. If there was anything at all unusual in Mr Rothwell’s business dealings, I hardly need tell you it could have a bearing on his murder.”
    â€œHmm.” Pratt swirled the rest of the brandy and tossed it back. He put the snifter in his “Out” tray, no doubt for the secretary to take and wash. “I stand by what I said,” he went on. “Keith Rothwell never did anything truly illegal that I knew of. Certainly nothing that could be relevant to his death.”
    â€œBut … ?”
    He sighed. “Well, maybe I wasn’t entirely truthful earlier. I suppose I’d better tell you about it, hadn’t I? You’re bound to find out somehow.”
    Susan turned her page. “I’m listening,” she said.

THREE
    I
    The Black Sheep was the closest Swainsdale had to a well-kept secret. Most tourists were put off by the pub’s external shabbiness. Those who prided themselves on not judging a book by its cover would, more often than not, pop their heads around the door, see the even shabbier interior and leave.
    The renowned surliness of the landlord, Larry Grafton, kept them away in droves, too. There was a rumour that Larry had once refused to serve an American tourist with a Glenmorangie and ginger, objecting to the utter lack of taste that led her to ask for such a concoction. Banks believed it.
    Larry was Dales born and bred, not one of the new landlords up from London. So many were recent immigrants these days, like Ian Falkland in the Rose and Crown. That was a tourist pub if ever there was one, Banks thought, probably selling more lager and lime, pork scratchings and microwaved curries than anything else.
    The Black Sheep didn’t advertise its pub grub, but anyone who knew about it could get as thick and fresh a ham and piccalilli sandwich as ever they’d want from Elsie, Larry’s wife. And on some days, if her arthritis hadn’t been bothering her too much and she felt like cooking, she could do you a fry-up so good you could feel your arteries hardening as you ate.
    As usual, the public bar was empty apart from one table of old men playing dominoes and a couple of young farm-hands reading the sports news in the Daily Mirror .
    As Banks had expected, Pat Clifford also stood propping up the bar. Pat was a hard, stout man with a round head, stubble for hair and a rough, red face burned by the sun and whipped by the wind and rain for fifty years.
    â€œHello, stranger,” said Pat, as Banks stood next to him. “Long time, no see.”
    Banks apologized for his absence and brought up the subject of Keith Rothwell.
    â€œSo tha only comes when tha wants summat, is that it?” Pat said. But he said it with a smile, and over the years Banks had learned that Yorkshire folk often take the sting out of their criticisms that way. They put a sting in their compliments, too, on those rare occasions they get around to giving any.
    In this case, Banks guessed that Pat wasn’t mortally offended at his protracted absence; he only wanted to make a point of it, let Banks know his feelings, and then get on with things. Banks acknowledged his culpability with a mild protest about the pressures of work, as expected, then listened to a minute or so of Pat’s complaining about how the elderly and isolated were neglected by all and sundry.
    When Pat’s glass was empty, an event which occurred with alarming immediacy at the end of the diatribe, Banks’s offer to buy him another was grudgingly accepted. Pat took a couple of sips, put the glass down on the bar and wiped his lips with the back of his