Read Online Final Account by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online

grimy hand.
    â€œHe came in once or twice, did Mr Rothwell. Local, like. Nobody objected.”
    â€œHow often?”
    â€œOnce a week, mebbe. Sometimes twice. Larry—?” And he asked the landlord the same question. Larry, who hardly had a charabanc full of thirsty customers to serve, came over and stood with them. He still treated Banks with a certain amount of disdain—after all, Banks was a southerner and a copper—but he showed respect, too.
    Banks had never tried too hard to fit in, to pretend he was one of the crowd like some of the other incomers. He knew there was nothing that annoyed a Dalesman so much as pretentiousness, airs and graces, and that there was nothing more contemptible or condescending than a southerner appropriating Dales speech andways, playing the expert on a place he had only just come to. Banks kept his distance, kept his counsel, and in return he was accorded that particular Yorkshire brand of grudging acceptance.
    â€œJust at lunch-times, like,” Larry said. “Never saw him of an evening. He’d come in for one of Elsie’s sandwiches and always drink half a pint. Just one half, mind you.”
    â€œDid he talk much?”
    Larry drifted off to dry some glasses and Pat picked up the threads. “Nay. He weren’t much of chatterbox, weren’t Mr Rothwell. Bit of a dry stick, if you ask me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? Was he stuck-up?”
    â€œNo-o. Just had nowt to talk abaht, that’s all.” He tapped the side of his nose. “If you listen as much as I do,” he said, “you soon find out what interests people. There’s not much when it comes down to it, tha knows.” He started counting on the stubby fingers that stuck out of his cut-off gloves. “Telly, that’s number one. Sport—number two. And sex. That’s number three. After that there’s nobbut money and weather left.”
    Banks smiled. “What about politics?” he asked.
    Pat pulled a face. “Only when them daft buggers in t’Common Market ’ave been up to summat with their Common Agricultural Policy.” Then he grinned, showing stained, crooked teeth. “Aye, I suppose that’s often enough these days,” he admitted, counting it off. “Politics. Number four.”
    â€œAnd what did Mr Rothwell talk about when he was here?” Banks asked.
    â€œNowt. That’s what I’m telling thee, lad. Oh, I s’pose seeing as he was an accountant, he was interested in money, but he kept that to himself. He’d be standing there, all right, just where you are, munching on his sandwich, supping his half-pint, and nodding in all the right places, but he never had owt to say. It seemed to me as if he were really somewhere else. And he didn’t know ‘Neighbours’ from ‘Coronation Street,’ if you ask me—or Leeds United from Northampton.”
    â€œThere’s not a lot of difference as far as their performances go over the last few weeks, if you ask me, Pat.”
    Pat grunted.
    â€œSo you didn’t really know Keith Rothwell?” Banks asked.
    â€œNo. Nobody did.”
    â€œThat’s right, Mr Banks,” added Larry as he stood by them to pull a pint. “He said he came for the company, what with working alone at home and all that, but I reckon as he came to get away from that there wife of his.” Then he was gone, bearing the pint.
    Banks turned to Pat. “What did he mean?”
    â€œAh, take no notice of him,” Pat said with a dismissive wave in Grafton’s direction. “Mebbe he was a bit henpecked, at that. It must be hard working at home when the wife’s around all the time. Never get a minute’s peace, you wouldn’t. But Larry’s lass, Cathy, did for Mrs Rothwell now and again, like, and she says she were a bit of an interfering mistress, if you know what I mean. Standing over young Cathy while she worked and saying