Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 11

Banks listened to Carolyn Sampson singing Bach’s ‘Mein Herze schwimmt im Blut’ as he drove to Blaydon’s house. A Bach cantata seemed appropriate for Sunday morning. The traffic was light, and soon he was driving once again through the wrought-iron gates and along the winding drive under an arch of trees to Blaydon’s estate, focused on the job at hand.

There were several cars parked at various angles on the gravel apron in front of the house, and someone had put a bowler hat on the head of one of the stone cherubs. When Banks turned off his engine and got out of the car, he could hear music coming from inside the house. Not a thumping, pounding beat, but something a bit more middle of the road. It took him a few moments to realise it was Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rhiannon’.

He rang the doorbell, expecting Roberts the butler to answer, but Blaydon himself opened the door. He was wearing an orange terry cloth robe and had a white towel draped around his neck.

‘Banks,’ he said. ‘What a surprise! You’ve caught me quite unexpectedly. But then I suppose that’s your intention, isn’t it? Anyway, do come in. There’s a bit of a party still going on, I think, but it shouldn’t interrupt our business. Whatever that may be.’

Banks followed him across the cavernous hallway. ‘Party?’ he said. ‘It’s almost noon on Sunday.’

‘Is it? I believe we started on Saturday afternoon, but you know how hard it is to get rid of guests sometimes. One can’t simply ask them to leave. Anyway, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud. Is there ever a bad time for a party?’

On their way to Blaydon’s office, a teenage girl in a pair of stiletto heels, and nothing else, walked past them. She looked a bit lost, so Blaydon pointed and said, ‘The pool’s that way, Steffi, love.’

She wobbled off. ‘Granddaughter?’ said Banks.

Blaydon laughed. ‘Niece, I think. But not mine, thank God.’

‘Have you ever come across a Croatian called Tadić?’ Banks asked as they entered the office, which was in much the same state as it had been the last time he visited. ‘Petar Tadić?’

‘I can’t say as I have. What business is he in?’

Banks nodded towards the departing girl’s behind. ‘Supplying young girls like her.’

The corner of Blaydon’s mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. ‘Then I’d have to say no. Honestly, I have no idea where she came from. I suppose I must have invited her.’

‘Unless she came with one of your guests.’

‘There’s always that.’

They settled down in the office, and Banks studied Blaydon. He seemed fairly fresh and youthful, considering he’d been throwing a party since the previous afternoon. Perhaps he had slept, or perhaps it was down to the white powder Banks guessed was around somewhere. But he wasn’t interested in that. If he wanted, he could call in the drugs squad and get a search warrant, but that wasn’t his intention, either. ‘There’ve been some developments since we last talked,’ he said. ‘I wanted to sound you out on a few things.’

‘Oh? Such as?’

‘For a start, we’ve identified the dead boy as Samir Boulad, a migrant from Syria. We’ve also been able to link him with a house on Hollyfield Lane, where we found the body of an old junkie called Howard Stokes. The house is owned by Tommy and Timmy Kerrigan.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Blaydon. ‘But what’s that—’

‘We think the boy was working as a cuckoo in Stokes’s house, selling drugs in the Eastvale area.’

‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. A “cuckoo”? Is that slang for something?’

‘You’ve heard of county lines?’

‘Read about them in the papers. Whatever will these blokes come up with next?’

‘We also know that Leka Gashi is most likely involved, taking over a number of county lines based in Leeds and supplying the outlying rural areas, including Eastvale. Remember him? Last time I talked to you, you said you’d never heard of him. But you’ve been seen with him, and we also happen to have found out that the two of you have known one another for about ten years, through your home on Corfu. He lived just over the bay, in Sarandë.’

‘I know a lot of people in that area,’ said Blaydon. ‘Nothing wrong with that. I’ve been a resident there on and off for almost twenty years.’

‘But Gashi is Albanian Mafia, and we think you’ve been helping him set up his operations locally.’

‘Me? Seriously?’

Banks nodded. ‘Seriously. A favour here, a favour there.’

‘But why would I need to resort to criminal activity when I’m making a bloody fortune legally?’

‘I’d say, for a start, you rather fancy yourself in with the big bad boys, but perhaps even more important than that, your business isn’t doing too well these days. You’re not making a fortune. The property development business in general is in a depression. Shopping centres are closing down, and there’s a slump in the housing market. All of which means you have a lot of real estate and a lot of debts, but no obvious way of improving your profits or your cash flow in the immediate future. Things could only get worse, of course, the political situation being what it is.’

‘Interesting economic analysis,’ said Blaydon. ‘Completely wrong, but interesting.’

‘So your business is doing fine?’

‘I’ve diversified enough to compensate for a bumpy ride in the property markets,’ he said. ‘And the Elmet Centre will be built, and it will be a great success. Multiplex cinema, restaurants, high-end stores and boutiques, the lot. It’s what Eastvale has been wanting for a long time. Not only that, it’ll be a destination for people from more depressed areas further north — Darlington, Middlesbrough, Stockton, Chester-le-Street. Because you know as well as I do that no matter how depressed an urban area is, most of the people still have a car and a steady supply of booze, fags and fish and chips. And they like to have fun.’

‘That’s a pretty cynical view of the north-east,’ said Banks.

‘But true, nonetheless.’

‘When you were at Le Coq d’Or on the Sunday evening Samir was murdered, you received a call on your mobile at about ten o’clock. Who was it from?’

‘I don’t remember any phone call.’

‘Think back. You went outside to take it.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Blaydon. ‘Now I remember. That would have been Oliver. My son.’

‘What did Oliver have to say?’

‘I honestly don’t remember. It wasn’t anything important, anyway. Just some minor business matter. Why?’

‘And for that you needed to go outside?’

‘Don’t you know it’s rude to talk on the phone at the dinner table?’

‘What’s your business with the Kerrigans?’

‘It’s none of yours, but as you already know, they own a fair bit of the Hollyfield Estate, and that’s going to be an essential part of the new Elmet Centre and housing complex. We have interests in common. It makes sense to work together.’

‘What about The Vaults?’

‘Hardly my scene. Some demented DJ and a night of trance or drill music? And, by the way, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. What have you been saying to Frankie?’

‘Nothing much. We interviewed him briefly, after we talked to you last time. That’s all. Why?’

‘Poisoned him against me, more like. He’s quit on me.’

‘Quit?’

‘Yes. I’m going to have to find another driver now. It’s a bloody inconvenience.’

‘I’d apologise if I thought I were responsible,’ said Banks. ‘What reason did he give?’

‘He didn’t. Just said it was time to retire. Simple as that. I wouldn’t mind but he’s only about fifty. Got a good few years left in him yet.’

‘Early retirement? Maybe that’s all it was about?’

‘Maybe.’ But he didn’t sound as if he believed it.

Banks stood up. ‘How about showing me around the palace now I’m here?’

‘What, now?’

‘No time like the present. Who knows if, or when, I’ll be back again?’

Blaydon gazed at Banks, seeming to consider his words for a moment. Banks wondered whether he was trying to remember if there was any evidence of drugs or drug use. Finally, he said, ‘OK. Why not? Follow me.’

Banks followed. Apart from one of the bedrooms being used by a threesome in the throes of sexual passion, nothing interesting appeared to be going on in the rest of the house. But the place was definitely palatial. Blaydon could, if he wanted, accommodate a whole centre-full of asylum seekers and still have room to spare. It seemed amazing to Banks that one man had this all to himself. He sometimes felt that his own cottage was too big for him, and he should move to a flat if he wasn’t planning on getting married or living with someone, which he wasn’t. But this was true excess. No doubt, along with Roberts and Frankie, there were other servants to keep the place clean, and perhaps even to cook for Blaydon and his guests. A Michelin star chef, perhaps? McGuigan himself? Banks doubted it.

Finally, they came to the pool at the back. Not exactly Olympic-size, but not far off, complete with two-level diving board. It was all indoors, under glass or thick Perspex, which gave it the appearance of an outdoor pool, and on a day like today, with blue skies and sunshine, it looked perfect, rippling like a pool in a Hockney painting.

Banks had seen one or two people drifting about the house on his tour, but there were more here, mostly in loungers dozing or reading, and a number of well-endowed women in bikinis, or bikini bottoms, at any rate. Banks checked surreptitiously, but he didn’t see any bowls full of cocaine. Fleetwood Mac played on quietly from hidden speakers. The naked girl sat on the edge of the pool swirling her stilettos in the water. A man swam leisurely lengths. Another naked woman stood by the edge of the pool swaying to the music, oblivious to everyone else. At the far end, near the diving board, two thickset men wearing dark suits and sunglasses sat up to attention when Banks entered the pool area. Blaydon gave them some sort of a sign, and they relaxed back into their loungers.

‘Minders?’ Banks asked.

‘You can never be too careful.’

‘Where’s Jeeves today?’

‘I gave Roberts the weekend off. He’s not much of a party animal.’

The pool was clearly the end of the guided tour. ‘How about the grounds, too?’ Banks asked.

‘Another time. I’ve got business to attend to.’ Blaydon started heading back towards the front door, and Banks followed.

‘Some nice cars out front,’ Banks remarked. ‘Jag, Rolls, Merc, a Beemer.’

‘I know some wealthy people. It happens in my line of business.’

‘Drugs, prostitutes?’

‘Very fucking droll, Banks. And now perhaps if you’ve got what you came for, you can get off my property and leave us in peace?’

‘My pleasure,’ said Banks, smiling and doffing his non-existent cap in the doorway. It was all show, as he happened to see that one of the suits and sunglasses was watching them from across the hall. Surely it could do no harm to lead them to think Blaydon was friendly with the police? And the suit only saw Banks smile as he tapped Blaydon gently on the shoulder and said goodbye. He couldn’t see Blaydon frown and flinch, as Banks did.

Before Banks could leave the property, his mobile went off. Thinking it might be Zelda replying to the messages he had left that morning on her landline and mobile, he pulled over on the gravel drive and answered. But it was Annie calling from the station. Everyone was working today, it seemed.

‘Yes?’ he answered. ‘Anything new?’

‘Where are you?’

Banks explained about his visit to Blaydon.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘A couple of PCs have been viewing CCTV footage for the last two days, and I think they’ve finally come up with something.’

‘What is it?’

‘The Hollyfield area. You were right in that there’s not very much available, but it seems The Oak has installed CCTV recently, since the assault just outside their car park a month ago.’

‘Lisa Bartlett?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And...’

‘There’s a car. A black Mercedes S Series.’ She read out the number plate. ‘It’s Blaydon’s. The one Frankie Wallace was driving on the night Samir was killed.’

‘What time?’

‘Five past ten.’

‘In The Oak’s car park, on the Sunday of the murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s just across the road from Hollyfield Lane.’

‘So what are we going to do about it?’

‘I’m not so far away from Frankie Wallace’s house right now. Want to meet there?’

‘Give me half an hour.’

‘Will do,’ said Banks, and set off under the arch of trees.

It was light well before six o’clock. Zelda showered again, dried her hair, dressed and packed what few things she had.

The taxi seemed to float through almost empty backstreets and main thoroughfares to King’s Cross. There were very few commuters or business travellers around, but the place was buzzing with groups of tourists enticed out by the fine weather.

Zelda used her credit card to buy a first-class ticket on the next train that stopped at York. Northallerton was closer, but that was too much to hope for on a Sunday morning without a change. She didn’t have long to wait. The 8.48 would get her there by 11.04.

The first-class carriage wasn’t very full, even though weekend upgrades weren’t terribly expensive, and she had managed to get an unreserved single forward-facing seat. Soon they were passing the Emirates Stadium, then on past Alexandra Palace and through the London suburbs into open countryside. The attendant came around with weak coffee and took breakfast orders. Zelda wasn’t hungry, but she realised she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the previous day, so she ordered some eggs and a croissant and sat back to try and relax.

It was a journey she usually enjoyed, splitting her time between reading and gazing out of the window. And it was another beautiful day. But Zelda felt cut off from it all, as if the world outside were merely projected on a screen. There was no way she could concentrate on her book.

The events of the previous evening at the Hotel Belgrade were still fresh in her mind, and whenever she shut her eyes, she saw Goran Tadić opening his, then the knife flash down and the mess that followed. Her breath would get stuck in her throat, and she would start to panic, certain that anyone who saw her would know what she was reliving.

They passed Peterborough, Newark, Grantham, Doncaster. Zelda thought and thought about what she had done and whether she would ever have to pay the price. She was certain that Goran’s gang would make sure any evidence of his murder was swept under the carpet, and that there would be no police involvement. But what then? Would they just let it go or carry out their own investigation? And if that led to her, would they carry out their own form of vengeance? She shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about.

But what if his pals didn’t find him first? What if a hotel worker had become suspicious of the DO NOT DISTURB sign for some reason and opened the room and called the police? If the police got to the scene before Petar Tadić, Keane and the others could dispose of Goran’s body, they would start to ask questions. Would the trail lead to her? She had cleaned up, but had she done it well enough? Would they find the waitress from the restaurant and Faye Butler? The young jogger who had approached her as she was dumping the knife in the river? Would they be able to find the knife? Would the water have washed away all her fingerprints and any remaining traces of Tadić’s blood?

Even if there was no forensic evidence, they could probably trace her movements. Someone would remember the attractive woman in the hotel bar, would remember that she had let the victim pick her up and take her to his room. Forensic officers would go over the room carefully. They would find traces of her. A hair here, a fingerprint there. DNA. The staff at the hotel reception desk must have seen them walking towards the lifts. Maybe someone had even seen her hurrying out alone after the murder. The concierge? The taxi driver? They would tell their stories. Describe her in detail. And what about the security cameras? An identikit image would be published in all the papers and shown on television.

By the time the train stopped in York, paranoia had Zelda in its grip, and she was convinced that the police would be waiting for her. But they weren’t. The large station seemed fairly busy, and she was lucky to find a taxi idling out front. The Lyndgarth cottage was a good fare for the cabbie — close to forty pounds plus tip. Zelda settled in the back and tried to breathe normally. They could be waiting for her at the cottage, of course. She checked the Sky and BBC news bulletins on her mobile. There was nothing reported about a body being discovered at a London hotel. And Zelda was sure that if it hadn’t been discovered yet, that was because the others had got to it and made it disappear. She started to relax as the taxi drove around Eastvale and into the moorland near Lyndgarth. Soon she was at her door fumbling for money in her purse. The driver seemed happy with the fiver she added to the fare, and he even waited until she had got her door open before driving off. That certainly didn’t always happen these days.

The interior was as she had left it — which was tidy, for the most part, with the dishes washed and put away, the sink cleaned, living room dusted and electrical items unplugged. She plugged them all in again and boiled the kettle for tea. Luckily, it was a warm day, and she didn’t need to turn on the heating. The Internet router was still working fine, she saw, and once again checked the news sites. Again, there was nothing.

She had realised in the taxi that she’d had her mobile set on airplane mode since before her visit to the Hotel Belgrade, and when she had turned it off to check the news, she had noticed there was a telephone message from Alan Banks. In the cottage, the message light was flashing on the landline in the kitchen, too. Just for a moment, she panicked. Alan again? What if he was on to her? He was a policeman, after all. But she dismissed the idea as absurd. That wasn’t how they operated.

The message on the landline was from Alan. He was asking her to get in touch with him as soon as she got back. He sounded serious, and for a moment she wondered again if he could possibly have found out anything about what she had been doing, but soon decided that he couldn’t. Well, she was back now, she thought, so she reached out for the landline and dialled his number.

Banks had to wait only about five minutes a few yards down the road from Frankie Wallace’s house before Annie pulled up behind him in her grey Nissan. There were no grounds or landscaped gardens here, not even a postage-stamp lawn between the pavement and the front door.

Frankie let them in grudgingly, and they sat in the living room opposite the large flat-screen TV, in the shadow of the old boxing trophies. A suitcase lay open on one of the chairs, half-filled with shirts and underwear. Frankie bent over and started rearranging them.

‘Going somewhere, Frankie?’ Banks asked.

‘Aye. I’m going back home to Scotland,’ Frankie said. ‘Glasgow. Living’s cheaper up there.’

‘Why now?’

‘I’m retiring. Had enough.’

‘Surely you’re too young to retire?’ Annie said.

‘I’ve got a nice little nest egg that should see me through, pet.’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘And this place should bring me a bit more when I finally sell it. No more yes, sir; no, sir; three bags fucking full, sir.’

‘So what’s brought this on?’ Banks asked.

Frankie paused in his packing, moved the suitcase on to the floor and sat down. ‘I’ve taken a few punches in my time,’ he said, ‘and I had the sense to get out of that game before I got knocked into the middle of somewhere I could never get back from. But that was child’s play compared with this lot.’

‘Which lot?’

‘The fucking Albanians and all the rest of those fuckers.’

‘Leka Gashi?’

‘Aye. He’s their boss. Nasty fucking piece of work, and I’ve met a few in my time.’

‘What about them?’

‘They make me nervous, that’s what. They’re always hanging around the house, and I don’t like the way they’ve been looking at me lately. One of them thumped Tommy Kerrigan just for looking at him the wrong way. I’ve felt like thumping the wee pillock more than once in the time I’ve known him, but this bloke did it. Just like that.’

‘You must have known they were violent types right from the start, Frankie.’

‘It’s not just that. They’ve got no moral compass, Mr Banks. That’s what’s wrong with them. Not all of them, I should imagine. I’m not a racist, and I’m sure there are plenty of decent, honest Albanians around. But not the ones that my old boss has taken to hanging around with. I’ve done a few things I’ve been ashamed of over the years, but...’ He shook his head. ‘Pool parties with drugs and underage girls, boys, trans, you name it. Bestial acts. Casual brutality. They’ve got no shame. They’re a corrupt and vice-ridden lot, and I’ve had enough of them.’

‘I never knew you were such a moralist, Frankie.’

‘Aye, well, ye can’t always judge a book.’

‘They’re Mafia,’ said Annie. ‘What more do you need to know?’

‘Aye... well... you haven’t seen what I’ve seen.’

‘And Mr Blaydon?’

‘Getting pulled in deeper and deeper by the minute. They’re corrupting him. But I’ll no turn rat, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s been good to me over the years, and it’s only since he’s taken up with this lot that things have started to change for the worse. They tell him to jump and he asks how high.’

‘Have they got something on him?’

Frankie gave a harsh laugh. ‘Aye. Money. Put it this way: they’ve invested heavily in him and his projects, and not with the kind of money you can easily pull out, even if it hadn’t already gone bye-byes.’

‘Laundered money?’

‘I’ll no say. That’s not my place. I don’t understand it, truth be told, and I don’t want to. All I know is they’ve got him by the short and the curlies, and he does his best to put a brave face on it.’

‘You’re not sticking around to help him?’ Annie asked.

‘Bah. He won’t listen to reason. D’ya think I haven’t tried? Last time I was up there, I left in fear of my life, the way those goons he keeps by his side looked at me. No. I’ve had enough. I’m away.’ He returned to rearranging the suitcase.

‘Have you witnessed them do something specific, Frankie? Have you seen them kill someone?’

‘I’ll no turn rat.’

‘I understand you have no interest in turning informer,’ Banks said, ‘but do you think you could maybe help us out with just one little thing?’

Frankie sighed. ‘Depends. What might that be?’

‘Could you tell us what really happened that Sunday evening you drove your boss into Eastvale for dinner at Le Coq d’Or? We know you ate at The Red Lion on the market square earlier, but we also know the Merc was parked in the car park at The Oak around ten o’clock. You weren’t in there drinking. What happened during that time?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘The truth, Frankie. We can take you in, keep you for twenty-four hours, then release you. Let the world know how helpful you’ve been, helping the police with their inquiries. Or you can tell us what we want to know right now and set off for Glasgow before it gets dark. Your choice.’

‘Bastard.’ Frankie sat in silence for so long that Banks thought he had clammed up. Then he rubbed his lumpy nose and said, ‘Aye, I suppose I can tell you. As far as I know, no laws were broken. It was all perfectly simple.’ He eyed Banks with a glint of humour. ‘You know, you had me wondering what you were on about last time we talked. You’ve been barking up the wrong tree, laddie.’

Banks was about to tell him that he would be the judge of that, but stopped himself when he realised that such a criticism might discourage Frankie from saying anything more. ‘In that case, then...’ he said. ‘Do explain. Put me right.’

‘It’s all as I told you. I drove Mr Blaydon to the restaurant, couldn’t park right outside because the street’s so fucking narrow and parked at the back of the market square, like I said.’

‘This was what time?’

‘Just as I said before. About half past seven.’

‘Go on.’

Frankie lit a cigarette. It was unfiltered, Banks noticed. ‘I watched Downton Abbey on Netflix, went for a bite to eat at one of those pubs on the market square.’

‘The Red Lion,’ said Annie. ‘We checked.’

‘Aye, well, you can tell them they need to put a bit more meat and less gristle in their steak and mushroom pies.’

Annie smiled. ‘I’ll do that.’

‘Anyway, a bit later I gets a call from the boss, like.’

‘Blaydon? Can you remember what time?’ Banks asked.

‘Not exactly. It was after dark. Maybe ten o’clock or thereabouts.’

That fit with the time Blaydon got the phone call in Le Coq d’Or, Banks noted. ‘OK. What was it all about?’

‘The boss told me he’d got a call from Gashi in London telling him there’d been a bit of bother at a house on Hollyfield Lane. As we were nearby, the boss told me to drop by there and pick up a young lad and his belongings, then drive back to the restaurant to pick him and the Kerrigans up and head for an address in Leeds. Well, I’m just the driver. I do what I’m told.’

‘What address in Leeds?’

‘I don’t know. It never came to that.’

‘What happened?’

‘I drove over and parked in the pub car park then walked across to the house, number twenty-six Hollyfield Lane. I went round the back, down the alley, so I was less likely to be seen. It was a pretty rundown area of town, but I knew that already on account of I’d driven Mr Blaydon there before on that Elmet Centre business.’

‘You knew that particular house?’

‘No. Just the general area.’

‘If there was nothing illegal going on, why didn’t you just park on the street and approach from the front?’

‘Because I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, all right? I was being careful, is all. It’s my training kicking in. And because...’

‘Yes?’

‘Because life was getting unpredictable with the boss, all right? I didn’t know what was waiting around the corner.’

‘You were worried it might be a trap of some kind set up by Gashi?’

‘It crossed my mind.’

‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘Carry on.’

‘Thank you. When I went in the house—’

‘Was the back door open?’

‘Yes. The back door was open. When I went in the house and walked through to the front, I saw the front door open and a young lad dash out into the street. I couldn’t really see much of him, like, just his silhouette. It was dark, and there were no lights on in the room. I called out that I’d come to pick him up and take him home, but he legged it. Must’ve been scared, I suppose.’

‘Do you have any idea why you were supposed to take him home?’

‘No. At least, not until I saw what was in the room.’

‘Howard Stokes’s body?’

‘I knew it was a body, but I’d never heard of Howard Stokes, not until I saw his name in the papers later. Anyway, I ran out into the street — like I said, it was dark by then, and most of the street lamps there are busted — and I was just in time to see him running off into the distance. Well, I wasn’t going to try and chase him, was I?’

‘Which way was he going?’

‘Come again.’

‘What direction did he run off in?’

‘Oh. He turned right out the front door and legged it up the street.’

Towards Cardigan Drive, Banks thought, the park, and Elmet Hill beyond. ‘So what did you do?’

‘Wasn’t much I could do, was there? I might not be past it yet, but I’ve never been much of a sprinter. Besides, if he didn’t want a ride back to the city, I wasn’t going to bloody force him.’

‘What about his things?’ Annie asked.

‘Mr Blaydon had told me to bring him and his stuff back with me. There was a backpack and a dark jacket beside it, so I took them with me and went back out.’

‘Did Mr Blaydon specifically ask you to make sure you got the lad’s backpack?’ Banks asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what was in it?’

‘No. And I didn’t want to.’

Drugs, Banks knew. Frankie probably knew, too, but there was no percentage in his admitting it. The delivery. So Samir had arrived in Eastvale with instructions to go to Stokes’s house, the trap house, spend a day or two distributing the wares and delivering orders, working the line, then return to Leeds. But what happened when he got there? Or before he got there? Had Samir killed Stokes? No. Dr Galway had been certain that Stokes had died of a drug overdose, and it was unlikely that Samir knew how to administer a hot shot and make it look like an accident. Besides, why should he kill anyone? So he had arrived at the house, found Stokes dead and panicked. He had called the county lines number and asked what he should do. Then what?

‘Did you find a phone among his stuff?’

‘I think there was one zipped up in the jacket pocket. It felt heavy and bulky like a mobile, anyway.’

‘But you didn’t examine it?’

‘No. I just carried the stuff back to the Merc, bunged it in the boot and drove back to the market square.’

The CCTV had lost the Merc after it had left The Oak’s car park, so Banks had no way of knowing whether Wallace had made any other stops on his way. He doubted it, though, as the timing worked out. Besides, Mrs Grunwell had said she heard a crunching of gears as the car set off, and the Merc’s gears were smooth as silk. ‘What about later, when you picked up Blaydon and the Kerrigans?’

‘It wasn’t much later. Ten or fifteen minutes. Naturally, Mr Blaydon wanted to know where the boy was, but he wasn’t going to ask in front of those two numpties. After I’d dropped them off, he asked me, and I told him.’

‘How did he react?’

‘He was a bit pissed off, but not that much. Seemed glad I’d got the backpack, most of all.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Annie. ‘The Albanians would no doubt want their drugs back.’

Frankie grunted. ‘I don’t know nothing about that.’

‘What happened to the backpack?’ Banks asked.

‘I don’t know. I never saw it again. Mr Blaydon took it and the jacket with him when I got him home.’

Banks figured that Blaydon got the phone call in Le Coq d’Or from Gashi, who may have answered the dedicated county line call from Samir, or had the message passed on to him by one of his minions. As Gashi was far away in London, he asked Blaydon to go fetch the boy and his drugs and get them back to Leeds. It didn’t matter that Blaydon was already in Eastvale. Gashi had no reason to know that; it was a mere coincidence, and a convenience. He would have expected Blaydon to drive up to Eastvale from Harrogate, anyway. It was a lot closer than London, and that was probably exactly the kind of favour Gashi asked for to get Blaydon even more deeply enmeshed in his games. As far as Samir was concerned... well, he’d freaked out and run away, and Gashi and Blaydon would both no doubt have imagined that he would make his way back to Leeds eventually, that he just got scared and bolted. Even if he never made it back, it didn’t matter to them; he was hardly likely to talk, and he was expendable. There were plenty more where he came from. Most important, they’d got their drugs back. All they had to do was lie low until the fuss died down and then start up again somewhere else. No doubt by that time, however, Gashi would have started to have doubts about Blaydon, and just how much use he was to them, especially now the Elmet deal was going sour and the Hollyfield house was no longer available.

‘What time did you see Samir running out of the house?’

‘Samir?’

‘The Middle Eastern boy who was killed.’

‘That was him? I’d no idea. I couldn’t see the colour of his skin. He was fast, I’ll say that for him.’

‘What time?’

‘A bit after ten. Ten past, maybe.’

‘And you got back to the market square when?’

‘Maybe half an hour later. Bit more. Mr Blaydon doesn’t like me smoking in the car, so I had a couple of cigarettes in The Oak car park, then drove around a bit.’

‘Why?’

‘I like driving. It relaxes me. And to be honest, I was a bit disturbed.’

‘By what you’d seen?’

‘By everything that had happened.’

‘Did you have any idea what was really going on that night?’ Banks asked.

‘No,’ said Frankie. ‘I was just doing my job. I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know.’

Banks couldn’t tell whether he was lying, but it didn’t matter. Whatever part Frankie had played, it was a minor one. ‘Tell me, Frankie,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you didn’t run after the lad and catch him? Then one thing led to another?’

‘There you go, see,’ Frankie spat. ‘Typical copper talk. Tell you what I know and that’s the thanks I get.’

‘Maybe you’re just telling me as much as you want me to know. Or as much as Blaydon wants me to know.’

‘Well, you can think what you like, but you’ll not get any more from me, and you’ll not prove anything is other than what I’ve told you, either.’

‘And the boy?’

‘No idea. Never saw him again.’

‘The last you saw of him?’

‘I told you. Running up the street, vanishing into the night.’

Into the park, Banks thought.

After leaving Frankie Wallace to his packing, Banks got home to Newhope Cottage early enough to cook himself a reasonably healthy meal of salmon, rice and asparagus — mostly in the microwave — and do a spot of tidying up around the place before Zelda came. She had replied to the message he had left and suggested she would drop by later in the evening.

Banks went around the cottage putting CDs and DVDs back in their cases and on the shelves, washing yesterday’s dishes, giving the wood floor and carpets a quick run around with the vacuum cleaner, dumping the contents of the laundry basket into the washing machine and generally getting in touch with his domestic side. When he looked out of the conservatory on to his small back garden and saw the bindweed and the mint growing wild, he knew he would have to find a weekend afternoon to spend out there. He wasn’t much of a gardener — even basic maintenance was a chore — and he usually hoped poor weather would provide him with an excuse for staying indoors, or for venturing out for a long walk around Tetchley Fell — for good walking weather and fine gardening weather were not the same thing at all in his book.

Before leaving York, Banks and Annie had struggled with whether to arrest Frankie, and decided in the end against it. Let him run off back to Glasgow. He was clearly scared — and if a hard man like Frankie Wallace was scared, then there was something to be scared of. They could lock him up, even if only for a short period of custody, but what would be the point? They would have to let him go eventually, as they had no case against him, no evidence. Best to let him go. He had always been at best a minor villain, hired muscle, and he had certainly had no reason to kill Samir.

And the timing didn’t work. According to Dr Galway, hypostasis indicated that Samir had been dead on his back for between an hour and an hour and a half, and the witnesses on Malden Terrace had heard the car close to half-past eleven. By then, Blaydon’s Merc had already been spotted by ANPR well on its way out of town. Besides, Banks believed his story and was starting to have a few new ideas about that whole business.

Even if they found evidence later that Frankie had been involved, it wouldn’t be too difficult to track him down in Glasgow, or wherever he went. Banks had asked the local forces to keep a discreet eye on him, and his car number plate had been flagged for ANPR recognition. Wherever Frankie Wallace went, he wouldn’t be completely out of their sight until this was all over. In addition, Banks had already arranged to send out a CSI team from York CID to carry out some blood tests on Blaydon’s Merc and have a good poke around his mansion and grounds. Just in case.

It was getting dark. The sun was setting west of Tetchley Fell outside the conservatory windows, and the sky between the hills was streaked with vermillion, purple and grey. Satisfied the place was as spic and span as he could get it without hired help, he checked Apple Music on his mobile — set up for him by his son Brian on his last visit — and streamed a Sally Beamish viola concerto. Then he poured himself a glass of Nero d’Avola and settled down to read Ben Macintyre’s The Spy and the Traitor and wait.

It was about half past nine when Zelda pulled up in her little Clio runabout and rang his doorbell. Banks put his book aside and went through to answer the door. She followed him along the hall and into the kitchen.

‘Sorry I’m so late,’ she said. ‘You know what it’s like when you get back from being away for a while.’

‘No problem,’ said Banks. ‘Drink?’

‘What are you having?’

‘Red wine.’

‘That’ll be fine, please.’

Banks poured her a glass and invited her to follow him into the conservatory. She had visited before, with Ray, and seemed quite comfortable, taking the same wicker chair she had sat on the last time she was there.

She looked a little drawn, Banks thought, as if she hadn’t been sleeping very well. She wore hardly any make-up, so it was easy to see the dark shadows under her eyes contrasting the paleness of her skin. She was still beautiful, with classic bone structure, perfectly proportioned features and eyes a man could lose himself in. Tonight she wore her hair in a long ponytail and had dressed in jeans and a red knitted polo-neck jumper. She never wore much perfume, but a fresh and pleasant scent of orange and bergamot drifted over from her general direction.

They clinked glasses and drank.

‘Nice,’ said Zelda. ‘What is it?’

Banks told her about the Sicilian Nero d’Avola he had enjoyed on a short break in Taormina earlier that year and the case he had ordered to be delivered from a wine merchant there. ‘You can’t get it here. Not this particular winery, anyway. Like most countries, they keep their best wines for themselves and only export the rest.’

‘It’s very good,’ said Zelda.

‘Yes. Have you eaten?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. What’s the music?’

‘Sally Beamish,’ said Banks. ‘I’ll turn it off if you like.’

‘No. Leave it on. It’s good. You always play interesting music.’

Banks settled down in his chair. It was dark outside now. The stars were out, and the table lamp reflected its orange glow in the glass. They chatted for a while about Zelda’s time in London, how much she loved the city and how sad she was about the whole Brexit mess.

‘Sometimes I think it’s not Europe people want to leave but England itself,’ said Banks. ‘Life here can be quite depressing, but it’s no good blaming the EU for that. Change needs to happen here first.’ He shrugged. ‘But I’m not a politician. I don’t have a seat to keep, or a need for power.’

‘I think you get plenty of power in your job, don’t you?’

‘I suppose so. The power of arrest and so forth. I’ve seen coppers abuse it, the same way politicians abuse theirs.’

‘And perhaps conditions are bad in the cities, but it is beautiful here, isn’t it?’

Banks nodded. ‘I’m very lucky, and I know it.’

‘Me, too.’

‘Why sound so sad? There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

Zelda shook her head and tried to smile. ‘No, it’s not... I mean, I get scared when I come to love something so much. Afraid I will lose it. Life has always been like that.’

‘I think we all have a bit of that in us. Imposter syndrome. A sense of not deserving what we have. Or survivor’s guilt.’

Zelda shot him a direct glance. ‘I don’t feel guilty about surviving,’ she said.

‘I know. I didn’t mean that. I meant...’

Her tone softened. ‘It’s all right, Alan. I think I know what you meant. Forgive me. It’s just my job that makes me this way. The faces bring back so many bad memories. But many girls are far, far worse off than me.’

‘Yes.’ Banks stood and topped up their drinks. He would need to open another bottle soon. ‘If you want to smoke,’ he said, ‘it’s OK. I’m sure I can find an ashtray somewhere.’ Though Banks had stopped smoking many years ago, he felt that if he invited someone into his house whom he knew was a smoker, then he should permit that person to smoke. As it turned out, most didn’t; very few of his friends smoked, anyway.

Zelda shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to smoke less than five cigarettes a day, and I’ve already reached my limit today. But thank you.’

‘So what do you want to see me about?’ he asked.

‘I thought it was you who wanted to see me?’

Banks laughed. ‘Well, it’s true I would like to talk to you. Nelia.’

She raised a perfect eyebrow. Banks wondered if she had had it microbladed since he had last seen her. ‘So you know my name,’ she said.

‘Nelia Melnic,’ Banks said. ‘It’s a fine name. Why change it?’

‘It was the name they gave me in the orphanage,’ Zelda said with a shrug. ‘A Romanian name. I thought it was time for a new one. Do you think it gives you power over someone if you know their real name, like in magic?’

‘No,’ said Banks. ‘It just came up, that’s all.’

‘I can’t imagine how. Anyway, I found out my real name, before the orphanage. I told you before that my parents were Russian, or “Russian-speaking”, as they say in the old republics.’

‘Will you tell me?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m just curious, that’s all.’

Zelda seemed a little embarrassed by his request. Her skin flushed, and she seemed to become suddenly shy. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s not about power or anything,’ said Banks. ‘I would just like to know.’

There was a long silence, and for a while Banks thought she wasn’t going to tell him, then she said softly, ‘Ekaterina Mikhailovna Polinskaya.’ Then she put her hand over her mouth and gave a soft laugh. ‘Quite a mouthful, isn’t it?’

‘It sounds like someone out of a Russian novel,’ Banks said.

‘So now you know everything. I am putty in your hands.’

It was Banks’s turn to laugh. ‘So what do I call you now?’

‘I remember that my father used to call me Katja. But I think we would be best to stick with Zelda, don’t you?’

‘I like Katja, but Zelda’s OK with me, if you prefer it. After F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife?’

‘Tender is the Night is one of my favourite books,’ Zelda said, ‘but no. It’s The Legend of Zelda. A Nintendo game I used to play in Paris when I was bored, between clients. Not that that happened often enough.’

‘I don’t know much about video games.’

‘You haven’t missed anything.’

‘And I must confess that I haven’t read Tender is the Night, either. There are so many books I should read. Including those big Russian novels.’

Zelda laughed. ‘You’d never get past the names.’ She leaned forward a little and pushed a long strand of free hair behind her ear. ‘It is good to be here, Alan. I think I needed cheering up.’

‘Glad to be of assistance.’ Banks paused. ‘I understand it’s been a difficult week for you? You haven’t told me everything.’

Zelda seemed immediately wary again. ‘Oh? What do you mean, “everything”?’

‘Well, when you told me about London earlier, you didn’t say you’d gone there from Croatia, or that when you arrived, the first thing you heard was that your boss had died in a house fire.’

‘Oh.’ She seemed relieved. ‘Yes. It’s true.’

‘And I asked myself if you, like me when I heard about it, would make the connection and wonder if it could have anything to do with our old friend Phil Keane?’

‘It did cross my mind. You told me he liked to start fires. But why would you think this Keane knew my boss, Mr Hawkins?’

‘Your boss would have seen the photographs, surely? It’s not such a long stretch from there, especially if Keane is involved with known traffickers.’

‘Of course. But why would you think Keane would harm Mr Hawkins?’

‘Are you still looking for Keane, Zelda?’

‘I never stopped. Just nothing happened for so long. There have been no more photographs of him. I’m sorry.’

‘And then?’

‘The fire.’

‘Whitescape’ was playing now, all long, drawn-out chords, flurries of sound and crashing percussion behind. ‘Why did you walk by the house?’

Zelda looked down into her wine glass. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to see for myself. It was terrible. A ruin. They said it was an accident.’

‘But you think differently?’

‘How do you know about all this? My name? The fire?’

‘A friend. Another policeman.’

‘And he wants what?’

‘Nothing. He knows the detectives who talked to you.’

‘Danvers and the one he called Deborah?’

‘That’s right.’

‘They think I killed Mr Hawkins?’

‘No. But they think there’s something you’re not telling them. You think there’s something odd about it all, don’t you?’

‘I didn’t tell them about Keane.’

‘I’m afraid I let that slip to my friend.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I don’t think Mr Hawkins was the kind of man to get drunk and then put a chip pan full of oil on his burner, if that’s what you mean.’

‘So you suspect that someone helped him do it?’

‘I think it is possible, yes. But I’m not investigating the case. Perhaps you are. Is that why you’re asking me all these questions?’

‘No. I told you. A friend of mine dropped by and told me about it. He found out about your connection with Ray, and he knows Annie through me. He put two and two together. He works with the NCA. I don’t think they’re entirely happy with the chip-pan theory either.’

‘So they asked you to question me to see if I know anything I’m not telling them?’

‘Sort of. But it’s nothing as sinister as that. He just asked if I’d have a chat with you about it, see if you knew anything more. Nobody thinks you had anything to do with it, Zelda. Besides, they know you were in Croatia at the time.’

‘That’s true.’

‘With an old friend?’

Zelda nodded.

‘It’s OK,’ said Banks. ‘I’m not asking you for an alibi. I trust you. I don’t think you had anything to do with what happened.’

‘I don’t like being interrogated. You’re supposed to be my friend.’

‘I’m not interrogating you, and I like to think I am your friend. Friends need to be honest with one another.’ Banks went into the kitchen, opened his last bottle of Nero d’Avola and changed the music with his mobile, choosing an album called Blues Dialogues, a series of blues-themed violin pieces played by Rachel Barton Pine. When he got back, carrying the bottle with him, Zelda was sitting exactly as he had left her, a slightly petulant expression on her face. She accepted a refill, then Banks filled his own glass and sat down. ‘I’m sorry,’ Zelda said. ‘There is just so much on my mind. So much I want to forget. I get upset when there are too many questions.’

‘Just understand this, Zelda. I’m not out to get you or trip you up. I’m on your side. I’m also in the midst of a very nasty and very depressing case at the moment, involving the murder of a thirteen-year-old Syrian migrant who was stuffed in a wheelie bin on the East Side Estate.’

Zelda looked sadly at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I read about that. It sounds terrible.’

‘It is. And it’s throwing up all kinds of connections.’

‘Not Phil Keane?’

‘Not yet, no. But it wouldn’t surprise me. We think the boy was involved in a county line drug operation that fell afoul of an Albanian gangster called Leka Gashi. Ever heard of him?’

Zelda shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But you need to be careful. I do know something about the Albanians from experience.’

‘You were there?’

‘Briefly. Tirana. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘You don’t have to. Gashi and his cohorts are taking over a number of local drug operations and managing to dispose of the competition as they do so. Another name that came up was Tadić. Petar Tadić. A Croatian. Does that name mean anything to you?’

But Banks hardly needed to ask. Zelda seemed to freeze, turn rigid, as she said through a clamped jaw, ‘No.’

‘Zelda. I know you know who he is. He’s the other man in that photograph with Keane, isn’t he?’

Zelda paused for a while, then nodded.

‘Why didn’t you tell me? It might have helped.’

‘Because he was of no interest to you. You wanted to know about Keane. I told you Tadić was a bad man who liked to hurt girls.’

‘Did he hurt you?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘Is that who you were visiting in Croatia?’

‘No. Of course not. He is someone I would stay away from. I was visiting a friend. Tadić is not a friend.’

‘Who, then?’

‘A woman. She runs a hostel for girls who have escaped. And that’s all I will tell you. She values her privacy more than anything.’

‘All right,’ said Banks. ‘I understand Tadić had risen in the organisation.’

‘That’s no surprise. Men like him always do.’

‘And Keane is involved in whatever’s going on? In what happened to you.’

‘No. I didn’t know Keane. I have never met him. He must be new. He wasn’t around when I... all those years ago.’

‘Can you help me any more? Help me find Keane through Tadić?’

Zelda shook her head.

Banks felt that she was still holding something back, but he knew better than to pursue it any further tonight. Her defences were fragile. No matter how tough her hard life had made her, there was a vulnerability and sensitivity about her that, Banks thought, once broken, once trespassed upon, would leave her defenceless. Instead, he smiled at her. ‘OK, interrogation over. Shall we finish the bottle?’

Zelda cocked an eye at him. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’

‘Zelda, if three glasses of wine are enough to get you drunk, you’re not the woman I thought you were.’

Zelda laughed, a loud but strangely musical sound, and held out her glass. ‘Za Lyubov,’ she said when it was full, and tossed a good part of it back in one.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s a Russian toast.’

‘I thought that was na zdarovye?’

‘That’s what everyone thinks. They’re wrong.’

‘Za Lyubov, then,’ said Banks. ‘When is Ray coming back?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Zelda. ‘Soon, I hope. A few days.’

‘You miss him?’

‘Of course. Not his music, though.’

‘No Edgar Broughton Band or Quintessence tonight, don’t worry.’

Zelda laughed. ‘He is like a little boy. But his paintings...’ She sighed.

‘And your work?’

‘Bah. Nothing. Trinkets. Pleasant wall hangings to be sold at country fêtes like on Midsomer Murders. You watch that?’

‘Afraid not,’ said Banks. ‘I’m a George Gently fan, myself.’

So they talked for a while about television, music, painting, movies and books. Zelda, it turned out, had not only read all of the big Russian novels Banks aspired to — in Russian — but she had also read most of the big European novels, too, from Pamela to Ulysses. When he told her he didn’t know where she got the time, she said she had read most of them at the orphanage, in her teens, and it was true she had little time for reading after her abduction, and scant access to books. Banks felt bad for bringing up the subject when he saw the deep sadness in her eyes.

It was late, and Banks was about to suggest calling a taxi, considering how much they had drunk, when Zelda suddenly said, ‘Can I stay here tonight, Alan? I don’t want to go back to the empty cottage alone. I know it’s silly, but I just want to know that there’s someone nearby. Can I stay? I can sleep on the sofa. I promise I won’t be any trouble.’

Banks swallowed. Here he was, sitting across from one of the most beautiful women he had ever met in his life, and she was asking if she could stay the night. ‘Of course you can,’ he said. ‘But you don’t have to sleep on the sofa. The spare room’s made up.’

‘Are you sure? I feel like I’ve pressured you.’

Banks smiled. ‘It’s yours whenever you need it.’

She stood up and bent to put her arms around him. ‘Thank you,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘God bless you, Alan Banks.’ Then she spoke a few words in Russian he didn’t understand and stood up again.

‘Do you want to go up right now?’ Banks said.

Zelda nodded. ‘If it is not too rude. I’m tired. It’s been a very long week.’

‘OK.’

Banks got up and led the way back down the hall to the staircase. ‘I don’t think I’ve got a spare toothbrush,’ he said. ‘But you can check in the bathroom. There might be one in the cupboard.’

‘No problem,’ said Zelda.

Banks opened the door to the spare bedroom, where Tracy or Brian slept when they visited. It was small, with only a single bed, but there was a nice view of the woods, and on a warm night like this, Zelda could open the window a few inches and enjoy some fresh air and hear the dawn chorus in the morning.

‘It’s perfect,’ said Zelda. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll be just next door. You know, if you need...’ Banks backed away, turned and went back downstairs, embarrassed. He heard the bathroom door open and close as he went.

Once back in the conservatory, he found his heart was beating so fast he wasn’t sure whether he should have another glass of wine. But he poured himself one anyway. He changed the Blues Dialogues for Véronique Gens singing Chausson’s ‘Poème de l’amour et de la mer’ and turned the volume down so as not to disturb Zelda. He heard the toilet flush, water running in the sink, then the bathroom door creaked open and closed again. Every sound seemed magnified by her presence, the strange and unsettling presence of a beautiful woman in the cottage. Finally, he heard the door to the spare room shut, and then only silence from upstairs. He would give her a while to settle down and fall asleep before he went up to his own room.

As he sat and listened to Véronique Gens’s warm and sensual vocals, his heart slowed down, but the rest of his body didn’t. Desire tingled in every vein and muscle. If only that kiss on the cheek had missed and hit his lips... It didn’t bear thinking about, but how could he not think about it? Our thoughts are not crimes; our desires are not felonies. But why do they feel as if they are? It is only in acting upon them that the fault lies, he told himself, no matter what William Blake said about sooner murdering a baby in its cradle than nursing an unacted desire.

But he still felt guilty for hoping, for that one brief moment when Zelda asked to stay, that she had meant she wanted to stay and sleep with him. The guilt wasn’t so much because of Ray, but more because of Zelda’s past, the way she had been constantly mistreated, used and abused by men. Was he no better than them? If some pimp came up to him right now and said he could sleep with her for a hundred or two hundred pounds, would he pay it? Zelda was younger than his own daughter Tracy, yet still he lusted after her. Just how good was he when it came right down to it? He felt both relieved and disappointed that it wasn’t him she wanted, merely the proximity of another human being. Relieved because he wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of sleeping with Zelda, and disappointed because, well, because it was Zelda, and the damn thing was that he didn’t only lust after her, he liked her.

Banks drank the last of the wine and tried to comfort himself with the thought that his virtue was most unlikely to be put to the test: there wasn’t a hope in hell that things with Zelda would go any further. His feelings would remain unrequited. They would remain friends because that was what she needed most, even though what he needed most was not so much another friend as a lover. It was small comfort, but it was the best he would get for the moment.