Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 12

When Banks came downstairs on Monday morning, Zelda was already up, sitting in the conservatory with a cup of coffee, reading the Guardian. She looked up and smiled when Banks walked in. ‘Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks.

‘I made coffee. But what do you eat for breakfast? I couldn’t find anything.’

‘Ah,’ said Banks. ‘Right. I’m not much of a breakfast person, really. A cup of coffee, then hit the road, that’s me.’

‘But breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’

‘So they say. Whoever they are. I’ve never quite been able to believe it, myself. I think there’s some bread left, though. And I’ve got marmalade.’

Zelda made a face. ‘The bread is mouldy.’

‘Oh, sorry. Well, I’ll happily take you out for breakfast. They do a pretty decent full English down on Helmthorpe High Street.’

‘The coronary special?’

‘Some people call it that.’

Zelda stood up. ‘I suppose I should go home. I just wanted to make sure I thanked you for... you know, for everything.’

‘It’s nothing. Are you sure you’re OK to go, Zelda? I have to go to work — it’s going to be a busy day, today — but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.’

‘No. I can go. It’s fine. I feel much better now. Thank you.’

‘There’s nothing wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘If you need anything... I mean, the spare room’s always here for you.’

‘I’ll be all right. It was just my first night back, that’s all. Nerves. I don’t think I’ve ever been by myself up there before, and sometimes my memories are not good to be alone with. But Raymond will be back soon.’

Banks followed Zelda towards the front door, where she picked up her jacket from the hook. ‘Thank you once again, Alan,’ she said. ‘See you soon?’

‘Absolutely.’

And Banks stood there feeling like an idiot, waving to her little Clio as it disappeared down his drive. She knew; he was sure she knew what he had been thinking. It must be obvious just from looking at him. It must happen to her all the time. What a bloody fool he was. He had lain awake most of the night, conscious that she was sleeping only feet away, imagining her body, its outline under the thin sheet. She must think he is like all the men she has ever met, all the perverts and abusers. Once, she had cried out during the night, he was certain. He had almost gone to her to ask what was wrong and offer comfort — he would have been happy just to lie beside her and hold her — but realised what a mistake it would have been to enter her bedroom in the middle of the night.

Anyway, Zelda was gone now, and it was time to get a grip. Banks went back to his coffee and stood at his conservatory windows enjoying the early morning light dappling the hillsides, the blue tits flitting from branch to branch in his garden, a robin poking about on the lawn for an early worm. There were things to be set in motion today, including a search of the park at the bottom of Elmet Street, and people to talk to. He was starting to feel very much as if he was coming to the end of this investigation. He couldn’t say that he knew who had killed Samir, or why, but he did feel that he was finally on the right track.

On his way down the A1 to Leeds later that day, Banks listened to Jeremy Irons reading T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. He wouldn’t have professed to understand it, though there were moments of surprising clarity, but he responded to the music of the language, and Irons performed it beautifully. He was supposed to get together with his poet friend Linda Palmer to discuss it over a long leisurely Sunday lunch together next week, and she would no doubt, as usual, enlighten him.

That morning in the station had produced one interesting lead. Vic Manson had managed to pull several sets of fingerprints from the red bicycle frame abandoned in Howard Stokes’s backyard, and one belonged to a boy called Greg Janson, who turned up on IDENT1. Janson had been arrested two weeks ago in a round-up of suspected drug users in a Leeds squat, so his address was on record. He hadn’t been charged with any crime yet, but his fingerprints and DNA were still on the database, and could be kept there for up to six months. Tyler Cleary had mentioned to Gerry that his contact on Hollyfield Lane was called Greg, so this was most likely the fair-haired boy Margery Cunningham had told Gerry about. If he was, then he should know something about the county lines operation in Eastvale. It also made perfect sense that the other end of the line, where the drugs came from, was Leeds.

DCI Ken Blackstone had said he would be happy to meet Banks at Greg’s place of work, a garage on the ring road near the Horsforth exit. Janson worked the four until midnight shift, so Banks timed his arrival for five. They had arranged to meet in the Asda car park behind the garage, and Banks figured the quickest way to get there was to turn off the A1 at Wetherby and join the ring road near the golf club, then head west through Moortown and Weetwood.

He switched off Four Quartets as he negotiated the numerous ring road roundabouts and the Leeds rush-hour traffic. He had just got to the start of ‘East Coker’, with its famous opening about the end being in the beginning. It seemed a good place to stop.

He found the car park at the big roundabout without much trouble and immediately saw Ken Blackstone leaning against his silver Focus enjoying the mild May weather. Banks angled his Porsche into the next spot.

‘Looking a bit shabby, isn’t it?’ Blackstone said by way of greeting.

‘All it needs is a good wash and brush up,’ Banks replied. ‘Besides, there’s no such thing as a shabby Porsche. It’s just got character, that’s all.’

Blackstone laughed and held out his hand. ‘Good to see you again, Alan.’

Banks shook it. ‘You, too.’

Blackstone nodded towards the garage. ‘Shall we?’

‘Lead the way.’

They walked between parked cars and across the busy Asda lot, then arrived at the garage. ‘Greg works in the shop,’ said Blackstone, pointing past the pumps to the door. Banks made his way past the magazine rack and down an aisle flanked by crisps and sweet snack foods and walked to the counter. There were two young lads working there, both wearing jackets that bore the name of the brand of petrol they were selling. One had a name tag that read ‘GREG’. Both were busy.

Banks and Blackstone waited until Janson had finished with his customer then introduced themselves. Greg didn’t react much; he seemed neither interested nor worried to find two police detectives asking if they could talk to him.

‘I’ll just ask the boss if it’s all right to take an early break,’ he said, then opened a door behind him and made his request. He must have received an affirmative answer because he came back, ducked under the counter at the far end, where the newspapers were, and accompanied them outside. ‘Mind if we go over there?’ he said, pointing to a wall by the back of the Asda lot. ‘Only there’s no smoking near the garage, and I’m dying for a fag.’

Banks smiled and nodded. He remembered the feeling, though it came back to him only rarely these days. As far as he knew, Ken Blackstone had never smoked, but he seemed happy enough to go along with Greg’s request. Blackstone was coming to resemble Philip Larkin more and more every time Banks saw him. Or Eric Morecambe. He wasn’t sure which.

They reached the wall, and Greg sat down and lit up. He was of medium height, skinny and fair-haired, which matched the description they had. ‘What is it you want?’ he said. ‘I’ve been a good boy lately.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ said Banks. ‘But we want to talk to you about Eastvale. Hollyfield Lane.’

Greg blew out smoke and nodded slowly. ‘That’s all behind me now,’ he said. ‘I know you lot have a hard time believing anyone can turn his life around, but that’s what I’ve done. I’ve got a decent job, a nice little flat and a girlfriend, and things are going really well for me.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Banks. ‘And, believe it or not, I’m not here to judge you or in any way ruin what you’ve got going. I’m not interested in what drugs you did or didn’t take or sell. Do you admit you were a cuckoo in Eastvale?’

‘Be a fool to deny it, wouldn’t I, as it’s probably on record? That was obviously what the police were interested in when they arrested us, but I wasn’t carrying enough to get done for dealing.’

‘There’s definitely a crackdown on county lines,’ Banks said. ‘Who was the gangmaster?’

Greg drew deeply on his cigarette. After he’d blown out the smoke, he said, just as Frankie Wallace had said the previous day, ‘I’m not a snitch. Even if it mattered.’

‘It doesn’t?’

‘He’s dead, so I’d say not.’

‘Then I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t tell us. Can you?’

Greg thought for a while, then said. ‘OK. It’s Lenny G. Like I said, it doesn’t matter. He’s dead. That’s why I got out myself.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know all the ins and outs. I was low-level. A cuckoo, as you say, with an old junkie called Howard on Hollyfield Lane, up in Eastvale.’

‘Howard Stokes?’

‘Yeah. You know him? Nice bloke. Real gentle soul, old sixties type, but fucked up, you know, up there.’ He pointed to his head. ‘Years of sticking that fucking poison in his veins.’

‘Howard’s dead,’ said Banks.

Greg’s eyes went wide. ‘Is he? Fuck. How?’

‘Overdose.’

Greg sucked on his cigarette again. ‘Had to happen eventually, man.’

‘So how did you operate?’

‘I picked up the stuff, carried it there, usually on the bus, hung out in that filthy old condemned house he lived in for a few days and sold what I’d got to whoever had ordered it, along with maybe some new customers, friends of friends. I got to know people. Regulars, like. A good crowd. But I got pulled.’

‘Pulled?’

‘Yeah. The timing couldn’t have been better, really. It was all a bit chaotic. There was a changeover at the top. Lenny G used to be the big man, top of the tree. Then all of a sudden, he wasn’t. And the next thing I knew, he was dead.’

‘Excuse me, but was Lenny G Leonard Grainger?’ Blackstone asked.

‘I believe that was his full name, yeah,’ said Greg. ‘But we all called him Lenny G.’

‘Found floating face down in the Leeds-Liverpool Canal out Rodley way,’ said Blackstone to Banks. ‘He’d been gutted.’

‘Ouch,’ said Banks. ‘How long ago?’

‘Three weeks.’

Greg seemed to turn pale. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said. ‘Just... you know... that he was dead. Gutted. Fucking hell.’

Blackstone nodded. ‘It was nasty. So what happened? We’ve still got it down as an unsolved murder.’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Greg. ‘I wasn’t here at the time it happened. I was up in Eastvale. My last visit, as it turned out, though I didn’t know that at the time. The county line just went dead. When I got back to the city and went round to the centre back in Seacroft, there were two blokes I didn’t know, and they wanted the money I’d collected on the shipment. Foreign accents. In the end I just gave them it and bunked off. Never went back. I was wanting out, anyway. My girlfriend didn’t approve of the line of work, and I have to say, the foreign blokes scared me a bit. And the place was empty. It looked like they were moving somewhere else to run their operations. Then word got out that Lenny was dead. But not how. Lenny wasn’t so bad. He paid well. He’d had a tough life.’

‘Tough death, too, by the sound of it,’ said Banks. ‘So what did you do next?’

‘Got busted, then released pending charges. It was my chance to get away, break free from the life, and I haven’t looked back.’

‘So who took over? You mentioned strangers with foreign accents.’

‘Word has it there’s this Albanian cunt in charge, interested in going county, and the blokes I saw were part of his crew. I don’t know the big guy’s name, but I think he stood in the background all the time I was there. In the shadows. Only saw him that once, all smiles, expensive suit, but you could tell, you know, that he was a vicious cold bastard underneath it all. He wasn’t a big bloke, not threatening in that way at all. But he had a cruel mouth. And nasty eyes. Really nasty eyes.’

‘Leka Gashi,’ said Blackstone. ‘We worked that out, but we’ve no evidence. Of course, he was out of the country at the time the crime was committed. He doesn’t usually do these jobs himself, though I’ve heard he’s not averse to administering a bit of punishment when the occasion merits it.’

Banks turned back to Greg. ‘How long were you operating up in Eastvale?’

‘On and off for about a year.’

‘How many lines was Lenny G running?’

‘About six. All roughly the same distance as Eastvale. Different directions, like. Furthest was out on the coast. Runswick Bay.’

‘That’s a tiny place,’ said Banks.

Greg shrugged. ‘What can I say? There are markets for that shit everywhere. And I know you won’t believe me when I say it, but I never actually touched the stuff myself. A few joints, maybe, booze, yeah, but never the hard stuff. Heroin. Crack. Never.’

‘I can’t see as you’ve any reason to lie to me,’ Banks said. ‘When we’ve finished, my colleague here might like to talk a few things over with you. Is that OK?’

Greg lit a second cigarette. ‘I’ve already told you pretty much all I know, man. And I don’t want any of this coming back on me. From what I’ve heard, those Albanians can be really fucking nasty when the mood takes them.’

‘But they don’t know you. You only met them once. You never actually worked for them.’

‘Even so. They don’t like loose ends. Would you take the risk? Besides, I don’t really know anything. Basically we were just glorified mules. We took the stuff up to the trap house, passed it on to the users and collected the money. They used us kids because we were least likely to be stopped or picked up. The younger the better. And believe me, Lenny G absolutely knew if you came back with one penny less than you ought to do.’

Banks took the photo of Samir Boulad from its envelope and passed it to Greg. ‘Do you know this lad?’

‘Little Sammy? Sure,’ said Greg, handing it back.

‘Was he one of the sellers?’

Greg nodded. ‘Poor sod. I read about what happened. The bastards. Poor little Sammy. He was only, like, twelve or thirteen. He was the youngest of the lot of us. Looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘He just turned up one day. A bunch of us used to hang out in this little park in the city centre after dark, you know, share a few tins of cider, smoke a few spliffs, have a laugh. Most of the kids had left home, and some of us were living in a council house on an estate up Gipton way. It was supposed to belong to Kit’s dad, like, but he was in the nick, and his mother had done a runner, so we stayed there. Nobody seemed to mind. We invited Sammy back. He’d got nowhere to stay. He’d been sleeping rough. He was a nice kid. Quiet. A bit sad. Christ, you should have seen him eat, though, if you put some food in front of him. Like a fucking vacuum cleaner.’ Greg smiled at the memory.

‘He’d left his family behind in Syria. Did he speak any English?’

‘Yeah. Pretty well. Lenny G really took to him, groomed him real nice, bought him Nike trainers, taught him the ropes. Sammy, he didn’t really know what it was all about. I mean, he knew it was drugs, and he knew it was a bit dodgy, but Lenny paid well and Sammy was, like, desperate for money to send to his family so they could come over. That was like his goal in life, his only reason for doing what he did. He loved that family. And it was easy work. All he had to do was go to the trap house, hand out the orders and bring back the money. He’d got away from some gang in Birmingham or somewhere who’d helped smuggle him in to the country and wanted him to work off his debt. Like, for ever. Slave labour. They even wanted him to let blokes fuck him up the arse. But Sammy did a bunk.’

‘Did he say what this gang in Birmingham was called? Any names?’

‘Nah. Never mentioned no names. I don’t think he knew.’

‘Didn’t he know about his parents?’

‘What about them?’

Banks paused. ‘They’re dead. The whole family. Killed by a bomb the last weeks of the war in Aleppo.’

‘Oh, fuck.’ Greg shook his head. ‘He didn’t know. At least not when I left. The bastards didn’t tell him, if they knew. They kept him working the line thinking he’d one day have enough to help his parents, and all the time they were fucking dead.’

‘Looks that way,’ said Banks. ‘Which line did he work?’

‘Malton.’

‘Did he ever mention an uncle and aunt in this country?’

‘Yeah, but he said he’d lost their address. Lost all the photos of his family, too, poor kid. One of the boats he was in sank, like, and they had to get rescued by some Italians. That was when they still let people in. The paper disintegrated. All he knew was they lived somewhere up north.’

‘Big place,’ said Banks.

‘Yeah.’ Greg paused. ‘It was really sad, man.’

‘What was? There’s something else?’

‘Samir could speak English pretty good, but he couldn’t read it very well. I guess he was used to Arabic, or whatever they speak in Syria, but our letters were mostly meaningless shapes to him. I asked him more than once if he remembered what it said on the paper, the address, even just the town, but he couldn’t reproduce it for me. He’d no idea. Poor sod. He used to write letters home, but he’d no return address. My girlfriend let Samir use her address — the flat in Yeadon — but nothing came for him. He was really gutted. Every day he expected a letter from home, but nothing came. Now we know why.’

Banks swallowed. ‘Nearly done now, Greg,’ he said.

Greg nodded, pulled on the cigarette then trod it out. ‘Yeah. I’ll have to get back in soon, or the boss’ll go spare. He’s all right, but...’

‘Have you any idea what happened to Samir after you left the gang?’

‘Not really. He was still there when I left, and I heard most of them stayed with the Albanians. Why not? I mean, nothing changed but the personnel at the top and the place they operated out of. Maybe he even paid more than Lenny G. Easier for him not to have to start right from scratch again when he already had a crew that knew the routine.’

‘And Samir was still living in the council house with the others when you left?’

‘Yeah. They was all set to move somewhere else, though. Kit’s dad was due to come out of jail.’

‘Do you know where they moved to, or where the new centre for the lines is?’

‘No, man. That was after I’d gone. Didn’t know, didn’t want to know. I didn’t look back. I can’t tell you anything more.’

‘When did this all happen?’

‘It all started about a month ago.’

‘And Samir was still working the Malton line when you left?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Any idea when they might have moved him over to Eastvale?’

‘No. But it takes time to make the changes and redo the set-up. You need the lines, the trap houses, the cuckoos. I mean, most of it was already there, in place, but whenever someone new comes in they like to do it their own way, don’t they? And I might not have been the only one who split. I’d say at least two or three weeks to get everything reorganised and back in smooth running order. Maybe a month.’

‘Can you direct us towards anyone who’s still working out there?’

‘No. I told you, I don’t know how the Albanians have reorganised it all. I don’t know nothing about them. I don’t stay in touch. And I won’t shop my old mates.’

Banks wasn’t certain that he believed Greg knew nothing, but he didn’t think he was likely to get much more out of him. The kid was clearly scared and desperate to hold on to the fragile new life he had made for himself. ‘It seems as if Samir got your old gig, Greg. We’re pretty sure he was working the Eastvale line out of Howard Stokes’s house when he was killed — or he was about to take it on, at any rate.’

‘What’d they do to him?’

‘Stabbed,’ said Banks.

‘Poor sod. But I thought you said Howard was dead?’

‘We’re not quite sure of the sequence of events, but we believe they both died around the same time. A week ago Sunday.’

‘The Albanians?’

‘Maybe. But why?’ Banks asked.

Greg shrugged. ‘Dunno. Maybe Sammy was skimming, though I’d have thought he’d know better than that after being trained by Lenny G.’

‘Did Samir take drugs?’

‘He did a little coke. I think it was mostly a matter of being like one of the big boys, you know, to fit in, be one of the lads. I mean, I don’t think he had a serious habit or anything.’

‘Might he have stolen from the new boss?’

‘Samir? I don’t think so. Maybe he threatened to tell or something? Or they did it as a warning, or to teach someone else a lesson? I don’t know. I’ve got to go now.’

They watched him walk across the Asda lot and go back into the garage. ‘I’ll talk to him later,’ Blackstone said. ‘I don’t think he’s going anywhere.’ Then he glanced at his watch and looked at Banks. ‘How convenient. Time for an early dinner.’

Zelda hadn’t slept very well the previous night, either, but it had nothing to do with Banks’s proximity. She liked Alan well enough, but not in that way. If truth be told, she never thought of men in that way at all. Even Raymond, though she had gone to his bed of her own free will. She had been living alone in a caravan at the artists’ colony he had invited her to join for three months before she went to him for the first time. She didn’t know why. He was old, but he wasn’t fat, and he didn’t smell of fried chicken, sweat and cheap cigars. He smelled of paint and turpentine. That first night, she slid between the sheets beside him, and he put his arm around her and held her to him. She fell asleep with her head resting on his shoulder and, for the first time in weeks, she had no nightmares. She would have been happy just to lie down with him and talk and cuddle for ever, but, later, things took their natural course. Now she felt lucky that even though they were together in that way, Raymond was gentle and undemanding in his lovemaking, and it was far from the be-all and end-all of what kept them together. With Raymond, that was probably down to age; with Zelda it was experience.

The memories, the associations, were simply too disturbing. When your body becomes a plaything for monsters, you come to hate it. A lot of the girls she had met self-harmed. The masters didn’t like that. Their punishments were severe but never left marks. Some girls even succeeded in committing suicide, and there was nothing the masters could do about that except take it out on the ones still left alive.

Without thinking too deeply about it, Zelda knew that in that way could never work for her with anyone else but Raymond. Not after all she had been through. It might have worked with Emile, but he was dead. She knew she was damaged, that a part of what she was — her womanhood — had been taken from her. And two of the men who had taken it were now dead at her hand. But she could live with that. She knew that other women’s lives were different, but she could live with what she was, and what she had done. And living had to be enough. People sometimes asked if she felt she could ever be the same after her experiences, but she always replied that there was nothing for her to be the same as; they had taken everything from her before she even got it herself.

But had her life come to be dominated by revenge, by the need to kill? Where would it end? Any real list would be very long indeed, and she had to ask herself if that was the existence she wanted. Or jail, where she would inevitably end up. She was lucky not to have been caught so far. Alan was no fool. The cops were no fools. They had their methods, and they would uncover her, not cover up, the way they had done with Darius. In killing Darius, she had done the authorities a favour, had done to him exactly what they wanted done. Darius had a lot of dirt on a lot of famous and powerful people. Household names. Government ministers. With Emile’s help, Zelda had done their dirty work for them, had even uncovered his store of blackmail material for them, and they had rewarded her with a passport and her freedom. They couldn’t state that publicly, though, so she had had to leave France. She lost Emile for ever, too.

There had been no mention of a body found in a London hotel in the morning paper she had scanned at Banks’s cottage, as there surely would have been if Goran Tadić had been left there after her visit. Back at home, she scoured the Internet news sites and still found nothing. By mid-afternoon, she became certain that what she had thought would happen had happened. They had got there first, before any hotel employees, and they had removed his body, destroyed all traces of his murder. If there was to be any investigation, any retribution, it would belong to them, not to the police.

Now it made sense for her to stop. Let Petar Tadić live to suffer the loss of his brother.

But there was one more, if only she could find him.

In the early years of her enslavement, Zelda had been too distraught to think very clearly about anything, but later she had begun to wonder just how the Tadićs had known to wait for her near the orphanage on the day she left. Then, once or twice, in the brothels, she was certain she saw girls who had been with her in the orphanage. On one occasion, she had the opportunity to ask if this was true, and it turned out to be so. It wasn’t a great leap of logic from there to realise that someone inside the orphanage was providing the information — either selling it or being blackmailed into giving it — and the most logical choice was the orphanage director: Vasile Lupescu. The problem was, she didn’t know where he was. Her sources told her that he had retired and no longer lived in Chişinău, but nobody so far knew where he had moved to. So he was still out there. He would be quite old by now, she realised, perhaps dead, but she would like to find out for certain.

Zelda would have to lie low for a while. She would have no opportunity to discover whether Hawkins had been killed, or the fire had been an accident. Even when the department started operating again, she would have to keep her head down. She would have liked to finish what she had started and help Alan find the man who had tried to kill him, but it was getting too dangerous.

Even Vasile Lupescu would have to wait for a while.

Banks and Blackstone settled into their comfortable seats at an exotically decorated Thai restaurant in the city centre. There were painted Buddhas and deep maroon panelled walls, each panel marked out in ornate gold trim. The smells of herbs and spices — coriander, star anise, cumin and lime — were mouth-watering, and the food, when it came, was just as good, from the spring rolls to the pad thai, fried rice and green chicken curry they shared. The only drawback was that the restaurant sold only bottled beer, so they settled for cold Singha.

‘Do you think you can track down someone from the county lines at this end and get them to talk?’ Banks asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Blackstone. ‘We’ve got a couple of drugs squad officers working undercover. They might be able to come up with something useful, but they won’t want to risk blowing their cover. What do you want to know?’

‘Most of all, we’d like to know when Samir started working in Eastvale. We have no sightings of him there before the day he was killed, and then two witnesses saw him arriving from a Leeds bus carrying a backpack.’

‘That would be the drugs,’ said Blackstone. ‘Any sign of it later?’

‘No. It disappeared, along with his jacket. We know that Connor Clive Blaydon’s chauffeur took them from the trap house on Hollyfield Lane the night Samir and Stokes died. Gashi had phoned Blaydon earlier and asked for a favour. I just have a feeling the timing is important, but there are still too many gaps in what we know.’

‘Blaydon? So he’s involved in this?’

‘He’s connected with the Albanians. Gashi in particular. They’ve known each other for years, and they’re involved in a property development Blaydon is managing.’

‘You can bet whatever money they invest will be dirty.’

‘Too true,’ said Banks. He washed down a mouthful of pad thai with his Singha. ‘Any loose gossip your men might pick up would be useful,’ he said. ‘Something like this happens, people talk. They can’t help themselves. Maybe they think they’re being careful, but that’s not always the case.’

‘Right,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Pass the roti.’

Banks passed him the roti basket and Blackstone tore off a strip and spooned up some green chicken curry with it.

Banks worked on his Singha. It would have to do him for the evening, because he planned on driving back to Eastvale. ‘What do you know about the county line operations here?’ he asked.

‘Just what I read in the papers,’ Blackstone joked. ‘No, seriously, it’s becoming a real problem. It’s not only here, but all over the country. Some are big operators, like Gashi with his Albanian Mafia and Colombian connections, but there are plenty of smaller entrepreneurs, too.’

‘What was this Lenny G like?’

‘Medium. He didn’t have anywhere near the clout and product Gashi’s got, more like a small-town operation by comparison. But he managed to supply heroin and crack cocaine to quite a few towns and villages that could have done without it. Now they’ve got the same drug problems as we have here in the city. And Gashi’s adding coke to the mix, too, as well as crack. High quality coke direct from the Colombian cartels.’

‘Yes, we know about that,’ said Banks. ‘What about spice and fentanyl?’

‘On their way, no doubt.’ Blackstone sighed. ‘But it’s the access to high quality coke that’s the real problem at the moment.’

‘What do you think happened with Lenny G?’

‘I think he was unwilling to give up his empire, little as it was. The Albanians are happy to work with people, as long as they have the upper hand and get most of the profits. But if you don’t want to play along...’ He drew his finger across his throat.

‘Do you think Gashi would have gone as far as killing one of his runners?’

‘He might have. Not personally, but he might have had it done if he had good reason. To keep the others in line, say, or as a punishment for some transgression. People like Gashi don’t worry about consequences. It would mean nothing to him. They don’t hesitate. If they want to do something, they do it. What about Blaydon?’

‘Again, he’s a possibility, but not personally. He has minions, too. Have you seen him here?’

‘Not me specifically,’ said Blackstone, ‘but I’ve heard he pays visits. He has an office down by the quays.’

‘And Gashi?’

‘He doesn’t live here, either. Another frequent visitor. He lives in Mayfair, when he’s not back in Albania. Blaydon has a lot of connections, and you wouldn’t take any of them home to meet your mother. He likes to be seen hobnobbing with personalities, too — you know, TV presenters, footballers, the occasional pop star or politician. Word has it he supplies them with coke and imported girls and everyone has a good time.’

‘Except the girls. Yes, I’ve seen the dregs of one of his pool parties.’

Blackstone nodded. ‘Except the girls. But to be honest, he’s never caused us much trouble, not so as we’d be after him, anyway.’

‘He’s slippery,’ said Banks. ‘But he’s got something to do with this county lines business, and he’s got so many empty properties I’m sure he feels it would be almost a crime not to use them as pop-up brothels or trap houses.’

‘I see you’re learning the lingo.’

Banks smiled. ‘Got it from the Sunday Times. I don’t think they really talk like that. Anyway, I hear Blaydon’s business is in trouble.’

‘It’s a bad time for property developers, that’s true. That why he’s edging closer to crime?’

‘I think so,’ said Banks. ‘That and because he likes the idea of being thought a bit of a pirate. There are plenty of people who still think supplying people with what they want — i.e. drugs and sex — is a heroic venture. By the way, have you heard anything about our favourite madam Mia Carney lately?’

Mia was a woman they had encountered the last time Banks had worked with Blackstone in Leeds. She had been running a sort of ‘escort service’ fixing up poor university students with wealthy sugar daddies and had the misfortune of running into some unsavoury characters. Banks had saved her life, and as a consequence felt proprietorial. Besides, he liked her.

‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ said Blackstone. ‘I think you know she got a suspended sentence. It seems she took her brush with death and prison seriously and moved out of the escort business altogether.’

‘So what’s she doing?’

‘Working for the student housing association.’

Banks looked at Blackstone open-mouthed, then they both started laughing.