Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 2

Ghostly white figures moved beyond the runnels of rain that blurred Detective Superintendent Alan Banks’s windscreen. As he pulled to a halt on Malden Road, at the western edge of the East Side Estate, one shape detached itself from the rest and stood by his car door.

‘Just what we need,’ said DI Annie Cabbot, holding a transparent plastic umbrella over her head while trying to manoeuvre it so that Banks could stay dry, too, as he got out of the car. The rain splattered down on the plastic and dripped down his neck. Realising that he would have to lean so close to Annie that their cheeks would be touching, or put his arm around her shoulder and pull her towards him in order to stay dry, he edged away. ‘It’s OK, Annie,’ he said. ‘I’ve been soaked before. What have we got?’

Lightning flashed across the sky, and soon afterwards thunder rolled and cracked to the north. Annie handed Banks a disposable white boiler suit and led him through the taped-off outer cordon into the alleyway that ran between the backyards of Malden Terrace and Malden Close. Banks slipped into the suit and zipped it up. He could feel the rain, warm on his head. At least it wasn’t one of those cold winter showers that chilled you to the bone. A spring storm. Much nicer. Heralding a change for the better in the weather. Good for the garden.

‘The CSIs have managed to put a makeshift tent up,’ Annie said as they approached the square canvas structure within the inner cordon. The tent was artificially lit from inside, despite the fact that it was only late morning. She held open a flap and they went inside. Rain hammered down on the flimsy roof, leaking through and dripping to the ground in spots.

At the centre of it all stood a large wheelie bin of the kind the council supplied for rubbish pickup.

‘We’ve had a look already,’ Annie went on, ‘and Peter Darby’s done with the photos. I thought you’d like to see what we’ve got in situ.’

Banks put on his thin latex gloves, slowly opened the bin and recoiled from what he saw there: a boy’s body with his knees tucked under his chin, curled up, almost like a fire victim. But it wasn’t a pugilistic position, and there had been no fire; the boy had been deliberately crammed into the bin.

‘The dustbin men found him when they came to empty the bins,’ Annie said. ‘In with the rubbish. The body’s stuck, so the bin wouldn’t empty, and one of the men went to see what was wrong. He’s still in shock.’

Banks bent forward and peered. The boy was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. There were no immediate signs of violence or ill-treatment, but he couldn’t actually see very much because of the contorted position the body was in. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘He can’t be more than twelve or thirteen. Just a skinny kid. Any idea who he is?’

Annie shook her head. ‘We’ll get the house-to-house going as soon as we can get a few more officers here.’

‘Which house does the bin belong to?’

‘Number six Malden Terrace. Elderly lady, lives on her own. A Mrs Grunwell. She’s pretty upset.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Banks. ‘Could she tell you anything?’

‘Only that she put her bag of rubbish out last night at ten o’clock, as usual, in the bin outside her back gate for the men to pick up this morning, and there was no body there then. As you can see, it was put on top of the rubbish. The dustbin men were running a bit late because of the weather, or it might have been found much earlier.’

‘They’ll be running even later now. Where are they?’

‘In the CSI van. Someone managed to conjure up a pot of tea.’

‘What about CCTV? Surely there’s some around here?’

Annie shook her head. ‘I asked the local PC about that — he was first on the scene — and he told me they’ve been rendered inoperable.’

Banks smiled. ‘ “Rendered inoperable.” That’s fine textbook police talk. He meant they’ve been vandalised?’

‘Impression I got.’

‘We’d better arrange for a mobile incident unit.’ Banks lifted the flap of the tent and glanced around at the estate as the lightning flashed again. ‘Sometimes I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have one permanently stationed here.’

‘Now, now,’ said Annie. ‘And you a loyal Guardian reader. Champion of the underprivileged.’

‘You don’t have to study the crime statistics as closely as I do.’

‘Ah, the responsibilities of high office. You could always go back to your nice warm office and scan a few columns of figures while the rest of us do the grunt work in the rain.’

‘There’s a novel idea,’ said Banks, withdrawing back into the tent. ‘Remind me to learn how to delegate.’

Shadows moved beyond the canvas walls. Another car door slammed and a middle-aged man in a mac dashed in. Dr Burns nodded his greeting to Banks and Annie and complained about the miserable weather. Banks gestured to the CSIs and turned away as they tipped the bin on its side and began to ease the body out. Finally, the dead boy lay on a plastic sheet on the ground, stiffened into the foetal position by rigor mortis. One of the CSIs pointed to the bin. ‘Can we take this for forensic examination?’

Banks glanced into the bin and nodded. ‘There might be some trace evidence inside. It’s possible he got into the bin by himself, maybe to escape someone, but I very much doubt it. Someone must have brought his body here and dumped him. Most likely by car. And there’s very little blood in the bin as far as I can see, which may also indicate he was killed elsewhere.’

Banks bent down and felt in the boy’s pockets. He pulled out a small package filled with white powder. He slipped it into an evidence bag and sealed it, then stood up, hearing his knees crack as he did so.

Dr Burns knelt next, and Banks watched him make notations on his clipboard and check the time as his eyes roamed over the body.

When the doctor stood up, he looked grim. ‘Four stab wounds as far as I can count,’ he said. ‘Of course, there may be others I can’t see, so when Dr Glendenning gets him on the table he’ll be able to tell you more. It’s difficult for me to conduct a proper examination given the position and state of the body.’

‘It won’t be Dr Glendenning,’ said Banks. ‘The doc’s retired. Well, semi-retired. He still likes to stand over Karen whenever he can and make sarcastic comments about her technique.’

‘Dr Karen Galway?’

‘That’s right.’ Dr Karen Galway, who had worked for some years as Dr Glendenning’s chief assistant, was now an official Home Office pathologist, qualified to carry out post-mortem examinations. She lacked the old doctor’s biting humour and irreverent approach, but nobody could fault her work thus far.

Dr Burns nodded. ‘Excellent choice. I must say, I’d been thinking Dr Glendenning was getting a bit long in the tooth.’

‘Long in the tooth and deep in experience,’ said Banks. ‘Anyway, what can you tell us so far?’

‘Not much,’ Dr Burns admitted. ‘Those stab wounds are most likely the cause of death. One of them in particular might have nicked or pierced the right ventricle. There’s a fair bit of blood, but most of the bleeding would probably have been internal. I doubt it would have taken the poor lad very long to die, if that’s any consolation.’

‘Not for him,’ said Banks. ‘How long ago?’

‘I can’t tell you precisely, but I’d estimate more than twelve hours. You can see full rigor’s set in. It was pretty mild last night, and he’s young. And he was stuffed in a container. Again, Dr Galway will be able to give you a better idea when she gets him on the table. I’ll try to narrow it down a bit with temperature calculations in a minute, but they’re not always as accurate as I would wish, either. There are better tests these days, but they need to be done in the lab with the proper equipment.’

Banks nodded. ‘The timing makes sense. Twelve hours or so. Mrs Grunwell says she put her rubbish out at ten o’clock last night, and the bin sat there out back in the same row as everyone else’s until the dustbin men came a short while ago. It’s twenty past eleven now.’

‘So, the body would have to have been dumped there after ten?’ Dr Burns asked.

‘That’s right.’

Dr Burns nodded and took out his thermometer. ‘There is one other thing...’

‘That the victim is dark-skinned?’

‘Yes. Middle Eastern, I’d say. We don’t usually get many people from that part of the world around these parts.’

‘True enough,’ Banks said. ‘I was just thinking about that, myself. It’ll make identifying him either easy or bloody impossible. Either way, we’d better brace ourselves. I have a feeling this is going to be a big case.’

Zelda knew that something was wrong the minute she entered the lobby of the unassuming building on Cambridge Circus late that Monday morning. There was usually just one man at the reception desk, and if it was Sam, she would breeze by with little more than a smile and a hello. Today, however, Sam was absent, and the lobby was crowded with strangers, mostly plainclothes police, by the look of them. She was asked for identification and the purpose of her visit twice before she was even allowed to get into the ancient lift. Fortunately, her ID card worked when she put it in the slot, and the lift groaned into life. A woman in a navy-blue suit accompanied her in silence all the way up to the third floor.

When the lift disgorged them, Zelda found yet more unfamiliar faces. It was nearly lunchtime, and she knew that by now the others would have been at work since nine, but everyone had congregated at the far end of the long office, and nobody seemed to be working at all. She didn’t even need her pass to open the main door; it was propped open with a wedge. The woman who had been with her nodded brusquely and went back down in the lift.

Two people Zelda didn’t recognise sat behind the glass partition of Hawkins’s office. The man who sat at Hawkins’s desk was grey-haired, red-faced and portly, wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and what Zelda took to be an old school, or regimental, tie. He gestured for her to come in and sit opposite him. A woman, rather severe and buttoned-up, Zelda thought, sat by the side of the desk, at an angle to them both.

‘And you are?’ the man asked. His accent was every bit as plummy as Zelda had expected, but his voice was high-pitched, producing a strange, squeaky effect. That made it harder for her to take him seriously, and she could tell that he was a man who clearly wanted to be taken seriously. A detective, undoubtedly.

‘I think it might be better if you told me who you are first,’ Zelda said.

‘Oh, dear. Has nobody explained?’

‘Not yet.’

‘There’s been a bit of trouble.’ The man fumbled in his inside pocket and brought out an official government identification card. ‘I’m Paul Danvers,’ he said. ‘National Crime Agency.’ The photo on the card matched his face.

Zelda nodded and glanced towards the woman, who remained still.

‘That’s Deborah,’ Danvers said. ‘Deborah Fletcher. She’s with me,’ he added with a proprietorial smile. Deborah’s stiff, pasted-on expression didn’t change. Zelda’s overwhelming impression of her was one of thinness — thin face, thin lips, skinny waist and skinny legs. The slash of bright red lipstick didn’t help, nor did the navy pencil skirt.

‘What is this all about?’ Zelda asked.

‘I’m afraid we ask the questions, dearie,’ said Danvers. ‘First of all, may I ask what you’re doing here?’

Patronising bastard, she thought. Whatever this is, I’m not going to make it easy for you. ‘I work here.’

‘In what capacity?’

‘I’m sure it’s in your file.’ Zelda gestured towards the folder on the desk in front of him.

Making a show of it, he opened the file and ran his finger down the list. Finally, he closed it, clasped his hands on the desk and studied Zelda. ‘You must be Nelia Melnic,’ he said. Deliberately pronouncing her last name with an ‘itch’, in the Serbian fashion. She thought of correcting him but decided it wasn’t worth it. ‘And your job?’

‘Not in your files?’

‘I’m sure it’s in there somewhere. But you could save us all a lot of time and trouble if you’d simply answer my questions.’

‘I’m a super-recogniser,’ Zelda said. ‘I remember faces. Every face I’ve ever seen. In fact, I never forget them.’

‘That must be useful.’

‘To you, perhaps.’ Zelda shrugged. ‘To me, it’s both a blessing and a curse. Now, what are you doing here? Where is Mr Hawkins?’

Danvers scratched the side of his nose. ‘Quite... er...’ He glanced towards Deborah Fletcher.

‘Trevor Hawkins is dead,’ she said. ‘Suspicious circumstances. We’re questioning everyone who works here.’

Banks blew gently on the milky brown surface of the tea, watched the ripples and felt the warmth they gave off, then took a sip. It was hot and sweet, and perhaps a bit too weak for Banks’s liking, but it came as a treat after the soaking and the grim sight of the boy’s body.

Edith Grunwell’s living room was an exercise in cleanliness, neatness and economy. Though she had a small cabinet filled with delicate porcelain figurines and a large gilt-framed painting of Fountains Abbey in all its historic and romantic glory over the fireplace, there was nothing excessive about the room, nothing out of place, nothing that jarred with the simplicity of the rose-patterned wallpaper, crocheted antimacassars and beige wall-to-wall carpeting. The armchairs were comfortable, but not so much so as to encourage lingering. Mingled scents of rosemary and thyme came from the potpourri on the windowsill.

Mrs Grunwell herself was thin and birdlike in her movements. The deep-set watery eyes in her wrinkled face looked as if they had seen too much this morning already, and she dabbed at them with a cotton handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Banks. ‘You must forgive me. I’m not squeamish, I’ve seen dead bodies, but it was such a shock, something like that happening so close by. The poor boy.’

‘You’ve seen bodies?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised, young man. I’m eighty-five years old. When you’ve lived to my age you tend to have seen most things. Especially if you work as a nurse, which I did for many years.’ She shook her head. ‘I know what people say about the estate, and it has its bad elements, true enough, but it wasn’t always like this. The violence. The knives. I must admit, I’m a bit frightened by it all.’ She glanced around the room. ‘It makes me feel differently about where I live. My home... it feels violated.’ She gave a little shudder.

‘When did you move here?’

‘When the council first opened the estate, if that’s the right word. July 27th, 1964. They even had a little ceremony, a couple of celebrities cutting the tape. Mike and Bernie Winters, if I remember rightly. Not exactly Morecambe and Wise, but they were very popular in their time. And you can’t believe what a paradise it was for a young married couple like George and me. My George, bless his soul, was a farm labourer, and before we came here we lived in a tiny cottage out Relton way. I used to bicycle to and from the Friarage in Northallerton every day, all seasons, even when I was on nights. There wasn’t much in the way of household comforts in a farm labourer’s cottage. No hot water, an outside toilet, tin tub for a bath, fireplace empty half the time. Even the little paraffin heater we bought didn’t help much with the cold. George didn’t like to use it. He thought it was too dangerous. But we got by. When we got this place, though, we thought we’d died and gone to heaven. Hot water, indoor toilet and bath, underfloor heating, everything spic and span, in working order. I stood out there in the street, just looking, and cried my eyes out. A miracle. At least... that’s how it felt then.’ She put her hand to her chest. ‘Listen to me rambling on. You must think I’m gaga. But my heart’s still going like a steam hammer. I always talk too much when I’m nervous or scared.’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks.

‘Of course,’ Mrs Grunwell added, ‘there’s nothing the council would like more than to get rid of me and put me in a home, out of the way somewhere. George is gone and the children all left years ago. Maybe I should let them. But it’s still my home, don’t you see?’

‘I do,’ said Banks.

‘I’d like to stay here until I can’t possibly manage any longer by myself. I feel sorry for these young people not being able to afford a house of their own, but this house has been my home for over fifty years. Still, you didn’t come to hear me reminiscing and grumbling, did you?’

Banks, who often found that letting witnesses unburden themselves a bit before questioning helped them relax, merely smiled at her. ‘You told DI Cabbot you put out the rubbish at ten o’clock. Is that right?’

‘Yes. Like I do every Sunday.’

‘And you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?’

‘No. Nothing. It was very quiet out back. It usually is on a Sunday night, apart from next door’s cat now and then. I never have much rubbish. Just one little bag. I’ve told the council that I hardly need one of those huge bins, but they don’t listen. They have their rules, and they don’t want one batty old lady marching to the beat of a different drummer.’ She grinned, showing crooked, yellow teeth. ‘Now, that would give them an excuse to lock me away, wouldn’t it?’

The neighbours on Malden Terrace would all be questioned, of course, as would the tenants of the dozen or so houses on the opposite side of the narrow lane, whose front doors were on Malden Close. In fact, officers would canvass the whole of the East Side Estate in the hopes that someone had noticed something and would be willing to share their knowledge with the police, unlikely as that seemed.

Banks had managed to get a decent picture of the victim’s face in profile with his mobile, and he showed it to her. ‘Do you recognise him at all?’ he asked.

Mrs Grunwell studied the image for a long time then shook her head. ‘So very young. No, I don’t recognise him.’

‘Have you seen anyone like him around the estate lately?’

‘What? You mean a darkie?’

Banks swallowed. ‘Well... I... yes, I suppose. A Middle Eastern youth, at any rate.’

‘George always called them darkies. Nothing against them, like, so long as they kept themselves to themselves.’ She paused. ‘But we don’t get them around here. Hardly ever. I mean, I think I would have noticed him.’

That was true enough. There was a white belt between industrial West Yorkshire and Teesside. Even the chefs and waiters from the local Indian and Thai restaurants commuted to Eastvale from Leeds and Bradford, or Darlington and Middlesbrough after their shifts. The only truly multicultural area of Eastvale was around the college campus, and even that was probably below the national average. There had never been anything to attract immigrants to rural areas like Swainsdale, not even in the post-war years when the first arrivals from Pakistan and the West Indies started to come into the country, mostly in the north, to work in the cotton and woollen mills of the Pennine valleys between Leeds and Manchester. There were no factories in the Dales, no real service industries to speak of, and farm labour wasn’t very open to outsiders. Nor were rural communities. Things were changing these days, of course, but not a great deal, and not very quickly.

‘Do you get out and about much?’ Banks asked. ‘I mean, do you think if he had been local you might have seen him anywhere around the estate, or in town?’

‘Don’t think that just because I’m eighty-five I can’t do my own shopping or enjoy a walk down by the river, young man. I’ll have you know I make a point of going out every morning for my newspaper, and as I don’t drive, I don’t go the supermarket like everyone else. I use the local shops as and when I need them. We have a perfectly good butcher down the road, and a fine greengrocer.’

‘I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re housebound, Mrs Grunwell,’ said Banks. ‘I just wanted some idea of how well you know the area. Whether you would have noticed if someone like the victim had been hanging around.’

‘I’m sure there are plenty of people on the estate I never see. Some don’t come out until after dark. But I do get out and about. I wouldn’t say I notice any more or less than some of the younger people in the neighbourhood.’

‘I can’t imagine this, but I have to ask,’ said Banks. ‘Do you know of anyone who might want to do you harm? Anyone who bears you a grudge, who might have wanted to play such a terrible trick on you? Someone who wanted to scare you, or might even have thought it was some kind of sick joke?’

‘Good Lord, no.’ Mrs Grunwell clutched her handkerchief to her chest. ‘I never even thought of that. No. I’m quite sure there’s no one like that.’

‘Do you get along well with your neighbours?’

‘Yes, for the most part. They’re very nice. Some of them help me out with little things, now and then. You know, carry my shopping if they see me struggling. Mr Dunne at number fourteen even takes me to the supermarket on occasion. I don’t like it, but it would be impolite to say no, wouldn’t it?’

‘Did you hear anything during the night? A car, or anyone messing about with the bins?’

‘We get a few cars going by the end, Malden Road, like, at all hours, so it’s nothing unusual. But Sunday’s usually very quiet. Come to think of it, I do believe I heard a car quite late last night. And before that it sounded as if someone kicked the bin. Kids do that sometimes, and I thought it was either that or next door’s cat, but... I don’t know.’

‘This sound — might it have been the bin lid closing?’

‘It might have been.’

‘And you heard a car stop before this?’

‘No. I heard a car engine turning over. That was after I’d heard the bin sound. Then it made a terrible noise, like when the gears crunch. I’m just assuming it had stopped first, or why would it have made that awful crunching sound starting up? And before you ask, I was quite wide awake. I like to read in bed, and usually I’m asleep after a chapter or so, depending on the book. Last night I was reading Barbara Cartland. I do so like Barbara Cartland. She usually sends me off to sleep in no time.’

‘But not last night?’

‘No. For some reason, my eyes just wouldn’t close. Sleep refused to come. It happens sometimes when you’re my age. Old folks don’t need as much sleep, they say. Which is just as well, as we can’t seem to get it.’

‘Can you tell me anything else about this car? Did you hear anyone speak, say anything? Did you hear the car door or boot slam?’

‘No. I don’t remember anything like that. I was feeling anxious, all tensed up, for some reason. Don’t ask me why. I don’t believe in premonitions or anything silly like that. There’s no reason why I should, except it happens sometimes. If I can’t get to sleep I start to feel apprehensive.’

‘I know the feeling,’ said Banks. ‘What time was this?’

‘I can’t say exactly, but it wouldn’t have been that long after I went to bed. Around eleven o’clock, perhaps? Maybe half past at the latest.’

Between eleven and half past. That fit the time span Dr Burns had already indicated, Banks thought. ‘And you thought you heard a car engine turning over, then start up noisily, after someone had kicked or opened and closed your bin?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Grunwell was twisting the handkerchief between her gnarled fingers. ‘How can someone do something like that, Mr Banks? Kill a poor, defenceless young man and put his body in a rubbish bin. I’m frightened. What if they come back? What if it’s a drug gang? What if they think I might have seen something?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Mrs Grunwell. Half the street might have seen or heard something. The gears screeching or the noise from the bin. They can’t come back and eliminate everyone.’ He realised before he finished that he never should have opened his mouth.

Mrs Grunwell put her hand to her chest. ‘Eliminate? Do you think it could come to that?’

‘Of course not. And there’s no evidence of gang involvement. I can understand why you might be frightened, but really there’s nothing to worry about. Perhaps it would make you feel more at ease if there’s someone you can call. Your children, perhaps?’

‘They flew the coop years ago. One lives in Inverness and the other in Toronto. Couldn’t get far enough away. Besides, they’re all grown up with families and responsibilities of their own. I’m a great-grandmother, you know. But there’s Eunice. Eunice Kelly. She’s my best friend. She used to live right next door but now she’s in sheltered housing out Saltburn way, by the sea.’

‘Do you think she would come and stay with you if you explained the situation? Would it make you feel better to have a friend nearby?’

‘Oh, yes. I think so. But I’d rather go and stay with her until you catch whoever did this. She’s not got a lot of room, but I’m sure she would clear a little corner for me. I don’t need much. And a few days at the seaside would do my nerves the world of good.’

Banks nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We can handle that. Will you ring her and make the arrangements, and I’ll make sure we get a car to drive you to Saltburn. Until then, there’ll be a police officer posted by your door.’

‘Really? You can do that?’

‘Of course I can,’ said Banks. Edith Grunwell didn’t need to know that they didn’t have a budget yet. Hadn’t even got the green light for a full investigation. But they would, Banks felt certain. There was no doubt that it was murder, and a nasty one at that. And the victim was so young, not to mention Middle Eastern. Besides, if Area Commander Gervaise didn’t approve the budget, then he would bloody-well drive Edith Grunwell to Saltburn himself.

Trevor. Zelda realised she had never known Hawkins’s first name until now. ‘Dead?’ she repeated. ‘I can’t believe it. How? What happened?’

Danvers arranged a row of coloured paperclips and rubber bands on Hawkins’s blotter. The gesture annoyed Zelda, perhaps as much for its prissiness as for its presumption. To her, it was still Hawkins’s desk. His paperclips. His rubber bands.

‘That’s a matter for the coroner to decide,’ Danvers said. ‘What we’re interested in is any information his staff feel might relate to his death.’

‘Are you saying he was murdered?’

‘Why would you assume that?’ Deborah Fletcher butted in from the sidelines.

‘Because you said there were suspicious circumstances.’

Deborah shrugged. ‘That could mean anything.’

Zelda could see her co-workers, pale and worried, at the far end of the office. It had never been a joyous place to work, and she hadn’t really felt that she had got to know any of the others at all well. She hadn’t been fully accepted by them, had always been regarded as some kind of freak, an outsider. But now Zelda felt the beginnings of a strange bond with the people behind the glass. She turned to face Deborah Fletcher. ‘Perhaps my assumption has something to do with the way you’re questioning me,’ she said.

‘Been questioned in a murder investigation before, have you?’ Danvers asked.

Zelda froze. The department knew quite a lot about her and her past, naturally, but she was sure they didn’t know everything. Not about Darius, surely. ‘That’s absurd,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think it was an unreasonable question.’

‘Well, seeing as you ask,’ Danvers went on, ‘no, we don’t think Mr Hawkins was murdered. We don’t think anything yet. But I’m sure you understand that, given his position, given the work you all do here, questions have to be asked. So I’ll repeat my question: do you know anything that might relate to his death?’

‘How would I know anything about his death? I’ve only just heard about it from you and, quite frankly, I’m a bit upset.’

‘I’m sorry we were so abrupt.’ Danvers gave Deborah a sharp glance. ‘It’s been a long day already, and not even noon. Is there anything at all you can tell us? Did you never socialise as a group? It would be perfectly natural.’

‘No. At least, I never did. There was a sort of department mixer at his house a while ago, but that’s all.’ Zelda gestured towards the partition. ‘I can’t speak for them because I am only part-time. Very part-time. I only work here for two or three days each month, usually.’

Danvers raised a bushy grey eyebrow. ‘Yes, that’s clear from your file. A civilian employee. And the rest of your time?’

‘Is really nobody’s business but mine.’

‘Ms Melnic,’ said Danvers, ‘believe me, in these matters, everything I want to be my business is my business.’

‘In what matters?’

‘I think it would be best if you just answered our questions. We already know, for example, that you’re an artist, going by the name of “Zelda”, and that you live in North Yorkshire with another artist called Raymond Cabbot, who is more than forty years your senior. You say you were abducted some years ago and forced into the sex trade. We know you met Mr Cabbot in London three years ago, then lived with him in an artists’ colony in St Ives for some time before moving north about a year ago.’ Danvers smirked and tapped the folder. ‘See. It’s all in there. At my fingertips.’

How little you really know, thought Zelda. Even so, she felt a surge of anger at the way Danvers laid out his facts as if they were accusations, or evidence of moral lapses on her part, at the very least. ‘You say you were abducted.’ An artist ‘going by the name of Zelda’. Like the artist previously known as Prince, she thought. ‘More than forty years your senior.’ She never thought of Raymond in that way. He was Raymond — bright, solid, brilliant, bubbling over with enthusiasm for life. Raymond. She said nothing. She was certainly not going to fill Danvers in on the details missing from his files. She folded her arms. ‘I don’t see what any of this has to do with you,’ she said.

‘Why are you so hostile?’ Deborah asked.

‘Hostile? How would you feel if you arrived at work to find strangers in your boss’s office who tell you he’s dead and start interrogating you about your past?’

‘I’d feel I was only doing my duty by answering their questions.’

Zelda paused, then said, ‘Well, I suppose that is one difference between you and me.’

‘Nelia Melnic,’ Danvers said. Deliberately pronouncing the final ‘ic’ as ‘itch’ again. ‘You’re not British, are you? That’s not a British name, is it? And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I detect a slight accent.’

‘I’m a French citizen. I have a French passport.’

Danvers frowned and turned to his folder again. ‘Ah, yes, for “services to the French government”.’

Zelda smiled. ‘You could call it that.’

‘What else? How did you really get French citizenship? They don’t give it out with the garlic, you know.’

‘The French value their whores, Mr Danvers. Didn’t you know that? They offered me the Légion d’honneur, too, but I turned it down. I thought that would be going a bit too far.’

Danvers banged his fist on the desk. ‘Don’t be flippant with me, Ms Melnic. This is a serious business and you’re wasting my time.’

‘Then don’t ask me stupid questions. I applied. They granted it. It did no harm that I had done the police a few favours, that’s all.’

‘What kind of—’

‘Not that kind of favour. I helped them take down some very dangerous men. Same as I try to do here.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t have some dirt on someone?’

Zelda smiled. ‘You’d be surprised how many people I have dirt on, Mr Danvers. That just means that a lot of people are dirty.’

‘You’re not answering my questions.’

‘It’s the best answer you’ll get from me.’

Zelda had to keep reminding herself that, however much they knew, they didn’t know everything. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell them any more than she had to. She wasn’t even going to tell them about Hawkins meeting Keane. She said nothing.

‘Before France,’ Danvers said, calming down. ‘Is that an Eastern European accent I detect? Romanian, is it?’

Zelda sighed. ‘I was born in Moldova, Mr Danvers, as you can no doubt see for yourself from my file, in a town called Dubăsari, in Transnistria, on the river Dniester, not far from the Ukraine border. It’s not a part of the world many people know well. And the “c” in Melnic is hard, more of a “k” than a “ch”. It’s a common enough surname in that part of the world.’ Zelda paused, tired of the pointless sparring. ‘If you think I know anything, and you want to find out what it is, why don’t you tell me what happened and then ask me what I think about it?’

‘We don’t think you know anything, Ms Melnic. But if it will help to improve your attitude and general level of cooperation, I can tell you that Mr Hawkins died in a fire at his home on Saturday night.’

‘A fire?’

‘Yes. According to all the evidence, it appears to have been a chip-pan fire.’

Zelda shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. What is a chip-pan fire?’

‘It’s just a general term. A chip-pan fire is when someone puts a pan full of oil on the burner to heat up and falls asleep, usually because he’s the worse for drink. It catches fire, and Bob’s your uncle.’

Zelda had read enough and been around English people enough to consider herself fairly proficient in the quirks and oddities of their language — including ‘Bob’s your uncle’ — but she had never heard the term ‘chip-pan fire’. Who on earth would want to make chips when they got drunk? Were fish and chips so important to them? It was yet another English eccentricity she would simply have to accept.

But Hawkins? She hadn’t known him well, but one passion of his that was hard to miss was his love of gourmet food and fine wine. She had seen the foodie magazines on his desk from time to time, even heard him discussing reservations at well-reviewed new restaurants over the phone. It would hardly be the epitome of snobbishness to assume that Hawkins had probably never eaten fish and chips in his life, let alone that he had owned a chip pan and cooked them up for himself at home. As for his being drunk, as far as she knew, Hawkins wasn’t much of a drinker. Of course, she realised that some drinkers can hide their addiction well, just as a chip-pan fire may not necessarily require the making of chips. She supposed that Hawkins might have had a glass of wine too many and heated up a pan of oil to make tempura, samosas or some such exotic deep-fried treat. It merely seemed unlikely. ‘Mrs Hawkins?’ she asked.

‘Away at her sister’s in Bath for the weekend.’

‘It must be terrible for her,’ Zelda said.

Danvers inclined his head slightly. ‘Naturally.’

‘Where were you on Saturday night?’ Deborah asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I was in Croatia. Staying with an old friend. On Saturday night we went down into the village for dinner then out on the town dancing.’

‘Dancing?’

‘Why not?’

Deborah shook her head. She looked as if she had never danced in her life. ‘No reason. And your friend’s name and address?’

‘I would rather not say.’

‘Oh. Why is that?’

Zelda turned to address her remarks to Danvers. ‘Her work is secretive and dangerous. The fewer people who know her identity and location the better.’

‘Surely you can’t think...? Oh, well, never mind,’ said Danvers. ‘It’s not essential. If you could perhaps produce your flight details and boarding passes, that should suffice for the moment. You understand this is simply for the purposes of elimination?’

‘Of course.’

Danvers put down the ballpoint pen he had been clicking for the past few minutes. ‘I do hope you realise the seriousness of the situation, Ms Melnic,’ he said. ‘You must be aware that, even as a civilian consultant attached to a multi-national policing operation, you are in a unique position, both because of your special skills and, what shall we call it, your personal acquaintance with the area under investigation. Because of what you know.’

Area under investigation, Zelda thought. That was a nice way of putting what she had been through at the hands of people she now worked hard to identify and put away. Talk about English understatement.

‘Much of the information you deal with every day is highly secret,’ Danvers went on, ‘and Mr Hawkins was a high-ranking officer of the National Crime Agency, as you know, with strong connections to the security services. You signed the Official Secrets Act. Surely you must be aware of what that means? When something like this happens — whatever the reason — we have a duty to investigate the circumstances. It’s also clear that you have lived a somewhat peripatetic and bohemian existence. There are many gaps, many periods during which... well... anything could have happened. People change. Loyalties change.’

Zelda nodded. ‘Things certainly did happen, to put it mildly. But my loyalties didn’t change. I understand what you’re saying. I just can’t help you, that’s all. For a start, I wasn’t even in this country most of my life, and for another thing, I’ve already told you, I’m very part-time here. If you believe that Mr Hawkins was murdered, then I wish you the best of luck with your investigation. If you think that his loyalties had changed, then I can’t help you with that. He didn’t confide in me. As far as I could tell, he was a good man.’ Zelda hoped her nose wasn’t growing as she spoke, that the itch she felt there was just an itch.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that putting a pot of oil on the stove was something that would never have entered Hawkins’s mind, even if he had been drinking. And no doubt the ensuing fire would have obliterated any evidence there may have been as to what had really happened.

‘Did you ever notice, in the times you were here lately, anything unusual about Mr Hawkins’s behaviour?’ Danvers asked.

‘I can’t say that I did.’

‘When were you last here?’

‘April. A month ago exactly.’

‘Did you notice any changes in his behaviour, his routine?’

‘No. As far as I could tell, Mr Hawkins was a creature of habit.’

‘Did you ever have any disagreements with him?’ Deborah asked.

‘No. I simply got on with my job. To be honest, it didn’t involve working closely with others. Or with Mr Hawkins. Mostly I examined photographs, CCTV and video footage. Sometimes out in the field, but mostly here, at my desk.’

‘Did he ever ask you to do anything you found unusual or suspicious?’ Deborah asked.

‘Like what?’

‘Deliver a package or a message, for example.’

‘Never.’

‘Have you ever seen him with anyone he shouldn’t have been with?’

‘How would I know who he should or shouldn’t be with?’

‘You know what I’m talking about. Anyone shady. Anyone you recognised, with your skills. From the past, perhaps, or from one of the many photographs you’ve seen.’

‘No,’ said Zelda, feeling her nose itch again.

‘You said you worked in the field on occasion. I understand you visited airports and train terminals to scan the crowds?’ Danvers said.

‘Sometimes. If we had information that a person of interest might be coming in, someone from Special Branch or MI5 would come and take me off for the day. But it didn’t happen often. My area of expertise is relatively narrow, and very specialised.’

‘I think what we’re getting at is whether you ever saw Mr Hawkins with any of these people you might have spotted at airports or railway stations?’

‘No.’

‘And what is your role exactly? How do you work?’

‘You already know that.’

‘Clarify it for us,’ said Deborah.

Zelda swallowed. She never liked this bit. ‘Faces,’ she replied. ‘I told you. I don’t forget them.’

‘Why should that be of value to this department?’

‘You know as well as I do that we’re concerned with identifying and, with any luck, eventually catching, anyone involved in the illegal traffic of young women for the purposes of sex.’

‘And your own experience as a sex worker would make you an expert on this?’ Deborah asked. ‘You see, this experience is very unclear in your file. Almost so unclear as to be non-existent.’

Zelda looked at Deborah. She was enjoying this, she thought. Enjoying humiliating her. Or trying to. She sighed. ‘I have never been a “sex worker”, and I resent your use of the term. “Sex worker” implies I was a willing participant. I wasn’t. Not ever. As you said, I have a “personal acquaintance with the area under investigation”. That’s because it happened to me. It is not something I like to broadcast, but I was abducted at the age of seventeen and spent the next ten years either on my back or on my knees servicing clients. That’s when I wasn’t being beaten, tortured or raped. And if either of you believe that I might possibly be working on the side of the bastards who did those things to me, then you’re more fucking stupid than I think you are.’ Zelda noticed Deborah redden and felt a little jolt of pleasure at her reaction to the outburst.

Danvers coughed, put his pen down again and glanced sideways at Deborah. ‘Well, I think that’s just about all for now. Unless you have any more questions, Deborah?’

Deborah shook her head and scribbled something on her notepad before smoothing her skirt. She avoided looking at Zelda.

Danvers stood up and gave a slightly mocking bow. ‘Then we’ll trouble you no more, Ms Melnic.’

‘What now? What about work? The office?’

‘Naturally, a replacement will be found for Mr Hawkins, perhaps on a temporary basis at first. But certainly for the next few days the office will be closed, and the work of the department suspended until we conclude our investigation.’

‘So I can go home?’

Danvers frowned. ‘We would prefer it if you stayed in London for the time being, Ms Melnic,’ he said. ‘Just until we’ve wrapped up our inquiries, you understand. We may need to talk to you again. You can let Deborah know the name and location of your hotel before you leave. And don’t forget to give her your mobile number, too.’

And that was it. Danvers resumed his seat and turned his attention back to the file folder. Zelda was dismissed. She wondered if they had been quite so thorough with everyone else, or had her past, her origins and her special role singled her out for suspicion?

‘I like your new hairstyle,’ Banks said to DI Joanna MacDonald. ‘Or does that qualify as a #MeToo remark?’

Joanna smiled and touched her shaggy cap of blonde hair self-consciously. ‘Depends,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s more of a Time’s Up sort of thing. Especially as you’re not my boss. But thank you, anyway.’

‘So what brings you all the way from the bright lights of Northallerton to a sleepy little outpost like Eastvale? Your phone message said it was work-related.’

Joanna raised an eyebrow. ‘So what else would it be?’

‘I don’t know. The pleasure of my company?’ Banks liked the contrast between her blonde hair and dark eyebrows, though he knew that it meant highlights. His ex-wife, Sandra, had the same combination, but in her case, it had been a quirk of nature. ‘It’s just that we don’t see you out here very often. Only in those dull meetings back at County HQ.’

‘My job’s not always dull.’

‘The meetings are. Seriously, though, have you never thought of applying for Homicide and Major Crimes? I’m sure you’d be in with a chance. I’d put in a word.’

Joanna laughed, then took a sip of coffee. They were in the Queen’s Arms on Eastvale market square that Monday evening. The storms had passed, and the weather was mild, the evening imbued with muted spring sunlight casting shadows over the rain-darkened cobblestones. Cyril, the landlord, had even optimistically risked putting some tables outside after the rain. It was a bit too soon for that, Banks thought, as there could easily be another shower, though one or two smokers clearly begged to disagree. Inside was as dead as usual for a Monday evening. Just the regulars who had been there most of the afternoon propping up the bar and chatting up Cyril’s latest barmaid, Louise, a petite Scouse lass with an accent to match. Cyril also had one of his early sixties’ playlists going. At the moment, The Shadows were playing ‘The Frightened City’.

‘As a matter of fact,’ Joanna answered, ‘the thought actually crossed my mind briefly once, when things seemed a bit too quiet.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘Well, you already have three women working under your command: DS Jackman, DC Masterson and DI Cabbot. You also have a female boss, Area Commander Gervaise. I just felt you were sort of trapped between women. I didn’t think you were up to handling another. It didn’t seem fair to add to your burdens.’

‘So you let me off the hook? That’s very considerate of you,’ said Banks. ‘And you’re absolutely right. I’m looking for a big, strapping Neanderthal knuckle-dragger to stick by my side when the going gets tough.’

Joanna laughed.

‘Now tell me your real reason,’ Banks said before taking a long refreshing slug of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord.

‘Simple, really. You don’t need another DI. You’ve already got Annie Cabbot. You need another DC. Besides, I’m told my prospects of promotion before too long are pretty good exactly where I am.’

‘Congratulations. I’m glad for you. Really. And I suppose you’re right, we do need a new DC, especially now Doug Wilson’s left us.’ Banks took a sip of beer. ‘So what is it you want to see me about?’

‘You’re investigating the suspicious death of a young Middle Eastern boy, right?’

‘You’re pretty quick off the mark,’ Banks said.

‘Hardly need to be. It was all over the six o’clock news.’

Banks drank some more beer. The Shadows had given way to The Temperance Seven singing ‘Pasadena’. Banks had never liked The Temperance Seven. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The reporters are already pouring off the London trains. Our media liaison officer Adrian Moss is under siege. But it’s only to be expected. Our victim is very young. About twelve or thirteen, we think. And, as you say, Middle Eastern, which is pretty unusual around these parts. Victim of knife crime in a small northern town. Found dead in a wheelie bin in an alley at the back of Malden Terrace, on the East Side Estate, with nothing on him but a small quantity of cocaine in his pocket. Dr Burns said at the scene that the lad was stabbed four times in the chest and abdomen. There are no defensive wounds. It doesn’t resemble a fight gone wrong or anything like that. We don’t even know the victim’s identity yet. We’ve got a computer-generated likeness, based on a photograph, out all over the place: newspapers, TV, government agencies, asylum seekers’ hostels, Islamic groups, immigrant communities and organisations. But we don’t even know that he was an immigrant or asylum seeker. Or a Muslim. And perhaps he was born here. Anyway, why are you interested? Can you help us?’

‘I don’t know. Not with the identification, but maybe with other things.’

‘More coffee? Something stronger?’

Joanna held on to her cup. ‘No. Nothing for me, thanks. I’m fine. Have you ever heard of a man called Blaydon? Connor Clive Blaydon.’

‘Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t think from where. Just a minute — wasn’t he a mate of The Farmer’s?’

‘The Farmer?’

‘George Fanthorpe. “Farmer Fanthorpe.” A bit before your time, perhaps. Nasty piece of work. On the surface he was a wealthy country squire — owned and trained racehorses; kept a few sheep, rare-breed pigs and cows; operated a factory that made posh cheese for tourists.’

‘And underneath the rustic veneer?’

‘Drugs, guns, prostitution, murder.’

‘Sounds like him and Blaydon would make perfect bedfellows. Where is your Farmer these days?’

‘Inside,’ said Banks. ‘One of my success stories.’

‘Well, on the surface of it, Blaydon’s a property developer. A dodgy property developer.’

‘Is there any other kind?’

‘Yes, well, Mr Blaydon has certainly earned the title. Some of his fixer-uppers make Rachman’s look like the Ritz.’

‘Rachman? I would have thought he was well before your time.’ Peter Rachman was a famous slum landlord of 1960s London, mostly the Notting Hill area. His empire consisted of over a hundred mansion blocks, which he subdivided into flats the size of cupboards and filled with recent immigrants, who were unlikely to complain about the living conditions in the days when signs such as NO BLACKS OR IRISH NEED APPLY were stuck in so many rental property windows.

‘I did History at uni. Contemporary social history is a hobby of mine. The whole twentieth century, really, but more specifically post-World War Two up to... well, the present day, I suppose. Besides, the name came up in my research. That’s why they call us Criminal Intelligence, you know.’

Banks smiled. ‘I always thought there was another reason altogether. Anyway, this Blaydon is what? A Rachman figure?’

‘Sort of. On a larger scale. He started out small but now he’s nationwide. North, south, east and west. Worth millions. He buys up old properties — houses, offices, pubs, even hotels and clubs, you name it — does them up on the cheap and sells them for a huge profit, or if location is the main draw, he clears the site and gets a builder to slap up a few cheap prefabs. He’s also in the buy-to-rent market. Says he’s creating affordable housing, of course, so the council and the government just look the other way. It has also been whispered that one or two members of said councils haven’t been shy of taking a bob or two from him. And if they can’t be bought they can usually be blackmailed or bullied. Same result for Blaydon, however he gets it. Carte blanche. Loads of money.’

‘But that’s what property developers and councillors do, isn’t it? Flaunt the rules.’

‘Cynic.’

‘Why would he take such risks committing real crimes when he’s already made more than most of us would earn in a lifetime from his development business?’

‘He’s already in the kind of business that attracts the adventurer type. You know, always on the go with some scheme or other, uninterested in the feelings of others, lacks empathy, needs excitement to thrive. Elements of the classic psychopathic personality. I think he may also be motivated by greed, a sense of entitlement and invulnerability, maybe a feeling of being above or beyond the law. And perhaps the risk-taking appeals, too. He’s also a gambler, a high roller. Likes to think of himself as a major player. In with the big boys. Who knows? When it comes to the alpha male in full flight... well, all bets are off.’

‘You’ve certainly been hitting the psychology textbooks, haven’t you?’

‘Are you going to take this seriously?’

‘I am taking it seriously.’

‘Sure.’ Joanna glared at him for a moment.

‘Tell me why the recent interest in this Blaydon? There must be more to it than dodgy property developments.’

‘Very perceptive. If you listen, you might find out. Have you heard about that new development at the bottom of the hill, across Cardigan Drive from the Elmet Estate, on what they used to call the Hollyfield Estate?’

‘The Elmet Centre? Yes, I have.’ The pre-war Hollyfield Estate had been in decline for years and was finally due for demolition as soon as all its inhabitants had been rehoused. The plan was to use the cleared land, along with an area of the fields to the west, to build more social housing and a new shopping centre and multiplex cinema complex. So far, it was still at the planning stage, but the rehousing had already begun. Slowly.

‘That’s Blaydon,’ said Joanna. ‘Along with a couple of local lads known as the Kerrigan brothers.’

‘Tommy and Timmy? We’re well enough acquainted with them, but we haven’t been able to prove anything yet.’

‘We know. Anyway, we’ve been keeping a watching brief on Blaydon, and last night ANPR caught his Merc coming into Eastvale at twenty-five past seven and heading out in a southerly direction at around quarter past eleven.’

‘OK. The old lady whose bin we found the body in says she thought she heard someone messing with her bin between eleven and half past, along with a car starting up. Two other neighbours think they heard the same, but we haven’t been able to pin down the time yet. I suppose if it were closer to eleven, it might fit with your ANPR timing. But what’s a dead boy got to do with a dodgy property developer?’

‘Maybe nothing, but bear with me. Nobody saw anything?’

‘Of course not. This is the East Side Estate we’re talking about. Surely you don’t think someone like Blaydon—’

‘Shoved in the blade? No. I doubt it very much. Like most people in his position, he keeps the nasty stuff at arm’s length, uses his minions. But we don’t know who was with him in the car. One thing we have discovered is that he surrounds himself with a number of disreputable characters, ex-cons or ex-special forces, even ex-coppers. Tough guys. Mercenaries. Enforcers. And he’s lost his driving licence, so he never goes anywhere without Frankie Wallace, his chauffeur. And Wallace is an ex-bruiser, trained in the Glasgow gangs. Surely this Farmer of yours had people to do his dirty work for him?’

Banks thought of Ciaran French and Darren Brody, two of The Farmer’s enforcers, who had ultimately contributed towards his downfall. ‘Yes. But you don’t even know that Blaydon himself was in the car,’ he said. ‘All automatic number plate recognition can tell us is that a car with his number plate passed the cameras at a certain time.’

‘I know that,’ said Joanna.

‘Then...?’

‘I didn’t say I had a case or anything, did I? It’s just that we’ve been gathering information on Blaydon over at Criminal Intelligence for quite some time now, and while we have no evidence we could use in court, we’re convinced that he’s involved in a number of criminal activities. Maybe he’s up to something in Eastvale?’

‘More criminal than property development?’

‘As an adjunct. A cover, if you like. We’ve got him connected with a dodgy accountant and a High Street lawyer suspected of money laundering.’

‘What? Here in Eastvale?’

‘Don’t get your underpants in a knot, Alan. It’s all just been flagged. There’s no action required as yet. These things take time and careful planning if we’re to build a workable case. They’re clever, sneaky customers we’re dealing with here, not your typical smash and grab merchants.’

‘Why weren’t Homicide and Major Crimes informed?’

‘Like I said, it’s a fresh flag. It’ll probably be in your next county memo, if you bother to read those. The point is, we’ve got links, however tenuous, between Blaydon and these two. Not to mention the Kerrigans. It’s what we do in Criminal Intelligence.’

‘So what are they up to, in addition to planning mega projects?’

‘A few things. As you probably know, sterling’s pretty low at the moment and the bottom’s falling out of the housing market.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well, it creates an ideal opportunity for foreign buyers. High-end properties, especially. In the millions. Mostly London and the stockbroker belt, of course, but also places like Harrogate, some posher suburbs of Leeds. York. So on.’

‘It still doesn’t sound illegal.’

‘We think some of the buyers are using it as an opportunity for money laundering and that Blaydon is facilitating it for them.’

‘The new development, too?’

‘Hard to do without some foreign investment.’

‘Go on.’

‘We’ve also got pictures of him meeting with various people in various places. A few of the ones we’ve been able to identify so far are men connected with criminal enterprises, mostly originating in Albania and some of the other Balkan states.’

‘What enterprises would these be?’

‘Mostly drugs and guns. Possibly sex trafficking.’

Banks thought of Zelda. ‘I know someone who might be able to help you with any pictures you haven’t identified yet. She knows the sex traffic world inside out, and she’s a super-recogniser.’

‘I’ve heard of them. Never forget a face. How terrible to have to carry all that around with you. Everyone you’ve ever seen.’

‘Even the ugly ones,’ said Banks. ‘The point is, she could help you. She works with the NCA in London on a part-time basis, but she lives up Lyndgarth way.’

‘Fine. Fix something up. We’d be glad of the help. Facial recognition software can only get us so far. Anyway, to continue, we’re also convinced that Blaydon has access to inside information — not just politicians, but police, too — but we don’t know exactly who on the inside is on his payroll.’

‘But you know someone is?’

‘We’re pretty sure. He has an uncanny way of knowing when to lie low.’

‘That’s why you’re here, then, rather than me being over at County HQ?’

‘Partly. I wanted to meet somewhere more neutral.’

‘Someone at HQ you don’t trust?’

‘No one specifically. I just thought it made more sense to come over here and talk to you. There was the boy, too. It’s your case. I’m not saying these things are connected, but we’ve no idea yet what Blaydon might have been doing here last night, or who he might have had with him.’

‘What did he say?’

‘We haven’t talked to him yet. I thought maybe you...’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Big old manor house between Harrogate and Ripon. Tuscan-villa style. Fountains, statues, maze, the lot. Handy for the A1, but not so close that the noise disturbs his peace. Surrounded by woods and walls. Tranquil. The business offices are in Leeds, but Blaydon mostly works from home.’

‘What’s the rest of his history?’

‘The short version?’

‘That’ll do for now.’

‘He’s sixty-one years old. Started in the property business as a young lad working for an estate agent called Norman Peel, who showed him the ropes. They made a fortune throughout the eighties on Thatcher’s right-to-buy scheme, buying up council houses from the tenants who’d been living in them long enough to buy legally, offering an attractive profit margin. Then Blaydon and Peel tarted them up a bit and resold them, sometimes for a massive profit. Including some on your very own East Side Estate, as well as Hollyfield, I understand. After that, they moved on to other kinds of properties and other kinds of money-making.’

‘Criminal?’

‘Not at first. Not as far as we can make out. Of course, it’s often a thin line in his business. Blaydon eventually made enough money to buy a holiday home in Corfu shortly after the millennium, when such places were still affordable.’

‘That wasn’t long after the Balkan wars,’ Banks said. ‘What happened next?’

‘A few years later, Norman Peel died. Boating accident, apparently. They were business partners by then, and Blaydon took over the reins.’

‘Foul play?’

‘Oh, definitely suspected. Peel was far too honest and straight to fit in with Blaydon’s plans. It happened off Corfu, while Peel was a guest at Blaydon’s holiday home, and nobody could prove it was anything other than a tragic accident.’

‘So what criminal activities do you think he’s involved in these days?’

‘Some of it involves the development side. Big time. Company’s called Unicorn Investments International. Rather a fanciful sort of name for it, I’d say. He’s involved in shopping centres, housing estates like the Elmet Centre project — you name it. It’s a form of insider trading, but he seems to know when to snap up properties pretty cheaply, and suddenly their value is enhanced when a development is announced.’

‘One of his developments?’

‘Usually. But he sometimes works through others, stays at least at one remove. That’s where the Kerrigans come in. As you probably know, they’re club owners, not natural property developers, but they’re quite happy to front some of Blaydon’s more dodgy enterprises for a reasonable return.’

Timmy and Tommy Kerrigan were, on paper at least, owners of the old Bar None nightclub, now renamed The Vaults, just across the market square from where Banks and Joanna were sitting, along with an amusement arcade, also on the square. They were crooks and thugs, suspected of involvement in drug dealing and prostitution, but Banks and his team had never been able to find enough evidence to charge them with anything. Timmy was suspected of an unhealthy interest in teenage girls, whereas Tommy was gay and preferred young boys. Tommy also had a sadistic streak and a nasty temper, ready to explode into violence at a moment’s notice. Their temperamental similarity to the Kray twins had been remarked on more than once, to the extent that in some quarters they were referred to as Reggie and Ronnie, though never to their faces.

‘Blaydon uses them as middlemen on some deals. Glorified gofers on others. And as you no doubt know, they don’t mind getting their hands dirty.’

‘What else is Blaydon up to?’

‘Drugs, for starters. But he’s not a dealer. He doesn’t buy or sell them; he merely facilitates their redistribution. People use his properties for sale and storage. But even that’s not enough for him.’

‘Where does the sex trafficking come in?’

‘Again, it’s not something he’s personally involved in. At least we don’t think so. He keeps his distance. But he’s connected with pop-up brothels. When you think about it, Blaydon’s profession is ideal for that. All those properties standing vacant. Why not make a bit of money out of them? There was a place recently, one of Blaydon’s, an empty low-rise apartment building in Scarborough. Seaview Court. Some of the people who lived nearby reported hearing people yelling and seeing blokes hanging around at all hours, used condoms in the street and so on. It wasn’t a big deal, so the local constabulary didn’t rush to act, and by the time they did get around to checking it out, they’d closed shop and moved on. Like I said, he always manages to stay one step ahead of the law. Needless to say, he denied all knowledge.’

‘There’s another thing about these pop-up brothels,’ Banks said. ‘They often rely on trafficked girls, or boys, which means a network of far-reaching and often very nasty connections. As far as the drugs are concerned, Corfu isn’t far from Albania, if my geography serves me well. He could have made contacts with criminal gangs over there. I understand that the Albanian Mafia are running most of the cocaine trade over here these days. I don’t believe sex trafficking and pop-up brothels are beyond their reach, either.’ Banks again thought of Zelda, her history as a trafficked girl and her work in helping put names to the faces of trafficking suspects. She had given him some useful information a while ago about an old adversary — one who got away — called Phil Keane, turning up in London again. But no one had been able to find any trace of him since, and Zelda had had to lie low at work.

‘I have to admit,’ Joanna said, ‘that most of what we’ve got on Blaydon looks like guilt by association so far. But some of his visitors at home, or people he meets in Leeds city bars and restaurants, office towers, or down in London — ones we’ve been able to monitor — are very dodgy indeed. He may well be expanding his so-called business interests. There’s an Albanian living in London called Leka Gashi we know is involved with the Shqiptare, the Albanian Mafia. And he’s in bed with a major drug kingpin, also in London. Taking over, some would say. On the other hand, one thing they say about the Albanian crooks is that they’ll try and get their feet under the table by treaties and cooperation. They prefer to make friends first.’

‘And then?’

Joanna drew a finger across her throat. ‘If that doesn’t work, they’re known to be extremely violent. The problem is, no one will talk, and none of the police agencies involved can get enough evidence to bring Blaydon in. Like I said, he’s always one step ahead. He has men to put frighteners on potential whistle-blowers — or the Albanians do — and people on the inside to steer any dangerous investigations away from him. Occasionally, they’ll net a few small fish, but the big ones keep on swimming ahead.’

Banks thought it all over for a few moments, then said, ‘OK. So we’ve got a dead boy on the East Side Estate around the same time as Connor Clive Blaydon’s Merc was spotted in the area. Blaydon’s a known gangster with some very nasty local and international drugs connections. What are your thoughts? That the dead youth was working for him, or against him? On the take? Something like that?’

Joanna shrugged. ‘It’s possible. Drugs make sense as far as the victim is concerned. You mentioned earlier that the boy had a small amount of cocaine in his pocket. County lines, maybe? We know they recruit young kids to run drugs, especially crack and heroin, from urban centres to places like Eastvale. And the East Side Estate is just the sort of place they’d set up a trap house to sell from. Maybe the Albanians are taking over the county lines? This murder sounds like the kind of thing they would do if the boy crossed them or held out on them, or stole. Dump the poor kid’s body in a rubbish bin. Sends a message.’

‘Loud and clear.’ Banks knew that county lines were the scourge of small-time local dealers, who were being cut out by the new business model. Instead of meeting your local supplier down at the pub and scoring, you had a young lad sent up from the city and installed in a house, taking orders by a dedicated phone set up for that very purpose — a county line. County lines had fast become the Amazon Prime of drug supply, ousting any number of smaller, independent retailers.

‘We’ve had men canvassing the estate all day,’ Banks went on, ‘and nobody yet has admitted to ever seeing the lad at all before, never mind on the night he was killed. Of course, we wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were lying, but not all. You said earlier that Blaydon had owned property on the East Side Estate, places he bought from right-to-buy tenants back in Thatcher’s day. Does he still have any?’

‘I’d have to check, but he’s probably sold them all by now. He’s not in the rental business. It’s ironic, isn’t it, how most of the homes have ended up being owned by landlords who bought them for about seventy per cent less than their market value and rent them out for more than the council ever did. Talk about a plan backfiring. Anyway, I’d assume that whoever killed the boy probably took his body there by car and dumped it. Right? The killing itself might have happened in one of the surrounding villages, or another part of town.’

‘A good assumption,’ said Banks. ‘We still need to know how long elapsed between the killing and the dumping, and it might not be easy for the pathologist to figure out. We won’t know until the post-mortem, at any rate — if then — unless we find out by some other means. But it doesn’t help us a lot at the moment to know he might have been killed elsewhere. We’re already extending inquiries out from the estate to the rest of town. Nobody so far recalls seeing any cars around the time he was dumped, only maybe hearing something. We’ll keep at it, but it’s like getting blood out of a stone.’ Banks paused. ‘I’m having another pint. Why don’t you join me?’

Joanna glanced at her watch. ‘Better not. I should get home for dinner. Will you look into it, though? What we’ve been talking about, a possible connection with your murder? Will you talk to Blaydon?’

‘Of course. Is someone waiting for you at home?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Sorry. I didn’t—’

‘No, no. It’s just me. I didn’t mean to snap.’ Joanna stood up to put on her tailored jacket, suddenly flustered, blushing. ‘I... I just... As a matter of fact, there isn’t anyone. It’s only me and a Tesco pizza. But I didn’t come here to—’

‘Then, if you’ve no objection, I’ll skip the extra pint, you skip the pizza, and we’ll have a curry just around the corner.’

Joanna studied him through narrowed eyes. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he thought she was every bit as attractive and elegant as he had found her when they had first worked together almost seven years ago: tall and slender, a smattering of freckles across her small nose, a generous mouth, watchful green eyes, finishing school posture and stylish dress sense. A Hitchcock blonde, perhaps: Kim Novak in Vertigo or Tippi Hedren in The Birds.

Finally, Joanna grabbed the back of the chair with both hands and leaned forward. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I accept. But we’re going Dutch. That clear?’

Banks stood to leave. ‘As crystal,’ he said. ‘A Dutch curry. Fine with me.’