Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 3

When Banks got to his office the following morning, he found a message from Area Commander Gervaise asking him to report to her as soon as possible. He climbed the extra flight of stairs to the top floor and knocked on her door. She called for him to enter, and he wasn’t surprised to see Assistant Chief Constable Ron McLaughlin already ensconced in a chair, coffee in hand.

‘Alan,’ said Gervaise when he had joined them. ‘I’m not going to ask you if there are any developments yet because I know there aren’t.’

‘Not entirely true,’ said Banks. ‘I had a drink with DI Joanna MacDonald from Criminal Intelligence last night, and she pointed us towards a villain named Connor Clive Blaydon.’

ACC McLaughlin frowned. ‘Blaydon?’

‘You know him, sir?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said McLaughlin, ‘but I know of him. He’s some sort of property magnate, as I understand it.’

‘Plays golf with the chief constable?’

AC Gervaise raised an admonishing finger. ‘Now, now, Alan.’

‘The chief constable doesn’t play golf,’ said McLaughlin, a ghost of a smile on his face. ‘She’s strictly a squash and bridge woman.’

‘Sorry,’ said Banks. ‘Anyway, he’s one of the main players in that new Elmet Centre redevelopment.’

‘So what’s the murder of a young boy got to do with him?’ Gervaise asked.

‘That I don’t know,’ said Banks. He gave McLaughlin a quick glance. ‘Maybe nothing. Only DI MacDonald says they’ve been keeping an eye on Blaydon and discovered he’s been meeting with one or two unsavoury characters. One’s an Albanian called Leka Gashi, known to be heavily involved in the drugs trade. He’s also linked to the Albanian Mafia, the Shqiptare.’

‘My, my, Blaydon does get around,’ said Gervaise. ‘How is this man linked to the murder?’

‘We don’t know that he is yet, ma’am, but his car was spotted leaving Eastvale last night, just after the time we think the boy’s body was dumped. And the boy was carrying a small amount of cocaine.’

‘You know this for certain?’ said McLaughlin. ‘About the car?’

‘According to Criminal Intelligence and ANPR surveillance,’ said Banks. ‘There’s nothing specific against Blaydon, except one of his properties was recently used as a pop-up brothel in Scarborough. Unbeknownst to him, or so he says. There could also be this Albanian connection. But it’s all speculative right now. We can’t even prove Blaydon was in the car that night, but I’ll be having a chat with him later today as a matter of course.’

‘Tread carefully,’ said Gervaise.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Banks, ‘I’m not going to go accusing him of anything.’

‘Watch out that you don’t.’ Gervaise put her coffee mug down. ‘Golf or not, he’s not without influence. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about handling the East Side case. I suppose you know it’s already high profile?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve got a morning meeting planned with my team.’

‘I’ll organise a press conference for noon,’ said Gervaise. ‘Make sure you brief me fully before then. I’ll be having a meeting with Adrian first.’

Banks nodded. Adrian Moss was a bit of a drip as far as he was concerned, but he did the useful and thankless job of media liaison officer, placing himself as a kind of buffer between the police and the media, translating the needs of one into something acceptable for the other. ‘Any chance of more officers?’ Banks asked. ‘We could do with a lot more help on the house-to-house inquiries, and I need to set up a murder room.’

‘I don’t want us to be seen to be sparing any expense on this one,’ said ACC McLaughlin. ‘I know things have been tight recently, and it might seem like a cynical move, releasing more resources for what we know to be a high-profile case, but that’s the way these things go.’

‘I can’t see anyone objecting, sir,’ said Banks. ‘It is the murder of a child, after all.’

McLaughlin nodded and turned to Gervaise. ‘Catherine?’

‘Plainclothes officers are rather thin on the ground,’ said Gervaise, ‘but I can let you have civilian staff to man a murder room here at the station. We can also find a few more uniformed officers to help with the door-to-doors and so on. You, DI Cabbot and DC Masterson will be working the case full-time, and I hardly need tell you there’ll be no leave until the matter is settled. You can also use our CID resources as you need. Just come and ask. They can also take over general duties day-to-day while you’re occupied with this business.’

It was nothing less than Banks expected, though he did feel he could do with another detective on his team. With DS Winsome Jackman away on maternity leave, expecting her first child at any moment, and his second DC, Doug Wilson, having recently left the force, he was lower than he had ever been on staff. The extra uniformed officers would help, of course, but there would still be a lot of work for the three detectives. ‘I suppose I can manage with Gerry and Annie for the time being, but I’ll want a major trawl for information, especially possible sightings. As of now, we don’t know where the lad came from, or how he got here. Someone must have seen him. We doubt he’s from around here — nobody on the estate admits to recognising him — and when we found him he had nothing but a small stash of coke in his pocket. No money, no belongings, no identification, no keys. Nothing. That stuff must be somewhere, and someone must have seen him coming and going. Bus station. Taxi ranks. Trains.’

Gervaise nodded. ‘We’ll get extra uniformed officers and PCSOs out on it today.’

McLaughlin cleared his throat. ‘You should also perhaps liaise with drugs squad officers at County HQ, as you require.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ said Banks, though after his conversation with DI MacDonald the previous evening he wasn’t sure which drugs squad detectives he should be trusting.

McLaughlin stood up and straightened his uniform. ‘Right. I’d better get back. Catherine. Alan.’ He nodded to them, put his cap on and left the office.

‘Well...’ said AC Gervaise, visibly relaxed after her boss’s departure. ‘That went well. What do you think about the drugs angle?’

‘We only found a small amount. Just enough for personal use. As yet, there’s no reason to think the boy’s murder was drug-related.’

‘Come on, Alan. If you take into account that his body was found on the East Side Estate and that DI MacDonald felt it necessary to let you know Connor Clive Blaydon was in the area at the time, I think we can live with the assumption that something might have been going on. It has county lines written all over it.’ Gervaise stood up. ‘I have to go. Don’t forget, Alan, brief me after your morning meeting.’

Zelda sat by the window of her hotel room and gazed over the river at the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral surrounded by cranes and half-built modern structures that would soon, along with the gherkins, cheese graters, shards and tulips, dominate the entire city skyline. She had had a difficult night, and she was still recovering, feeling tired and numb. It had started, as it usually did, with a nightmare at about three o’clock in the morning, the details of which scurried back into the dark recesses when she woke, leaving only vague impressions of unbearably slow journeys across darkening post-industrial landscapes, through crumbling ruins and over mud as sticky as treacle. There was always someone, or something, chasing her, or hiding in the shadows, and she could never get far enough ahead to feel safe. She also felt that there was nowhere she would feel safe, for the place she was seeking didn’t exist, and if it should suddenly be conjured into existence, she wouldn’t be able to find it, or she would have to swim so far underwater that she wouldn’t have enough breath to get there.

As usual, she woke gasping for air, her heart thudding, and that was when things got worse, when she started remembering the real terrors of her years as a sex-slave: the pain of her first anal rape, a broken nose, a messy abortion in a cheap backstreet clinic in Belgrade, all in excruciating detail, faces included.

So she did what she always did: got up, took two of the tranquillisers her doctor had prescribed and made a cup of chamomile tea. Then she took out her Moleskine notebook and jotted down what she could remember of her dreams. The doctor had told her it would help her come to terms with her experiences, but she didn’t think it had done much good so far. Nevertheless, she persevered.

When she had written down as much as she could remember, she put on her headphones. Zelda had three favourite symphonies — Beethoven’s ‘Pastorale’, Tchaikovsky’s ‘Pathétique’ and Dvořák’s ‘New World’ — and she always turned to one of them at such times. She didn’t care how corny they were, or how many times she had listened to them. This morning she chose the Dvořák and settled by the window to watch the daylight gently nudge away the darkness as the city came to life in all its quotidian glory, from the first joggers on the embankment to the quickly multiplying hordes of pedestrians heading for work, the rumbling and clattering of commuter trains over Blackfriars Bridge, then the first tourist boats cutting their wakes along the Thames to Greenwich.

And by then the world was beginning to feel bearable again.

That day, the dawn had begun with an unusually rosy glow. Rust-stained tugboats and overloaded barges passed by below her window. The broad dark river fascinated her. It was like a living being, with its swirling oil slicks and currents like ropes of muscle twisting in the wake of the boats. Sweet Thames.

Sometimes her head felt almost as stuffed full of random quotes as it was of faces. The words all came from the boxes of books people donated to the orphanage, of course. There weren’t only lurid potboilers, detective stories, thrillers and romances, but also hefty Victorian novels and poetry collections, too — Dickens, Thackeray, Trollope, Hardy, Keats, Wordsworth, Spenser — as well as children’s books by Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl and Jacqueline Wilson. Zelda had read them all, from cover to cover. Her recollection of words wasn’t as good as it was of faces — she certainly didn’t have a photographic memory — but it was probably better than average, and she remembered a lot. She was hungry to learn, and those hours spent reading in a foreign language that was becoming more her own every day, were the happiest times of her life. Until the day that life came to an abrupt end.

In those dark hours, as the bad memories ebbed with the growing light, the healing power of the music and the numbing effect of the tranquillisers, she often wondered why she had never been tempted by suicide. But she never had. Once, perhaps, she had come close. In a small and ugly motel near Banja Luka, exhausted and hurting after a particularly long night of rough and filthy long-distance lorry drivers, the idea had reared its head briefly. She had considered whether the belt of the dress that lay draped over the bedside chair would be long enough and strong enough for her to hang herself from the coat hook on the back of the locked door. But she had never got as far as finding out before the door opened again and another man came in.

Thoughts of the past began to dissipate, the music ended and Zelda put her headphones away to make more tea as she contemplated going out for breakfast. Then she began to think about Hawkins and all that had happened since that night Alan and Annie came for dinner just before Christmas. It seemed almost a lifetime ago.

If she was going to stay in London for a few more days, she could do a bit more detective work. She had lain dormant for too long, but news of Hawkins’s death galvanised her towards action. Over the past few months, she had thought more than once about reporting what she had seen that evening she had followed him. But to whom? She couldn’t be certain that she trusted anyone in the department. It was the same reason she hadn’t told Alan. When all was said and done, she had withheld the information for her own reasons. If she had reported on Hawkins meeting Keane, a known criminal, that would have been the end of it one way or another. She would have been cut out of any investigation, if there was one, and she would never find Keane, or Petar and Goran Tadić, the ones she really wanted.

First, she needed a plan. If Hawkins had been meeting Keane to tell him about her interest in the photo of him with Petar Tadić — and what other reason could there be? — it meant that Hawkins was in bed with the enemy, perhaps feeding them information so that some of the most wanted men could evade discovery. Perhaps he had also informed them when Zelda would be on duty at a specific port, station or airport, so they could avoid it. If so, the enemy had turned against him — not unusual in that risky and violent business — and she would like to know why. Had he tried to escape their clutches, tried to break free from them? He should have known the price of that. She also remembered that Banks and Annie had told her that Keane liked fires. He would probably know all about chip pans.

So what could she do? She was marooned in London for a few days, which wasn’t an unpleasant situation. Normally, she would invite Raymond down for a mini-break, but he was away in America for meetings in advance of an important US exhibition coming up soon. She could do some shopping, go to the Picasso exhibition at the Tate Modern, try to get some last-minute theatre tickets. Shakespeare at The Globe, perhaps? But no. She remembered the last time she’d been there, trapped at the far end of a row, feeling claustrophobic and unable to escape a dreadful production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It had been more like a midsummer night’s nightmare.

Anyway, there were plenty of diversions for her in London, but the main thing, she realised, was to work out what she could do about Hawkins and Keane. Danvers and Deborah wouldn’t tell her anything, that was for certain, and she didn’t really know where to start. She had drawn a blank following Hawkins on those few occasions over the last months she had been able to do so, but perhaps if she applied herself now, with so much free time on her hands, she might be able to find out more. At least she could make a start by going to have a look at his burned-out house.

Unlike the numerous television depictions of large open-plan offices crowded with scruffy detectives in a fug of cigarette smoke, shirtsleeves rolled up, ties askew, resting the backs of their thighs against desks overflowing with unfinished paperwork, Styrofoam coffee cups in hand and phones constantly ringing, there were only four people present at the Tuesday morning briefing in the boardroom of Eastvale Regional HQ, and all were seated, none smoking.

The room was wood-panelled with ornate ceiling cornices, a chandelier and a large and highly-polished oval table. The accoutrements were all present — the large flat-screen TV set, the ubiquitous whiteboards plastered with photographs of the victim from all angles, indecipherable scrawls and arrows linking one thing to another. And the coffee cups, not Styrofoam but paper. From large gilt-framed oil paintings on the walls, nineteenth-century wool barons with mutton-chop sideboards and roast-beef complexions watched over the proceedings.

Banks gathered up his notes. He had enjoyed his dinner with Joanna MacDonald the previous evening. When she let her guard down even just a little, she was charming and entertaining company — funny, sharp, intelligent — wise, even. He wondered again, as he often had, why she so rarely allowed herself the lapse, kept herself on such a tight rein. After dinner, he had got home in time for a fairly early night, with very little to drink, and as a result he felt unusually refreshed that morning.

‘As of now,’ he began, ‘we still have nothing much to go on. The boy looks about thirteen years old, he’s dark-skinned, maybe of Middle Eastern heritage, but he could have grown up here, for all we know. He’s been stabbed four times, and we found a small amount of cocaine in his jeans pocket. Most likely he didn’t live locally, or the odds are that we’d have located someone who would have seen him around. I know, as you all do, that the East Side Estate in general can be pretty uncommunicative, if not actively against us on occasion, but though there are plenty of drugs circulating, there are few murders there, and it’s my sense that the people are in shock. I don’t believe everyone we’ve talked to so far is lying about not knowing the boy.’

‘So how did he get there and where did he come from?’ asked DC Gerry Masterson.

‘That we don’t know,’ admitted Banks. ‘And we need answers. Out of town, most likely, I’d say. There aren’t any Middle Eastern families living in Eastvale, as far as I know. It’s possible he was a student, I suppose, but I’d say he was too young to be at the college. Again, that can be easily checked. He may have been visiting friends in the area. Something else we’ll have to follow up on. Wherever he’s from, someone dumped him on our patch and it’s our job to find out who. We’ve got an appeal out with the media, so someone will have to collate the responses, should any come in. The ACC has authorised a working budget, AC Gervaise has okayed overtime and civilian staff to man the murder room, and we have extra uniformed officers pounding the streets.

‘Mrs Grunwell, in whose wheelie bin the body was found, says that she put the rubbish out at ten o’clock on Sunday night, as usual, and she heard a car nearby between eleven and eleven-thirty that same night. She also thought she heard someone kick or bump into the bin about the same time. She’s eighty-five, but in my estimation, we can take her as a reliable witness on these points. We also got confirmation of the car and the bump from two other houses at that end of the street, so we can probably accept that the body was dumped between eleven o’clock and eleven-thirty on Sunday night. Not so late that there might not have been someone about, but it was a Sunday, and things tend to get quiet fairly early then, even on the East Side Estate. What we don’t know, in addition to who dumped him, of course, is where he came from or how far he was driven. Gerry, any theories?’

‘Well, you wouldn’t want to drive very far with a body in your boot, would you, guv? Or in your back seat. I mean, you might get pulled over for speeding or driving through a red light or something. It’s risky. There’d also be traces in the car. Blood, for a start, if he was stabbed. You know how hard it is to get rid of those sorts of things completely.’

‘You’re saying you think he wasn’t transported far, then?’

‘That would be my guess.’

Banks nodded. ‘OK. Sounds reasonable.’

‘That may indicate that whoever did it knows the area,’ said Annie. ‘Its reputation. Knows that we might not be too surprised to find a dead drug user dumped there.’

‘Good point.’

‘What about CCTV?’ Gerry asked.

‘There isn’t any functioning CCTV on the East Side Estate and not a hell of a lot nearby, either. Right now, it’s important for us to keep circulating the computer-generated photo. We’ve already been sending copies around the media and liaising with local police and representatives from Middle Eastern communities and mosques in Bradford, Dewsbury, Leeds, Huddersfield and other nearby towns and cities. The problem is that we don’t know whether he’s from Iraq, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon or any of the dozen or more other countries that make up what we call the Middle East. We don’t even know if he was a Muslim, though we are making inquiries in mosques. It could be a lengthy process, or we could get lucky.’ Banks paused and sipped at his bitter, tepid coffee. ‘We also need to know why he was dumped. And perhaps more specifically, why he was dumped in Eastvale.’

‘You think it was personal, guv?’ Gerry asked. ‘Something to do with the owner of the bin?’

‘No. As I said, Mrs Grunwell is eighty-five, and I think we can pretty well rule out a vendetta or gang war involving her. No, I think we need to look elsewhere. And why a rubbish bin?’

‘Well,’ said Annie, ‘it might simply have been convenient for someone passing the end of Malden Terrace on the way out of town. I suppose if you had a body in your car and you were after somewhere to dispose of it, a wheelie bin’s as good a place as any.’

Banks nodded. ‘It would help if we could determine whether it was a warning or a statement,’ he went on, ‘or simply a matter of arbitrary convenience, as you suggest. Could there be some other reason? It’s not as if whoever killed him could hope to conceal the crime for very long by dumping him there.’

‘Unless they didn’t know which day was bin collection day,’ said Annie.

Banks smiled. ‘There’s always that. We should be glad they’re not on strike right now, too.’

‘Could it be a hate crime?’ Gerry suggested.

‘It’s a possibility we should keep in mind,’ said Banks. ‘There’s certainly plenty of casual racism. Even Mrs Grunwell referred to “darkies”.’

‘He could have been dumped as a warning,’ Annie suggested.

‘Yes. But to whom? And about what? I mean, if his murder and placement in a rubbish bin was a warning of some kind, the person being warned had to be made aware of it, didn’t he? That would surely be the point?’

‘Can we be absolutely certain that there’s no connection with Mrs Grunwell, like Gerry suggested?’ Annie asked.

‘I very much doubt it,’ said Banks. ‘You’ve talked to her. You know what I mean. I doubt that referring to “darkies” necessarily leads to murder.’

‘Even so, guv,’ Gerry said. ‘Maybe she caused some trouble for someone? I mean, old people can be pretty wrong-headed or stubborn sometimes. Cantankerous, even. Maybe somebody wanted to do something and she wouldn’t give way? Does she own her house? Did someone want very badly to buy it?’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to get rid of her in that case?’ said Banks. ‘Surely a fragile old woman is far easier to kill than a fit young lad?’

‘Less likely to merit an investigation, too,’ Annie added. ‘It wouldn’t be hard to make it seem like she had an accident.’

‘I suppose so,’ Gerry said. ‘But I’m only speculating on possibilities. If it’s a warning, it might just be to say to the old lady “be careful or this could happen to you”.’

‘I still don’t get the connection,’ said Banks. ‘A Middle Eastern boy and an elderly woman. And what about the coke?’

‘Maybe it’s not relevant,’ Annie said. ‘Just a small amount for personal use, like a packet of cigarettes or a hip flask. And perhaps the warning wasn’t for Mrs Grunwell specifically, but for someone else on the street. It might have been giving too much away to dump the body in the bin of the person they really wanted to rattle.’

‘It’s possible,’ Banks said. ‘In which case, whoever it was meant for will have got the message. We’ll re-interview all the people from Malden Close and Terrace, see if we can find a chink in someone’s armour. Stefan? Do the CSIs have anything for us yet?’

DS Stefan Nowak, Crime Scene Manager, shook his head and spoke for the first time. ‘We’ve just about finished with the scene. The rain didn’t leave us a lot to go on. No footprints, no tyre tracks, nothing like that. Vic Manson worked his magic with the fingerprints on the bin, but they didn’t match any on the databases we have access to. The only prints on the cocaine packet are the boy’s. The coke’s at the lab. We’re analysing his clothes. They’re pretty generic. The spectrograph might show up something, traces he might have picked up from somewhere.’

‘Right,’ said Banks. ‘Basically, we shouldn’t be wasting our time having meetings. We should get out there and get on with the job. There is just one more thing.’ Banks had another taste of his coffee, grimaced and went on. ‘I had a brief and unscheduled meeting with DI Joanna MacDonald from County HQ yesterday evening,’ he said. He noticed Annie roll her eyes. ‘As a matter of fact, she got in touch with me when she heard about the body. It seems that Criminal Intelligence have their eyes on a property developer called Connor Clive Blaydon, head of Unicorn Investments International, one of the companies behind the new Elmet Centre development. Lives down Harrogate way. Apparently, his car was picked up by ANPR on the way out of Eastvale around a quarter past eleven on Sunday night. As of yet, we have no reason to link him with the murder except the timing and proximity, but DI MacDonald seems to think he’s up to no good wherever he goes, that his interests include drugs and that he might have friends on the inside, so let’s keep this to ourselves.

‘She also raised the spectre of county lines, as did AC Gervaise earlier this morning. It makes a lot of sense when you consider the age of the victim and the drugs link. We’ve known that city dealers have been using kids as young as twelve or thirteen to transport and deal drugs for them in small towns and villages all over the country for some time now, though we haven’t got hold of anyone to confirm it’s happening here yet. Maybe our Mr Blaydon is a middleman in something like that? Maybe he’s just starting up? It seems he likes to play with the big boys. He’s got some sort of a gangster complex. Gerry, I’d like you to do your thing and put together a dossier on him. DI MacDonald said she’d send over her files this morning. I’ll make sure you get them. Have a word with the drugs squad, too. See if any of this rings any bells with them. But be careful what you let slip.’

‘Got it, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m to ask the drugs squad if they know anything about Blaydon dealing drugs without mentioning that I’m asking about Blaydon dealing drugs.’

Banks grinned. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way, Gerry.’

‘Yes, guv. What else is Blaydon into?’

‘Bit of everything, it seems,’ said Banks. ‘Your typical all-round equal opportunity criminal. Dodgy property deals, pop-up brothels—’

‘Pop-up brothels?’ said Gerry. ‘In Eastvale?’

‘Not yet, as far as I know. But stranger things have happened.’

‘I can just see your Mrs Grunwell running one of those,’ Annie said.

Banks smiled at the thought. ‘You may be right at that. There are stranger things than an eighty-five-year-old madam. Perhaps someone can ask her about it when we talk to her again. In the meantime, you’ve all got your tasks to do.’

Zelda had no idea what she would gain from visiting Hawkins’s house — probably nothing — but at least it got her out of the hotel room and gave her something to think about other than her bad dreams and her traumatic past. It was a fine spring day, and hordes of tourists with jackets or sweaters tied around their waists, mixed with the joggers on the wharf, stood with their backs to the river taking selfies with St Paul’s in the background. Zelda had chosen jeans, a black T-shirt and a tan kidskin jacket to wear for her outing, with her shoulder bag strapped across her chest and her black hair tied in a ponytail.

Across the Thames, sunlight reflected on the windows of the traffic jammed up on Victoria Embankment. Just past the Oxo Tower, she had to weave her way through a rowdy group of Italian schoolchildren, whose teachers didn’t seem to be making much of an attempt to keep them disciplined. At Waterloo Bridge, she climbed the steps between the National Theatre and the BFI and turned left towards Waterloo Underground station, where she took the Northern Line.

Zelda had almost as good a memory for directions as she did for faces. She had only visited Hawkins’s house once before, briefly, over a year ago, for a ‘department mixer’, but the minute she got off the tube at Highgate and made her way up the steps to Archway, she knew instinctively to turn left down the main road, then left again into a residential area of semi-detached houses. Some were painted in light pastel colours, but she remembered that Hawkins’s house had kept its basic red-brick facade, with white trim around the bay windows, a porch with two white Doric columns and a postage-stamp lawn behind a low brick wall and trimmed privet hedges. A short flight of steps led up to the front porch. Today, though, it would have stood out on any street. The windows were all gone and the garden was piled with burned sticks of furniture.

The neighbours were lucky, Zelda thought, when she spotted Hawkins’s burned-out house. Though their house appeared to be relatively undamaged, it was also cordoned off, and Zelda imagined the owners had been told to move out until the fire investigators were certain it was safe to return home.

Hawkins’s house was still structurally intact — and the only areas that showed fire damage were around the windows and door — but Zelda knew that the inside would be a mess of charred wood, twisted metal, melted plastic, glass and worse. She remembered the kitchen from her one brief visit. It had seemed very modern and high-tech to her, all brushed steel surfaces and professional cookware, which went hand in hand with the idea of Hawkins as a gourmet. She couldn’t have said for certain, but she didn’t think there had been a chip pan in sight.

What surprised her now was that there was still so much activity around the place. Though the fire engines must have been and gone, a fire inspector’s van was parked outside along with two police patrol cars. One uniformed officer stood on guard under the front porch, and as she passed, Zelda noticed a man in a white coverall walking out carrying a cardboard box, which he placed in the boot of an unmarked car. He paused to talk with another uniformed officer, who was sitting in one of the cars, before going back into the house again. Then a woman came out, also wearing a white coverall and carrying a cardboard box. Did they do this at every domestic fire scene? She could see one or two curtains twitching in the nearby houses.

Zelda didn’t want to be caught dawdling. They might think she was suspicious if they saw her watching them. She also wondered whether they had CCTV nearby, or someone noting down all passers-by who showed an interest. But it was like a car crash; a person could hardly walk by without stopping for a peek at whatever was going on. So she allowed herself to stand for a few moments. Perhaps she was getting paranoid, or she had read too many spy novels, but she also kept an eye out for signs of anyone following her. She hadn’t seen anyone, but that didn’t mean no one was there. She was already starting to feel out of her depth in this sleuthing game.

A man came out of one of the houses just in front of her, gave her a quick glance, then crossed the road and went into Hawkins’s house. The policeman at the door seemed to know him. It looked to Zelda as if he had probably been questioning the neighbour across the street, and probably not for the first time, as it was nearly three days since the fire. That indicated to her that they might not be quite satisfied with the chip-pan theory.

Zelda started walking down the street and noticed a pub sign about a hundred yards ahead. She checked her watch and saw it was almost one o’clock. Lunchtime. Why not treat herself to a pub lunch and make a few discreet inquiries while she was there?

If Blaydon’s mansion wasn’t quite as large as Banks had expected, his extensive gardens certainly made up for it. Banks drove through the open wrought-iron gates in a high surrounding wall of dark stone. A gravel drive wound first through woods of ash, hazel, beech and yew trees, which formed a natural tunnel, then through carefully designed and cultivated gardens — a trellised arbour, a wisteria grove or rose garden here, and a gazebo there — leading ultimately past neatly trimmed topiary and imitation Greek and Roman statuary, complete with missing limbs and lichen stains, to a large pond scabbed with water lilies. At its centre stood an elaborate fountain. Water sprayed in all directions from the mouths of cherubim and seraphim with puffy cheeks and curly hair. And was that a maze Banks glimpsed beyond the fountain?

‘Bloody hell,’ said Banks. ‘You’d think he’s had Capability Brown in to come up with this lot.’

Though the grounds resembled those of a Tuscan villa, the house itself was bland. It was certainly large, however — three storeys of limestone and brick, complete with bay windows, gables and a low pitched, slate roof. At the front stood an ostentatious porch supported by stone columns.

‘Shall we knock or ring the bell?’

‘The bell,’ said Annie. ‘I want to hear what tune it plays.’

The bell didn’t play any tune at all; it just made a dull electronic buzz for as long as Banks held the button down. Eventually, a slender middle-aged man in a dark suit and waistcoat opened the door and regarded them with an expression of mixed surprise and distaste. He raised a bushy eyebrow in question.

Banks and Annie pulled out their warrant cards. ‘Mr Blaydon?’ said Banks.

‘Please follow me,’ said the man, turning. ‘Mr Blaydon is in his study. I’ll announce you.’

Banks and Annie exchanged looks, then stood in the large high-ceilinged entrance hall and waited. Banks gazed at the gilt-framed oil paintings hung on the wainscotted walls: a stormy seascape with a listing sailing ship, peasants bent over gathering sheaves at harvest time.

Then the man returned. ‘Mr Blaydon will see you now, sir, madam,’ he said.

Banks and Annie followed him through a door beside the broad staircase and along a narrow corridor lined with framed pencil drawings, mostly nudes. The butler, or whatever he was, knocked on one of the doors and a voice said, ‘Enter.’

The butler opened the door and Banks and Annie entered. A man sat facing them across a large desk, his back to the mullioned windows, which framed a view of the extensive gardens. The desk was scattered with papers, and the rest of the place was similarly untidy. The window was partially open, and Banks could hear birds singing in the garden.

Blaydon stood up, made his way past a couple of piles of paper and shook hands with them both, then went back to his chair. ‘Pull up a couple of chairs,’ he said, then looked around at the mess and smiled. ‘Just dump those files on the floor. I like a bit of disorder. Can’t bear everything in its place. It used to be a bone of contention, I can you tell you. Gabriella — the wife as was — she liked everything just so. For the sake of our marriage, we agreed that this room is sacrosanct, though I can’t say it did any good in the long run.’

‘You’ve separated?’

‘Divorced,’ said Blaydon. ‘A couple of years back.’

‘Kids?’

‘One of each. Hang on just a minute.’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk and the man who had answered the door reappeared.

‘Tea or coffee?’ Blaydon asked. ‘Or something stronger, perhaps?’

‘Coffee would be fine,’ said Banks.

Annie nodded in agreement.

‘Fine, then,’ said Blaydon, and the man went off.

‘The butler?’ Banks inquired.

‘Who? Jeeves? I suppose so. Though I don’t think they call themselves that any more. And that’s not his real name, of course. Hates it when I call him that. He’s Roberts. He helps out around the place. Better than a wife, and much less trouble. Now what can I do for you? You didn’t tell me anything over the phone.’

Blaydon looked like a retired academic, thought Banks, who had met a few in his time. The casual lemon sweater over an open-neck white shirt, unruly head of brown, grey-flecked hair, aquiline nose, keen, watchful eyes behind wire-framed spectacles. He wasn’t in the least bit imposing; in fact, he seemed perfectly relaxed, as if he might have been sitting there marking a pile of exam papers rather than renting out empty properties to drug dealers or madams of pop-up brothels.

‘Were you in Eastvale on Sunday evening?’ Banks asked.

‘Eastvale? Yes, I was.’

‘Why?’

Blaydon leaned back in his chair. It creaked. ‘Why? Well, as a matter of fact, I was having dinner with some business colleagues.’ He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with anything?’

‘We’re investigating an incident,’ said Annie. ‘We’re questioning anyone who might be able to help us.’

‘I see. I’m afraid I can’t help you at all. I went to the restaurant, dined and left. I saw no incident. What sort of thing are we talking about?’

Banks paused, then said, ‘It was a murder.’

‘Murder? Good Lord. I think I would have remembered something like that.’

Roberts returned with the coffee, silver carafe on a silver tray, with a matching silver milk jug and sugar bowls. Banks took his black and Annie took milk and one sugar. Blaydon declined. When Roberts had gone, they carried on.

‘Which restaurant were you at?’ Banks asked.

‘Marcel’s. Le Coq d’Or. It’s on—’

‘I know where Le Coq d’Or is,’ said Banks. It was tucked away on a narrow side street of twee shops and antiquarian book dealers between Market Street and York Road, at the back of the market square. It was also the most expensive restaurant in Eastvale — in the entire Dales, for that matter — and had been awarded not one, but two Michelin stars. Neither Banks nor Annie had ever eaten there, and probably never would.

‘We often dine there,’ Blaydon went on. ‘His truffle and—’

‘Who were you dining with?’ Annie’s question stopped Blaydon mid-sentence.

‘I told you. Business colleagues.’

‘Can you give me their names?’

‘I don’t want you bothering my friends about such matters. I’ve told you, none of us saw or heard anything unusual. I’m assuming whatever happened was near Marcel’s?’

‘Friends?’ Annie said. ‘I thought you said business colleagues.’

Blaydon gave her a cold stare. ‘Business colleagues. Friends. What does it matter? I don’t want you bothering them.’

‘We promise not to bother them,’ Annie said.

‘And we’ll find out one way or another,’ Banks added.

Blaydon sighed and shot them a poisonous glance. ‘If you must know, it was the Kerrigan brothers. Thomas and Timothy.’

Banks whistled. ‘Tommy and Timmy Kerrigan, eh? Reg and Ronnie. They certainly get around. Fine company you keep.’

‘The Kerrigans are respectable businessmen. We do a fair bit of business together.’

‘Like the Elmet Centre?’

‘That’s one project we’re involved in, yes.’

‘A pretty big one, too. Did you drive to Eastvale?’

‘Not personally. No licence, you see. Slight difference of opinion with a breathalyser. I had my chauffeur, Frankie, drive me and wait for me out front. Where did this murder take place?’

‘That would be Frankie Wallace?’ Banks said.

‘Yes.’

‘What time did you arrive at the restaurant?’ Annie asked.

‘Seven-thirty, or thereabouts.’

‘And what time did you leave?’

‘Late.’

‘Around eleven?’

‘Around that time, yes.’

‘That’s rather a long time to spend over your frog’s legs and snails, isn’t it? Doesn’t the restaurant close earlier than that? It was a Sunday night, after all.’

‘Marcel is a friend,’ said Blaydon. ‘He’s happy to stay open for his best customers as long as they wish. I mean, it’s hardly your Nando’s or Pizza Express. And you have it quite wrong about the food he serves. There are no snails—’

‘We don’t really care about snails, sir,’ Banks cut in. ‘So you were in Le Coq d’Or having dinner with the Kerrigan brothers, and your driver Frankie Wallace was out front waiting to take you home from half past seven until eleven on Sunday? Right?’

‘That is correct.’

‘And you didn’t leave the restaurant at all during that time?’

‘I didn’t nip out to murder someone, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Who was it, by the way? Who was the victim?’

‘A young lad,’ said Banks. ‘We think he might have been mixed up with drugs.’

‘It’s a terrible thing, these days,’ said Blaydon. ‘One reads so much about the damage drugs can do. I contribute to a number of rehabilitation centres. Try to do my bit, you know. Give something back.’

‘For what?’

‘I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,’ said Blaydon. ‘I made my way up the hard way. Through sheer hard slog. You’re just like all the rest. You slag off entrepreneurs like me, but where would you be without us? Still living in fucking caves, that’s where.’

‘We already know a bit about how you made your way up in the world,’ said Banks. ‘But that’s not what we’re interested in.’

‘I’m still trying to work out what you are interested in. Is this a fishing expedition of some kind? If so, should I have my solicitor present?’

‘What might we be fishing for?’ Annie asked.

‘Don’t ask me.’

Banks took out Peter Darby’s photographic rendering of the victim from his briefcase and showed it to Blaydon. ‘Ever seen this lad?’

Blaydon squinted at the photo and turned back to Banks. ‘No, I can’t say as I have. Arab kid, is he?’

‘We don’t know where he’s from.’ Banks put the photo away. ‘Do you know a man called George Fanthorpe?’ he asked. ‘Farmer Fanthorpe?’

‘Yes,’ Blaydon said after a slight hesitation. ‘We did business occasionally. But it was some time ago. I heard he was sent to prison.’

‘That’s right. He’ll be away for a while. What sort of business did you do?’

‘Nothing criminal, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had some projects he was interested in investing in. I bought shares in a couple of racehorses he trained. That sort of thing.’

‘Pretty pally, were you?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. It was a business relationship. Maybe the occasional drink. Besides, what does George Fanthorpe have to do with anything?’

‘The Farmer had his dirty little fingers in all kinds of pies,’ Banks went on. ‘I should know. I was the one who put him away. I was just wondering where your interests coincided.’

‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ said Blaydon, pushing his chair back from the desk.

Banks sipped some coffee. It was rich and strong. ‘Just a few more questions, sir, then we’ll get out of your hair.’

Blaydon stayed put. ‘Well, hurry up about it, then.’ He glanced at his watch. A Rolex, Banks noticed. ‘Five more minutes and I’m calling my solicitor.’

‘Of course. What do you know about pop-up brothels?’

Blaydon laughed. ‘About what?’

‘Pop-up brothels. I don’t see what’s so funny.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Blaydon. ‘I just had this image of opening a book and having a cartoon tenement building pop up with ladies of the night in garter belts and frilly underwear waving from the windows.’

‘Own many tenements, do you?’ Annie asked.

‘Oh, come on. It was a joke. Anyway, what’s a pop-up brothel?’

‘Exactly what it sounds like,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a brothel that pops up in a vacant house or building for a limited period of time. The people who operate them use online escort agencies and social media to get the word out to those in the know. They can be quite sophisticated.’

‘Well, I never. It takes all sorts.’

‘I think you’ll agree,’ Annie said, ‘that a man in your business is in a pretty good position to profit from something like that. All those empty properties just sitting there.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I—’

‘Stop playing games,’ said Banks. ‘Ever heard of a man called Leka Gashi?’

‘I can’t say as I have.’

‘He’s a nasty piece of work. An Albanian gangster known to be involved in the drug trade.’

‘What makes you think I would know someone like that?’

‘It’s our business to know these things,’ said Banks.

‘Have you been watching me?’

‘What about that apartment building in Scarborough?’

‘What building?’

‘Seaview Court, or whatever it was called.’

‘Let me get this straight. You’re trying to tell me that Seaview Court is a pop-up brothel?’

‘Was,’ said Banks.

‘Do you have any proof of that?’

‘You know quite well that we don’t. Someone must have tipped you off.’

Blaydon spread his hands. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, I don’t micromanage every property on my books. There are far too many for that. Are we finished here?’

Banks glanced at Annie and they both stood up. Before they left, Banks leaned forward and rested his palms on Blaydon’s desk. ‘One thing you might bear in mind,’ he said, ‘is that pop-up brothels quite often involve girls trafficked from Eastern Europe and elsewhere, mostly against their will. They also bring you into contact with people like Gashi, who can be very dangerous and unpredictable when the chips are down. Their warnings if you step out of line tend to be very swift and very final.’

‘You’re telling me this, why?’

‘I’m telling because you might think you’re a very clever man and a big player in their game, but in reality you’re not. You’re not a match for these people, and you could get yourself very badly hurt, or even killed, if you continue playing at their table. To put it simply, they eat people like you for breakfast.’

Blaydon stood. He wasn’t very tall, Banks noticed, and quite slight in build, but he possessed a kind of wired, nervous energy. ‘Thank you for your concern, Superintendent,’ he said, then bowed towards Annie. ‘And DI Cabbot, too, of course. I will certainly bear what you said in mind should I find myself approached by any of the people you mention.’

‘You do that, Mr Blaydon,’ said Banks. ‘And there’s no need to bother Jeeves. We’ll find our own way out.’

The pub was separated from the houses on both sides by narrow alleys that led through to the next street, and it stood a short distance back from the pavement. There were a few benches and wooden tables with umbrellas out front, for those who wished to enjoy their drinks and have a smoke in the sunlight. By the doors, a blackboard listed the specials of the day. The sagging roof and weathered beams that framed the whitewashed facade showed the pub’s age, and colourful hanging baskets and window-boxes gave it a welcoming atmosphere. As it happened, the inside was just as pleasant, with its light pine tables, brass and polished surfaces.

The young barman smiled as Zelda approached the bar and picked up a menu. She asked him for a small glass of Pinot Grigio while she studied it. By the time he delivered her drink, she had decided on the grilled sole and Greek salad. By the way he blushed when he handed her the drink, Zelda could tell he was in love with her already. Well, perhaps not love. She waited at the bar and sipped her wine while he passed her order on to the kitchen. He seemed surprised to see her still standing there when he returned and asked where she wanted to sit. There were plenty of empty tables, and she pointed to one behind her, in his direct view.

‘I notice there’s been a fire,’ she said, gesturing over her shoulder. ‘Just up the street there.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Terrible business. Poor fellow died.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘I wouldn’t say I knew him, but he came in here often enough to be called a regular.’ He pointed to a small corner table. ‘That’s where he used to sit. Mr Hawkins. Terrible business.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nobody knows. Rumour has it there was a chip-pan fire, but...’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know him well, but I can’t see it.’

‘He didn’t like chips?’

The barman laughed. ‘It’s not that, though I can’t say he ever ordered any. No. He just wasn’t much of a drinker.’

‘How could you tell that?’

‘You get to recognise the signs when you do a job like mine. He’d come in now and then, usually after work, I suppose, sip his half pint of Pride and work on his crossword, then he’d be off. Just a bit of quiet time between the office and home. Most serious drinkers would down three or four double whiskies in the time it took him to do that.’

‘How do you know he didn’t go home and knock back a bottle of whisky?’

‘Well, like I said, I don’t, really. It’s just...’ He shrugged. ‘He didn’t seem the type. That’s all.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, why are you interested? Are you a reporter or something?’

‘Me? No, nothing like that.’

‘Police?’

‘Do I look like police?’

‘Not like any I’ve ever seen.’ He blushed. ‘I mean... you know... they’re usually big burly blokes. I know there are women police, too, but...’

Zelda touched his arm briefly and smiled. ‘I know what you mean. And thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For saying I don’t look like a big burly bloke.’

‘Oh. Yes. I mean, no. But you haven’t answered my question. Why are you interested?’

Zelda didn’t really have an answer; she hadn’t planned that far. When all else fails, deflect. ‘Have the police been around here asking about him?’

His Adam’s apple was large and moved as he swallowed. ‘Yesterday. Two of them.’

‘What did they want to know?’

‘Whatever I could tell them. Which wasn’t much. It did seem odd.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, the way they were speaking, as if they didn’t think it was an accident.’

‘Did they say that?’

‘Not in so many words, no. But...’

‘You get to recognise the signs?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘You’re a very perceptive young man.’

Someone called from the kitchen.

‘I have to go,’ the barman said. ‘Please sit down. I’ll bring your lunch to your table when it’s ready. Another drink?’

Zelda saw that she had almost finished her glass. ‘Why not,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

She went to sit at the table she had pointed out and took out the photograph of Keane she had copied from the file some time ago. When the barman eventually came over with her food and drink, she slid the picture towards him. ‘Actually, this is who I’m looking for,’ she said. ‘Have you ever seen him?’

The barman studied the photograph. ‘That’s odd,’ he said.

‘What is?’

‘This bloke. As a matter of fact, I have seen him. He was in here. With Mr Hawkins. It’s funny because it’s the only time I’ve seen him here with anyone else. I always thought he was a bit of a loner.’

‘When was this?’

‘Couple of weeks ago. Not much longer. Is it important? You really are police, aren’t you? Or something like that.’

Zelda gave him her best enigmatic smile. ‘Something like that. I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ she said.

‘Or you’d have to kill me?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Well, I don’t want to die, thanks very much.’

‘Did you tell the police about him?’

‘No. Nothing to tell. I never thought twice about it until you showed me the photo just now. And they didn’t ask.’

‘Is that the only time you’ve seen him?’

‘Yes. Just the once. He’s not from around here. Or if he is, he’s not much of a pub-goer.’

‘Was he by himself or with a woman?’

‘By himself.’

‘How long did they spend together?’

‘Not long. Twenty minutes or so.’

‘Who got here first?’

‘Mr Hawkins was already here when the other man came in and joined him.’

‘Did it seem as if they’d arranged to meet?’

‘Now you mention it, yes. It did. At least, when the man came in, he stood for a moment and scanned the room, like you do when you’re looking for someone. Then he went over and sat down with Mr Hawkins.’

‘How did they seem?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Were they arguing or anything?’

‘No. Just talking. Like normal.’

‘Did they leave together?’

‘No. The other bloke left first.’

‘How did Mr Hawkins seem then? Was he agitated or anything?’

‘No. Just normal. He went back to working on his crossword.’ A group of four people came in, chatting and laughing. ‘Oops. Got to go,’ the barman said. ‘Customers to serve. It’s been nice talking to you, Miss...?’

‘Cathy,’ said Zelda. ‘You can call me Cathy.’

‘Cathy, then. Maybe you’ll come back and see us again?’

Zelda smiled. ‘Maybe I will.’

When he left she picked at her sole and salad. The fish was cold, but she didn’t mind. It had been worth it. She took out her notebook and tried to jot down what she had learned:

But how to find him? That was what Zelda didn’t know. She didn’t even know whether he was using his real name. Didn’t even know whether Keane was his real name. Perhaps it would be easier to find Petar Tadić first, rather than using Keane to get to him. And after all, it was Tadić she wanted. And his brother. Keane for her was only a means to an end, perhaps one she didn’t need.

With Hawkins dead and the department’s work suspended, though, the resources of her job were out of reach. On the other hand, she had a freer hand now she didn’t have to worry about Hawkins finding out she was asking questions. She wouldn’t have been able to come here today, for example, and discover that he had met with Keane again, if she had had to worry about him somehow finding out about it. True, Danvers and Deborah were nosing around, but Zelda didn’t think they reported to the enemy. It was one thing to be questioned by the NCA and quite another to be chopped up into little pieces and fed to the fish.

If she could find out where Petar Tadić hung out, then follow him, perhaps he would eventually lead her to his brother Goran. He was the one she wanted most, the one she had bitten, the one who had punched her in the face and had later come to visit her in the breaking house outside Vršac, just over the Serbian border, cracking his knuckles and grinning as he entered her tiny room to wreak his revenge on her helpless body. She wouldn’t be so helpless the next time they met. But London was a big city, and she didn’t know where to start.

She caught the barman looking at her and gave him another smile. He blushed and pretended to be washing glasses. Zelda polished off the rest of her wine, slung her bag across her shoulder and paid the still-blushing young man before leaving. It had been a long time since she had used her charms to get something she wanted from a man, and she was encouraged to find out that they still worked.

There was one other question she hadn’t put down in her notes, perhaps because she was afraid of the answer. But in the interests of thoroughness, she made a mental note to add it to her list:

Sean and Luke were certain the house was empty, they told the police later, or they wouldn’t have gone in there in the first place. Everyone knew the old Hollyfield Estate was on the verge of demolition to make way for new affordable housing and a shopping centre, and that many of its residents had already left for pastures new. Number twenty-six had looked like one of the empty houses left behind.

The backyard was a treasure trove of broken and discarded objects piled high — old bicycle frames and prams, bald tyres, twisted coat hangers, cracked radios, TVs with broken screens, rusty iron bars, empty tins and plastic containers, and even a very heavy old machine that Sean identified as a typewriter. He’d seen one on a TV costume drama not so long ago. While they had sorted through the accumulated rubbish searching for anything worth keeping, Sean had noticed that the back door of the house was slightly ajar. Sometimes they had to break down boards to get into derelict houses, but this one seemed to be inviting them across the threshold. Luke was reluctant to go in at first, but Sean called him a yellow-belly and a scaredy-cat, and that stirred him into action, though he stayed well behind Sean.

The first thing they noticed in the gloom of the ruined kitchen was the smell, which Sean later described as rather like their toilet at home when his dad had just been after a curry from the Taj Mahal. It struck Sean as odd that the sink was still piled high with dirty dishes, but then people left all sorts of rubbish behind them when they moved on to better things. And if you had to move, why bother washing all your dishes first? Sometimes squatters came in and took over, but they were parasites, his dad said. Just in case someone was there, he called out, and got nothing but dead air in return. The place was deserted. Abandoned.

It was when they reached the living room that things got really interesting. And scary. It was hard to see anything clearly at first, as the tattered curtains blocked most of the evening light, but when their eyes had adjusted, the boys were able to make out the back of a chair with wheels in the centre of the room. Sean recognised it as a mobility scooter because his Uncle Ollie used one. He said it was due to his gammy legs, but Sean’s mum said it was because he was too fat and lazy to walk anywhere.

Luke hung back and said he thought they should leave, that someone must still live there; surely no one would abandon anything as valuable as a mobility scooter? But Sean said it might be broken, for all they knew, like the stuff in the backyard.

As Luke stayed behind in the kitchen doorway, Sean advanced alone towards the scooter. It wasn’t until he got around the side that he saw it was occupied, and his heart lurched in his chest. All he could see was a slumped figure, head to one side, and two fixed eyes, staring at him. Without a word, he ran, Luke only several paces behind him, and they didn’t stop until they reached the tree-lined safety of their own street just off Elmet Hill.