Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 5

‘Good morning, Superintendent.’

‘Good morning, Dr Galway. You seem quite chipper this morning.’

‘You know what they say. A healthy mind and a healthy body.’

Banks grunted. He still felt tired. It had been a late night. The Takemitsu guitar arrangement of ‘Summertime’ had indeed led inevitably to Billie Holiday, which led to a drop more Macallan, and so on. He went to bed well after one o’clock, and despite Bruckner’s Eighth Symphony, which usually transported him most pleasurably to the Land of Nod — no insult to the composer intended — he hadn’t been able to get to sleep for ages thinking about Brian and the Blue Lamps, and the old days he himself had spent as a wannabe rock star with the short-lived Jimson Weed.

‘Been for your morning run already, have you?’ he asked.

‘Uh-huh. Ten-k.’

‘No wonder you’re so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

Dr Galway laughed and said in her melodic Irish accent, ‘That’s all right. Never apologise, never explain. That only gets you into more trouble. And once you open the linguistic can of worms... well... what can I say?’

Dr Galway’s face sported a healthy glow from the run, and she had most of her slightly greying hair tucked under a cap. She was an attractive woman, but perhaps better described as handsome rather than pretty or beautiful, Banks thought, pondering on what the differences and distinctions were. She had serious green eyes, in which her intelligence was clear to see, strong features, a rather large nose, thin, tight lips, and a high, domed forehead. Her fingers were long and tapered, her hands smooth and flawless as a young girl’s. As far as Banks knew, she was in her mid-forties, married with two daughters approaching university age, and she clearly kept herself in good shape.

She turned to the boy’s naked body on the slab, his head supported by a padded block. ‘It’s odd,’ she said, ‘but the stab wounds hardly look lethal now, do they? Nothing more than the sort of minor cuts any young lad might get climbing a tree or whatever they do these days.’

‘But?’

‘Narrow, very sharp, pointed, four-inch, one-edged blade. Maybe a kitchen knife of some sort. Upward thrusts.’ She made a gesture in demonstration.

‘Four inches isn’t very long.’

‘It’s long enough to kill, believe me.’

‘Any other injuries?’

‘None. No defence wounds, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’d say the attack took him by surprise. But look at that.’ She pointed to a puckered area on the boy’s upper right thigh.

‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

‘Scar tissue. I’ll need a closer examination to tell you more.’

‘What about time of death? Any idea?’

Dr Galway turned the body over. Gently, Banks thought. ‘I’ve done all the requisite tests, and I can’t tell you much more than you know already. Rigor’s been and gone, and hypostasis is established in the lower extremities, which agrees with the position in which he was discovered. Death probably occurred sometime between nine and eleven o’clock on Sunday evening.’

‘And he’d been in the bin all night?’

‘Ten to twelve hours. That’s only a rough estimate, mind you.’

‘How long had he been dead before he was dumped?’

‘Now, that’s interesting. I can’t give you an exact time, but I can tell you that some time passed between death and the final positioning of the body.’

‘Can’t you narrow it down a bit?’

Dr Galway smiled. ‘Sorry I can’t be any more exact than that. Hypostasis starts — that means the blood begins to obey gravity and descend to the body’s lowest parts — some twenty minutes to half an hour after the heart has stopped. I can’t say how long he survived after the stabbing, but as I have suggested, it wasn’t very long. Minutes rather than hours. Anyway, the hypostasis isn’t usually visible to the naked eye until around two hours after death. It’s also a lot harder to see on darker skin tones. You can tell, however, by the lighter bands — where the body was touching a hard surface, the shoulders, lower back and so on — that the process had started while he was still on his back.’

‘How long was he on his back?’

‘I can’t say for certain. I may get a better idea once I open him up, but right now the best I can do is between one and two hours. You must understand, that does not mean I’m concluding that he was on his back for two hours after death.’

‘Got it,’ said Banks. ‘But he was on his back for a short period of time, perhaps being transported?’

‘He was on his back for a while. I can’t say where or why.’

‘OK. We have good reason to believe that he was dumped in the bin between eleven and half past, and you’re saying he died maybe two hours before then?’ If the boy had been dead for two hours before being dumped in the bin, then he would have died between nine and half past. If he had only been dead one hour, then it had happened between ten and half past. It could make a lot of difference down the line, depending on where the investigation took them.

Dr Galway sighed. ‘I said between one and two hours. I don’t think it was any longer. I understand your frustration, Superintendent, I really do, but I can only be as exact as science allows me. Shall I continue?’

‘Sorry. Any leads on where he’s from?’

‘I’ve sent samples to Ms Singh in the lab, so DNA analysis might tell us something. At a guess, though, from experience, I’d say he’s probably from Syria, Iraq or Saudi Arabia. Those would be the most obvious choices. But as for how long he’s been over here, I can’t tell you. There might be some indications from the samples at the lab. Certain chemicals or elements found in the teeth, bones and hair, that sort of thing.’

‘What about his age?’

‘Again, it’s an estimate, but I’d say no younger than twelve and no older than fourteen. He’s definitely in early adolescence. There’s pubic hair, hints of facial hair, and you can see the testicles have grown already. I’ll know better when I’ve had a good look around inside. Shall I get started?’

‘I’ll robe up,’ said Banks.

‘Vicks?’

‘For sissies.’

Dr Galway laughed as she applied a little of the vapour rub under her nostrils. ‘Call me a sissy then, but you can give me Vicks over a perforated bowel any day.’

‘You know it’s not good for you to do that?’ Banks said. ‘Rub it right under your nostrils.’

‘I know. Camphor’s toxic and shouldn’t be swallowed or absorbed.’

‘So?’

Dr Galway made a face. ‘So bite me.’

‘You’re the doctor.’ Banks put on his gown and cap and took his position far enough away from the slab so Dr Galway and her two assistants had room to manoeuvre. First the doctor carried out a close examination of the body’s exterior and spoke her comments to the microphone that hung above the table. There wasn’t really anything new. Not that Banks had expected much. The boy had no tattoos or piercings, only the mysterious scar; his pale brown skin was otherwise smooth and unblemished, apart from the stab marks.

‘One thing I can tell you before going any further,’ said Dr Galway, ‘is that there are no signs of sexual activity or abuse, and no recent physical abuse, other than the stab wounds, of course.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Banks.

When Dr Galway began making the Y incision and removing the boy’s inner organs, Banks noticed that she worked slowly and methodically, pausing occasionally to share a thought with her assistants, who looked fresh out of medical school, or to make a comment for the audio record. Dr Glendenning, her predecessor, had been far more cavalier. Brilliant, certainly, but his post-mortems had taken place at a faster pace, a flurry of organs flying here and there — or so it seemed — and, in the early days at least, surrounded by a fug of cigarette smoke. But Dr Glendenning, despite his speed and impatience, had also been thorough.

The organs had to be examined and weighed before being sent for further toxicological analysis to determine the presence of drugs, poisons and malnutrition. Unlikely as it was, there was always a distant chance that the boy had been poisoned before he’d been stabbed.

When she had finished, Dr Galway left her assistants to sew up, removed her surgical gown and gloves, washed and invited Banks into her office. A family photograph was the only personal item on her tidy desk, and on the wall opposite hung a framed print of Rembrandt’s ‘The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp’.

She must have seen him staring at the picture because she said, ‘Some people think it’s a bit gruesome, but I could stare at it for hours. I once went to The Hague for a weekend specially to see the original canvas.’ She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. ‘Anatomy lessons were real social events back in the seventeenth century, you know. Even the general public were allowed in if they paid an entrance fee.’

‘Executions were public back then, too,’ said Banks.

Dr Galway nodded. ‘Yes. I sometimes get the impression there’s quite a few people around who wouldn’t mind watching them on television these days. But enough of that. What can I tell you from the post-mortem? Well, there’ll be a full report in due time, of course, and I don’t like preliminary reports, but I’ll tell you what I know. Externally, at any rate, the boy’s organs were in excellent shape. His aorta and pancreas were punctured by a four-inch knife blade, and the bleeding from the aorta was, I’d say, the immediate cause of death.’

‘Dr Burns said at the scene that one of the thrusts might have pierced or punctured his right ventricle.’

Dr Galway shook her head. ‘I can see how he might have thought that at the scene,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the photographs, and the body was in a very awkward position to examine. But it was definitely the punctured aorta that caused death.’

‘What about that hypostasis you suspected earlier?’

‘It is present, to a small degree, exactly where you would expect it to be if he’d been lying on his back.’

‘Can you give me a better idea of how long, now that you’ve opened him up?’

Dr Galway tilted her head. ‘You don’t give up easily, do you.’

Banks smiled. ‘Not in my job description.’

‘From what I could see — in my judgement, and based on previous experience — I’d narrow it to an hour, an hour and a half at the most.’

That meant the boy had probably died between half past nine and ten o’clock. Banks would have guessed at a later time simply because it was darker then, but if he had been killed inside, the darkness wouldn’t matter. ‘Thank you, doctor. So whoever killed him had maybe an hour to an hour and a half to get him from wherever he died to the spot where he was found. How long would it have taken for death to occur after his injuries?’

‘Hard to say. Almost anything can happen with stab wounds. You’d be surprised how often they’re not even fatal. In this case, though, he would probably have survived long enough to feel the life ebbing out of him, poor lad. There was quite a lot of blood, as you saw, and there would have been plenty at the scene, too, but even so, a lot of the bleeding was internal. It often is. The wound closes when the knife is pulled out. Unless you hit a lung, of course, then there’s usually bloody spray from the mouth. Whether he could have been saved is a moot point. Personally, I doubt it. A pierced aorta is about as serious a wound as it gets, and even if a good doctor had opened him up immediately, survival would have been doubtful, at best. Whether the intent was to kill or not, I’m afraid that’s for the courts to decide. I have no idea what happened, what the killer had in mind. It’s rare that anyone knows how to use a knife properly, the way a commando might, for example, or someone skilled in close hand-to-hand combat.’ She gestured with a pencil. ‘Most people just thrust away and hope for the best. It looks like that’s what happened in this case.’

‘You mentioned earlier that there are no defensive wounds.’

‘That’s right. There’s no evidence of a fight, as such. I’d guess the poor lad was terrified and backed away from whoever was attacking him.’

‘But one of the thrusts struck the aorta.’

‘Yes.’ Dr Galway paused. ‘Apart from the stab wounds, he was in excellent shape. Fit as the proverbial fiddle, though there are indications of malnutrition in the recent past.’

‘Malnutrition?’

‘Yes. Of course, we’ll need close analysis of liver, bones, immune system, amino acids and pancreas, among other things, to determine protein deficiencies and vitamin markers, and to find out just how severe and long-lasting the condition was, but you could see even before I opened him up that he was painfully thin. It’s not the cause of death, but it may have played a part, weakened his system. One of the problems with malnutrition is that it’s hard to measure, especially if it occurred some time ago and the subject is deceased. It’s something a doctor would want to diagnose while the patient is still alive, as it can usually be reversed. The stomach contents showed he’d eaten a burger and chips shortly before death. So at least he was eating recently.’

‘What kind of burger?’

‘A Big Mac.’ Dr Galway laughed. ‘Only joking. Autopsy humour. Really, Superintendent. Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll get it analysed, if you like. Obviously if certain ingredients are present, that would help us identify its source. I’m afraid we don’t have a burger database yet.’

‘It might be something worth working on,’ Banks joked. ‘Pizzas, too. How long before he died did he eat?’

‘Not long. The food wasn’t digested. Maybe an hour or two.’

That meant Banks could send his team to question all the local burger joints and perhaps find out where the boy had been eating just before he was killed.

‘But you can’t say how long ago the malnutrition took place?’

‘No. Not very recently is my guess right now. Not days. More likely weeks or months ago. Perhaps with the analysis I could give a better estimate. Does it matter?’

‘I’m just wondering if he could have arrived in this country recently from somewhere children don’t get enough to eat. Maybe by boat or some other means.’

‘You mean smuggled in?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t possibly answer that. There are children — far too many, in my opinion — living in this country who suffer from malnutrition. I can see where you’re going with this, though, and I can see why you’re going there, but I’d still advise caution before you come to any conclusions.’

‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘We’d certainly require corroborating evidence, no matter what your findings. Lacking any evidence of parents or other relatives nearby, I’m just trying to work out where to start searching. If he’s a recent immigrant or an asylum seeker, he’ll be registered somewhere, and there are checks we can do. If he’s illegal, we’ll probably be out of luck. It’s a start. Any signs of drug abuse? We did find cocaine in his pocket, as you know.’

‘None at all. Again, we’ll have to wait for a complete analysis of samples to confirm it, but none of the common signs of cocaine use are present.’

‘Anything else?’

‘There is that scar.’

‘What about it?’

Dr Galway paused and glanced at the painting on her wall, as if for inspiration. ‘Again, I hesitate to draw conclusions, but it’s too broad to have been caused by a knife blade, and it went deep. It also went largely untreated. You just have to look at the scar tissue to see that.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I have some experience of these types of wounds from my misspent youth, and I’d say it’s an old gunshot wound — what you might call a flesh wound, painful but not life-threatening — or perhaps caused by a piece of shrapnel.’

‘Where on earth did you get such experience?’

Dr Galway paused before answering, then said, ‘Iraq. Courtesy of Mr Blair.’

‘Good Lord. How old is it?’

Dr Galway shrugged. ‘Hard to say. It’s healed. Badly. But it’s healed. The tissue is no longer inflamed, and there’s no infection. It’s a clean scar. Again, perhaps months, maybe a year. He was still growing, so it’s hard to know how much it has already been distorted by that process. And malnutrition slows down growth, so that might have had an effect, too.’

‘Even so... If he suffered from malnutrition, and perhaps bore the effects of a bullet or shrapnel wound, and he came from the Middle East, I think that narrows down our search quite a lot. At least it gives us some idea as to what he was doing here.’

‘Escaping a war? Looking for a better life? Don’t forget, Superintendent, a fair bit of the Middle East is a war zone at any given time.’

Banks stood up. ‘Thanks very much, doctor,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

Dr Galway smiled. ‘It’s kind of you to say so. But probably not true. I’ll be in touch if I get any further in proving my theories.’

‘Please do,’ said Banks, and left.

‘Coffee?’ said Banks when he bumped into Annie in the corridor back at the station.

Annie held up the folder she was carrying. ‘Just let me dump this on my desk. I’m on my way back from the lab. See you downstairs in a couple of minutes?’

Banks idled away the time chatting with the desk officer, who had been fending off reporters for most of the morning. When Annie came down, her jacket slung over her shoulder, they headed out for the Costa on Market Street. One or two members of the press shouted questions, but Banks and Annie ignored them. It was another fine spring morning, and a couple of tourist coaches were disgorging their elderly passengers in the cobbled market square. The Costa wasn’t too crowded, and they found a table easily enough. Fortunately, none of the reporters followed them in. Banks inhaled the fresh-ground coffee smell as he stood in the short queue and ordered two lattes.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked after he sat down.

‘Fine,’ said Annie.

‘How’s Ray doing?’

‘Good, as far as I know. He’s over in America at the moment wheeling and dealing.’

‘And Zelda?’

‘I’m sure she’s just fine,’ Annie said, a slight chill in her voice. ‘I haven’t seen her for a while.’

‘Did she ever tell you anything more about her search for Phil Keane?’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘I just assumed it had fizzled out. Why?’

‘I don’t know. I just got the impression she was holding something back, that’s all. She was pretty quiet the last time we were over there for dinner.’

‘Can’t say as I noticed.’ Annie sipped some latte and wiped away the moustache with her napkin. ‘Anyway, tell me what you’ve got from the post-mortem.’

Banks told her, especially about the evidence of previous malnutrition and the scar that Dr Galway thought might have been caused by a bullet or a piece of shrapnel.

Annie whistled through her teeth. ‘So the thinking now is that he might have been a migrant?’

‘It looks that way. Dr Galway says he was no older than fourteen, maybe even as young as twelve, and we’ve had no reports of anyone matching his description gone missing, and no hint of worried parents, despite all our appeals. That would seem to indicate that he came over alone and hasn’t been processed in any way.’

‘Illegal?’

‘That would be my guess.’

‘But what was he doing up here? I mean, if he came by boat he’d have landed on the south coast, wouldn’t he? Kent, Hampshire, somewhere like that. It’s a bloody long way up here, and I doubt he had a wallet full of money with him.’

‘There’s not a lot of people who arrive here by boat, and they’ve usually come from France. He may have travelled by an overland route, or via Ireland, say. Besides, it’s hardly as far from Kent to Yorkshire as it is from Iraq, or wherever he came from, to Kent. Anyway, Dr Galway said he’d probably been stabbed about an hour to an hour and a half before his body was dumped in the bin, so he could have been driven here from as far away as Newcastle or Leeds. Maybe even Manchester, at a pinch.’

‘Hardly,’ said Annie. ‘You’d never get across the bloody M62 that fast, even on a Sunday night.’

Banks smiled. ‘Maybe you’re right. Anyway, the point is, we know he’s not local, and he could have come from anywhere within the radius of about an hour’s drive.’

‘That includes Blaydon’s house.’

‘Outside Harrogate?’

‘Yes. It’s all well and good thinking of them coming up here to find and kill the lad, but what if that wasn’t the reason? What if something happened at Blaydon’s house that led to his death, and they came up to dump the body?’

‘Nice theory, but it doesn’t really work with the timing, Annie. As far as we know, they arrived at Le Coq d’Or around seven-thirty and left about eleven. If they had kept the body in the car boot all that time, the hypostasis would have been advanced to the point of being observable to the naked eye. And fixed. It wasn’t.’

‘Blaydon’s driver could have driven off and dumped the body as soon as they arrived at the restaurant.’

‘At half past seven? It was still broad daylight then. And what about Mrs Grunwell and the others on the street who heard something around eleven?’

‘Maybe they’re mistaken? Maybe it was something else they heard? Remember, nobody saw anything. Besides, if Blaydon left the restaurant around eleven, he hardly had time to kill the boy and dump him on the East Side Estate before his car was spotted on its way out of town. Especially if the lad had been on his back for an hour or more before his body was dumped.’

‘We’ll check the times with the restaurant. We also really need a push on discovering who the boy was and where he came from.’

Annie spread her hands. ‘We’re doing all we can. Gerry’s been in touch with all the refugee and immigrant agencies in the area, official and unofficial, asylum-seeker hostels and the rest. We have his picture out in the media and we’ve put out a request for all officers working in high-concentration Middle Eastern areas to put out the word, canvass the mosques and so on. It’s a lot of ground to cover. Takes time. I don’t see what more we can do. For Christ’s sake, somebody must be missing him.’

‘Maybe not, if he travelled alone,’ said Banks. ‘Sometimes families send someone on ahead. Maybe he was hoping to contact a relative in the area? An uncle, grandparent, someone like that, who’s already settled here.’

‘But no one’s come forward yet.’

‘That’s the problem. Maybe they don’t watch the news or read the papers. Maybe they don’t speak English too well. Maybe they’re afraid of the authorities. I can’t say I’d blame them. Anyway, keep at it. What’s the latest on this other case?’

A mother with two children — one in a pram — took the table next to theirs and smiled apologetically, as if she already knew that her arrival would be interrupting a serious conversation. But the children seemed quiet and well-behaved, the baby sleeping and the toddler working on a colouring book. Their mother spent most of her time staring at the screen of her mobile as she sipped her cappuccino. Banks and Annie lowered their voices, though both of them knew it was unlikely that anyone could overhear. The coffee grinders and espresso machine, along with the constant comings and goings, saw to that.

‘Bloke called Howard Stokes,’ said Annie. ‘I got Gerry on it this morning. Turns out he was a long-term heroin user. Usual pattern of recovery and recidivism. On and off the wagon. Back and forth between heroin and prescription methadone, depending on how much money he had. A few drug-free stretches. A couple of brief jail sentences for drug-related offences when he was younger, but nothing for years. Rehab clinics and so on, but nothing seriously illegal. No known dealing. No complaints against him. No recent arrests. Personal use only. And as far as we know, he didn’t resort to muggings or petty theft to feed his habit. Way it seems is he started in the late sixties and never stopped. Strikes me he never heard the bell announcing the end of flower power. From what we could tell at the scene, he didn’t pay much attention to his health or personal hygiene.’

‘And the cause of death?’

‘So far it looks exactly like what it says on the tin: a typical heroin overdose. Either he underestimated the power of the stuff he took, or someone gave him a high enough concentration to kill him. A hot shot. We might find out more after Dr Galway’s done the post-mortem. I’ve also checked with the drugs squad, and there’s been a couple of heroin overdose cases recently around the county. It seems there’s some unusually powerful stuff about.’

‘So it could have been an accident? Just his bad luck, then?’

‘Seems that way. Of course, somebody could have slipped him a fatal dose. He could even have done it himself. But why? From all I could gather, he seemed a harmless, pathetic old sod.’

‘Better dig into his background a bit deeper. A heroin user makes all kinds of dodgy connections, from fellow addicts to dealers and even drug cartels. What about forensics?’

‘CSIs haven’t had a chance to get to it yet. They’re still on the East Side Estate. This is low priority in comparison. I found a mobile number on a slip of paper in his wallet. Gerry tried to run it down this morning, but no luck. It’s pay-as-you-go and dead as a dodo.’

‘Can we get a list of calls to and from the number?’

‘I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

‘He was found in one of the houses on Hollyfield Lane, right? On the old estate marked for demolition and redevelopment.’

‘Yes. Number twenty-six. Rehousing everyone is proving a slow process, especially if it’s to be affordable. Stokes was on his pension, for example. Then there’s planning, environmental assessments and the rest of the red tape. It seems Stokes was a legitimate tenant, by the way, and not a squatter.’

‘If Stokes was on a pension, where did he get the money to feed his heroin habit? You said he hadn’t resorted to crime.’

‘Dunno,’ said Annie, ‘but it might be worth following up.’

‘You think so?’

‘No need to be sarky. There is one other interesting point.’

‘Yes?’

‘The owner of the property.’

‘Blaydon?’

‘No. The Kerrigan brothers. On paper, at any rate.’

‘Tommy and Timmy? Are they, indeed? So they’ve branched out from nightclubs and amusement arcades into rental properties.’

Annie smiled. ‘I thought you’d find that interesting. They rented it out at a fairly exorbitant rate, too. However, with the new project going ahead, they’ll stand to make quite a bundle, especially if they’re in cahoots with Blaydon. And Hollyfield abuts Elmet Hill, which is already quite posh and “desirable”. There’s only that little strip of parkland and Cardigan Drive separating them. As you know, Elmet Hill isn’t so far from The Heights, either. Anyway, according to Gerry, there’s been a bit of friction between some of the residents up the hill and the people living on Hollyfield. Especially arguments over the park that separates the two. The hill residents sort of see it as their own property. They’ve even got a Neighbourhood Watch, night patrols and everything. They argued that crime was on the increase. I checked, and it’s true. There’s been a couple of break-ins recently, and a sexual assault.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Banks, ‘the way we’ve had to cut back on coppers on the beat and patrol cars. I remember that sexual assault. Girl called Lisa Bartlett, right?’

‘That’s right. Month ago. Gerry investigated it. Sixteen years old. She was on her way home from a dance at the comprehensive. She walked most of the way along Cardigan Drive with a couple of friends, but they peeled off just before The Oak, at the corner there, and she was left to walk the last few yards alone.’

‘Remind me. Where exactly was she attacked?’

‘She was taking a shortcut through the pub car park and a little stretch of waste ground beyond, leading to Elmet Court, when someone jumped her from behind.’

‘I remember now. She didn’t see her attacker, did she?’

‘No. Couldn’t give Gerry any sort of description. The poor kid was terrified.’

‘She wasn’t raped, though, if I remember right.’

‘Nope. That’s some consolation. He ripped her blouse, fondled her breasts and grabbed her between the legs before she thinks he must have heard someone coming and ran off.’

‘Was anyone coming?’

‘No idea. It’s possible. She was in the car park behind The Oak, and anyone drinking there from Elmet Hill would probably take the same shortcut on their way home, too. But Lisa didn’t see anyone, and no witnesses came forward. She just took her opportunity to break free and run off. She was only about a hundred yards away from her parents’ place. Gerry handled it, but I don’t think she’s got anywhere yet. The case is still open.’

‘I can’t say I blame the locals for setting up their own security. It might be worth chatting with whoever’s in charge. Anything new on Stokes’s time of death?’

‘Nothing concrete. That’ll have to wait until the post-mortem. But Doc Burns said it probably happened sometime Sunday, maybe late afternoon, early evening. He couldn’t be any more specific than that.’

‘Even so,’ said Banks. ‘We know that the Kerrigans had dinner with Connor Clive Blaydon in Eastvale at Le Coq d’Or on Sunday evening, starting at half past seven.’

‘It’s a bit of a stretch, though, isn’t it, to connect the two events in any way?’

‘Maybe. But DI MacDonald says they’ve got their eye on Blaydon for a number of possible criminal enterprises, including involvement in prostitution and drugs. And we know that Tommy and Timmy are up to their necks in anything criminal that happens in the area, and even if they’re not, they make sure they get their cut. Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that the three of them were dining together when this Howard Stokes died in one of the Kerrigans’ properties in an area where Blaydon’s planning a new development?’

‘Well,’ said Annie, ‘when you put it like that, I suppose it is. And let’s not forget, we also think the young lad we found was killed on Sunday evening, too. I’m not saying he’s connected with Blaydon or anything, but you said your DI MacDonald did bring up the possibility. And as I said earlier, maybe they were bringing the body up with them to dump it on the East Side Estate. Somewhere you might expect to find a victim of a drug war. When you add it all up, it’s one hell of a coincidence. It’s just a pity no one actually saw the car.’

‘Blaydon, the Kerrigans, a dead junkie and a murdered Middle Eastern youth, all in the same night in the same small town? I don’t think that can be much of a coincidence.’

‘So what next?’

‘We keep pushing. When the CSIs finally get around to it, I’d like you to ask them and technical support to make comparisons between the evidence found at Stokes’s house with the boy’s body. Fingerprints, DNA, fibres, whatever they’ve got. Just in case. If we’re talking county lines, maybe number twenty-six Hollyfield Lane was the trap house, and maybe the boy was the runner. You never know. But first I think I should pay a visit to Le Coq d’Or and see what Marcel has to tell us about Sunday night.’

Annie looked at her watch. ‘If I were you, I’d time it for dinner,’ she said. ‘Who knows, you might get a free bowl of snails.’

The following lunchtime Paul Danvers and Deborah Fletcher turned up at Zelda’s hotel. She was about to go shopping, but she couldn’t put them off. They insisted on coming up to her room to ask her ‘just a few more questions’. She told them the maid was due any moment, and she would meet them in the cafe off the lobby. She didn’t want the police poking around in her room, even though she had nothing to hide. They agreed, and she grabbed her shoulder bag and set off for the lifts.

Danvers and Debs, as she had come to think of them, were already sitting outside at a table by the riverside walk, coffees in front of them and buff folders laid out on the table. Ever the gentleman, plump Danvers half-stood and nodded when she arrived. She sat down and ordered a coffee she didn’t want.

‘How are you today, Ms Melnic?’ said Danvers, pronouncing her name correctly this time. ‘Feeling better?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Enjoying your time in our capital?’

‘I’ve been here before, you know. I lived here once. Remember?’

‘Ah, yes, the pavement artist days. Well, you’ve left those behind you now, haven’t you? Found yourself a famous artist.’

‘Can we get on with the questions?’

‘By all means.’ Danvers took a sip of his coffee, making an unpleasant slurping sound. ‘What have you been up to since we last talked?’

‘Up to? I don’t know what you mean.’

‘It’s English for “been doing”.’

‘I know what it means. I also understand its nuances of connotation, that perhaps what someone has been “up to” is not necessarily wholesome, but I still don’t know what you’re getting at.’

‘Let me put it bluntly, Ms Melnic,’ said Deborah Fletcher, coming at her from the side. ‘Why did you take it into your mind to pay a visit to Mr Hawkins’s house yesterday?’

So she had been seen. There was nothing for it but to tell the truth, or part of the truth. ‘I was curious, that’s all,’ she said.

‘About what?’ Danvers asked. ‘To see the damage? Like a motorist slowing down to look at an accident? I can understand that. Do you have a yearning for the macabre, Ms Melnic?’

It had been her comparison exactly: stopping to look at a car crash. ‘No more than anyone else. I knew Mr Hawkins. Not well. But I knew him. He was a good boss. Call it a sort of homage, if you will.’

‘Homage.’ Danvers pronounced the word with great relish and a pronounced French accent. ‘Yes. Homage. That will do nicely. So it wasn’t anything to do with trying to find out if there was anything, shall we say, suspicious, about his demise?’

‘You told me there wasn’t.’

‘Indeed we did.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘And just exactly where are we? You haven’t answered Deborah’s question yet.’

‘I think I have. You told me to stay in London. I had nothing better to do, so I thought I’d like to see the damage.’

‘How did you know where Mr Hawkins lived?’ Danvers asked.

‘I told you. We were all invited to a department mixer there just over a year ago.’

‘And you remembered the address?’

‘I’m a super-recogniser, Mr Danvers.’ Unfortunately, Zelda thought, that meant she could never forget Deborah’s sour and unappealing face.

‘You also have a good memory for places?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘I told you: I was curious. Wouldn’t you be? Your boss dies in a house fire. It’s not something that happens every day.’ Zelda was beginning to believe that they hadn’t seen her go into the pub, and she prayed that she was right. That would be harder to explain, especially if they had found out from the young man behind the bar what questions she had asked him. She remembered no one else entering while she was there, except that noisy group of four towards the end. It could be a cover for an NCA spy. And if Danvers’s men had questioned the bartender, he would surely have told them about the photograph she had showed him. She kept her fingers crossed under the table. ‘You’re taking an undue amount of interest for someone who told me just the other day that there was nothing suspicious about Mr Hawkins’s death,’ she said.

‘Situations change,’ said Danvers.

‘So now you think there was something suspicious? That he was murdered?’

‘I’m not at liberty to comment on that. Mr Hawkins headed an important department involved in some very sensitive work, as you well know. We’d be remiss if we didn’t cover every angle.’

‘Including treating one of his department members as a suspect, because I doubt you’re giving the same kind of attention to any of the others. What is it? Is it my background? Because I’m a woman? Because I’m a foreigner? Because I was forced into prostitution? Because I don’t jump every time you tell me to?’

‘For God’s sake, you don’t have to play all the special pleading cards in the deck. As far as we know, nobody else from the office paid a visit to Mr Hawkins’s burned-out house.’

‘Well, if that’s all that’s bothering you, I’ve told you: I was curious. They obviously weren’t. I’ll be going now. Goodbye.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Deborah called after her, but Zelda ignored her and carried on walking back to the lifts, then up to her room. She was shaking when she got there and flopped down on the bed to take a few deep breaths. What were they after? Did they suspect Hawkins was bent? Did they suspect her of being involved? Of killing him? They already knew she had been in Croatia at the time of the fire. Were they just fishing? If so, what for?

When she had calmed down, she told herself she had nothing to worry about. Even if the truth came out, she knew that she had nothing to do with Hawkins’s death, or his corruption, if that happened to be the case. Fair enough, she was withholding evidence and could get into trouble for that, but she was willing to bet that if she told Danvers who she thought Hawkins was involved with — the Tadićs, Keane — the whole gang would disappear like smoke in the wind. She would rather the authorities didn’t find out what she had set herself to do, or she would have to alter her plans drastically. But that was the worst that could happen.

If only she could believe that. In her experience, when the police were involved, the things that happened were often much worse than people could imagine.

Marcel McGuigan was about as French as Marmite on toast and as Irish as Yorkshire pudding, but that he had been blessed with genius by the culinary gods was not in dispute. No less than Gordon Ramsay had said so. And Richard Corrigan. And Michelin, of course. His Eastvale restaurant had opened three years ago to rave reviews, and after the recent awarding of the second star, it had become a destination in itself for many gourmets all over the country. Rumour had it you had to book a month in advance. Rumour also had it that you needed a banker’s reference before dining there.

The restaurant was a listed building on a narrow cobbled alley between Market Street and York Road, just behind the market square, an area that boasted a number of bric-a-brac shops, upmarket galleries and antiquarian bookshops. Inside, it was decorated in the old style — dark wood, solid tables and padded chairs, luxuriant wall hangings dotted with a few Impressionist reproductions — rather than some of the more modern, brightly lit, chrome and glass places around these days.

The chef himself, Banks soon found out, was affable and relaxed, not at all the posturing prima donna in a poncy hat that Banks had expected. He wore jeans and an open-neck white shirt and lounged on an easy chair in his office at the back of the restaurant reviewing the evening’s menu, black-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his aquiline nose.

‘A detective superintendent,’ he said after Banks had introduced himself. ‘I’ve never met one of those before. Do sit down.’

Banks sat in the other armchair and smiled. ‘Most people haven’t.’

‘Nothing to do with the food, I hope?’

‘No. Not at all. I’ve never tasted it myself, but I gather most of those who have agree it’s not an arrestable offence.’

Marcel laughed. ‘That’s good to know. So what can I do for you?’

‘It’s about one of your customers.’

Marcel raised an eyebrow.

‘Connor Clive Blaydon,’ said Banks.

‘Ah, yes. Mr Blaydon. What about him?’

‘He told us he was dining here last Sunday night. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he left around eleven o’clock?’

‘I can’t vouch for that personally. I wasn’t here at that time. Service was over and it had been a long day. But Florence, our maître d’ and general factotum, did complain to me the next day that he and his friends had rather overstayed their welcome. She mentioned eleven o’clock. In an establishment such as this, Superintendent, you don’t chase your customers out until they want to leave.’

‘What time did he arrive?’

‘Around half past seven.’

That matched the times on the ANPR. ‘So he was here all evening with the Kerrigans?’

‘Yes. I know their reputation, but I can’t take the moral character of my diners into account. I don’t ask for character references.’

‘Only bankers’ references.’

‘Ha. So you’ve heard that one. Not true, of course. But I’m a firm believer that you get what you pay for. In the case of Le Coq d’Or, it happens to be food of a very high order, and service to match. The Kerrigans like their food, they don’t cause any trouble and they’re willing to pay the price.’

‘I understand that,’ said Banks. ‘I’m really just trying to find out if Blaydon’s alibi stands up.’

‘Alibi? What’s he supposed to have done?’

‘He’s not done anything, as far as I know. Just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.’

‘Well, they were here all right. The three of them. Went through a fair bit of champagne and claret with their meals. Cognac and Sauternes later, too, I heard. I hope none of them was driving.’

‘No. It’s not about that. And they weren’t. At least Blaydon wasn’t. He had his driver waiting out front.’

‘Not here, he didn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you’ve seen the street for yourself. It’s little more than a snicket, hardly the most welcoming surface for motorised vehicles, though you can just about get a Mini down it. He’d never get that Merc of his out at the York Road end. It’s narrower there. Besides, if he had parked outside, he would have blocked the entire street, and nobody would stand for that. It’s double yellow lines all the way, even for the likes of Mr Blaydon and his driver.’

Blaydon had said his driver was waiting ‘out front’. It might have been just a casual turn of phrase, meaning that he was waiting somewhere nearby. Or perhaps Blaydon wanted to give his driver an alibi? Frankie Wallace could have driven anywhere in the area, done anything, while Blaydon tucked into his garlic snails. Even Annie’s theory that they had dumped the body early could be possible, if Mrs Grunwell and her neighbours were mistaken in what they said they heard later, or what it meant. And if Dr Galway’s assessment of times was not quite accurate.

‘Did Blaydon pay by credit card?’

‘I’m sure he did. He usually does. But I wasn’t here when the party left so I can’t say for sure. I can dig it out for you if you like?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

McGuigan reached for a folder and sorted through the stack of receipts, finally handing one to Banks. It was paid at ten fifty-six. By the time they had all got outside and into the car, it would have been eleven or after. Banks nearly did a double-take when he saw the amount. The tip alone was far more than he had ever spent on dinner for three. He handed the receipt back and asked, ‘What time did you go home?’

‘Good Lord, don’t tell me I’m a suspect, too?’

‘Nothing of the sort.’

‘I left at about half past nine. They were well into their sweets, and the first bottle of Sauternes, by then.’

‘Other diners?’

‘The place was fully booked, as usual, but people were beginning to drift away by then. Florence said Mr Blaydon’s party was the last to leave.’

‘Is Florence here?’

‘Not right now. She doesn’t start until about five.’

‘That’s OK,’ Banks said. ‘I’ll have one of my officers talk to her later today or tomorrow.’

‘You’re being exceptionally thorough for someone who’s simply dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s.’

‘Aren’t you?’ Banks countered. ‘Thorough. When you’re cooking dinner?’

Marcel laughed. ‘I must say, you display a certain degree of ignorance when it comes to a chef’s duties,’ he said. ‘I don’t do a great deal of cooking, though I’m quite happy to muck in if someone’s sick. I’ll even help with the washing up.’ He tapped the papers in front of him. ‘My job is doing things like overseeing the menus and checking out the quality of ingredients, rather than actually cooking. I’m up well before everyone else, driving around the county sourcing the freshest local meat and produce. I may supervise the preparation of a few sauces this afternoon, but my main job’s usually done by the time the diners get here, apart from some last-minute touches. Of course, the prices they pay, they like to see the chef in full regalia, so I usually make a few appearances on the floor — you know, have a chat at each table, make sure everyone’s happy, take a bow. But I try not to overdo it. You won’t find anyone dropping by the tables here every five minutes to ask if you’re enjoying your meal. I also like to hang around the pass and check on what comes out. That’s an important part of the job.’

‘So you don’t cook?’

Marcel shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. At least, not very often. I can cook, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have certificates to prove it, somewhere, and I’ve worked my way up through the kitchens of many a cafe and restaurant. Have you ever read Down and Out in Paris and London?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Banks, who had been intending to get around to Orwell for years, ever since reading an essay of his called ‘Decline of the English Murder’.

‘You should,’ said Marcel. ‘It’s a revelation. Especially the bit about working in the kitchens in Paris.’

‘It’s on my list.’

Marcel glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but...’

‘Fine,’ said Banks, getting to his feet. ‘Sauces to prep. I understand. I’m done, anyway.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thanks for your time.’

‘No problem. I just hope Mr Blaydon hasn’t done anything criminal. He’s a regular customer, and I need the money.’

Banks smiled. ‘Oh, I think he’s done plenty of things we might describe as criminal, but he’s got away with them so far. No reason to think he shouldn’t continue to do so.’

Marcel narrowed his eyes. ‘I should imagine that his chances are somewhat diminished now, with you on his tail. Still, c’est la vie. I can always go back to washing dishes.’

‘I hardly think that will be necessary.’

Marcel walked Banks through the empty restaurant to the front door. ‘Look, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘You seem like a fellow who enjoys his creature comforts. Why don’t you dine with us here one evening? Bring the wife or a lady friend.’

‘Thanks for the invitation, Mr McGuigan,’ said Banks, ‘but I’d have to mortgage my cottage to do something like that.’

‘On the house. My treat. Be my guest. I’ll even cook for you. Give me a chance to show off. You’d love it, I guarantee.’

‘I’m sure I would,’ said Banks, ‘but it wouldn’t look too good to the chief constable, would it? Fine dining for free.’

‘She need never know. As a matter of fact, she’s not averse to dining here herself on occasion. She pays her own bill, though.’

‘She can afford to.’

Marcel laughed. ‘I suppose you’ve got a point. Shame. But if you change your mind...’ He handed Banks his card.

‘You’ll be the first to know. Thanks, Mr McGuigan, and goodbye.’

On several occasions during February and March, Zelda had sat by the same window of the same pub, from which she could watch the restaurant where Hawkins had met Keane and his girlfriend just before Christmas, but to no avail. She had thought they might be regulars and that was why Hawkins had met them there, but she hadn’t seen either the woman or Keane since.

While she had watched, she had puzzled over the extent of the woman’s involvement. In Zelda’s experience, very few women were involved in the criminal enterprise of sex trafficking — there were some, she knew, but not many — so what was her role? She had been with Keane, a forger, and they had gone window-shopping on Oxford Street together afterwards — so if Hawkins had met him to warn him of Zelda’s interest, then the woman would most likely have been party to that warning. Or would she? Would it have even meant anything to her? Did they just pass it off as ‘business’ and say no more about it, or wait to discuss it until she visited the ladies? And if Keane and the woman were still together, might they turn up at that same restaurant again?

This time, Zelda decided to be a little bolder and go into the restaurant rather than watch it through a pub window over the street. After all, neither Keane nor his girl had the slightest idea who she was, unless Hawkins had shown them a photograph of her.

It was a large, bustling, dimly-lit space with a separate bar area, crowded with people fresh from their day’s work grabbing a quick drink or two before heading home to face their families. Like most of the English, they seemed to prefer standing outside smoking or crushed together around the bar. The dining area was separated by a small step down, and consisted of a number of tables with white tablecloths and gleaming silver cutlery. It was just as noisy down there as it was at the bar.

Zelda took a table at the back of the dining area, which gave her a panoramic view of the whole restaurant, and settled in with her book. Just another bored businesswoman in town for meetings. She ordered a glass of Chardonnay and a clam linguine, and watched the people come and go.

When her plate and glass were empty, and Willie Garvin had saved Modesty Blaise’s bacon, still Zelda had seen nothing of Keane or his girlfriend. She was beginning to think it was a restaurant that Hawkins had chosen because it was near his place of work. But wouldn’t he have picked somewhere further away, and perhaps less public, in case he was seen, if the choice of location had been up to him? Maybe so, but perhaps she was overthinking the case. Perhaps Hawkins hadn’t been meeting Keane to mention his concerns about her interest. After all, nothing had come of it. She was still alive. Perhaps he had never even known that she was especially interested in the photograph of Tadić and Keane. Loath though she was to contemplate it, if Hawkins had succeeded in getting Keane paranoid about Zelda’s behaviour, and they were somehow involved in a criminal conspiracy to do with trafficking, then Keane and Tadić might have thought they needed to do something about her. Something permanent. But they hadn’t. And work with Hawkins had gone on as normal, with no further incident, until she had returned from Croatia to discover that he had died in a chip-pan fire.

The conversations rose and fell. Someone kept emitting a laugh like a witch’s cackle, and another a deep foghorn rumble. As usual in crowds, one voice was louder than all the others and had nothing interesting to say. It was still fairly early and the restaurant wasn’t too crowded. The later it got the more the throng at the bar thinned out and quietened down, and the more people — mostly couples — came to sit down and eat.

‘Would you care to see the dessert menu?’ said the waitress.

‘No, thanks,’ said Zelda. ‘But I’ll have another glass of wine, if that’s all right.’

‘No problem. Same again?’

‘Yes, please.’

While the waitress took orders from another table, then went off to get the wine, Zelda came to a decision. She took the best photo she had of Keane and his girlfriend from her bag and set it on the table. When the waitress returned with her glass, she said, ‘Have you been working here long?’

If the waitress was surprised by Zelda’s question, she didn’t show it. ‘Three years,’ she said.

Zelda showed her the photograph. ‘Could you please tell me if you recognise either of these people?’

The waitress frowned. Zelda was expecting to be put on the spot, asked why she wanted to know, or some such thing, and she had a weak answer prepared, but it didn’t happen. The waitress simply plonked her wine down, then bent slightly to look at the photo.

‘They used to come in here,’ she said finally. Then, ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘She’s an old friend, and we’ve lost touch,’ Zelda said. ‘This was taken a while ago, and she seems to have moved since then. I don’t have a forwarding address. I recognised the sign outside, and I was just wondering...’ Zelda held her breath, fearing the waitress was going to ask her why she had something that looked very much like a surveillance photograph.

She didn’t. ‘Sorry, but she’s not in today,’ she said. ‘She does come in from time to time. You might catch her if you come back tomorrow. Or I could give her a message to contact you next time she comes in?’

‘What time does she usually come in?’

‘Around six-ish, maybe once every week or so. She works at Foyles, just around the corner.’

So Zelda had simply had the bad luck to miss her on those times she had sat watching from the pub across the street. ‘And her boyfriend?’

‘Haven’t seen him for ages. I think they must have split up. Would you care to leave a message?’

‘No,’ said Zelda. ‘Thank you very much, but no. I’d rather surprise her.’

‘Suit yourself.’

The waitress walked off, casting a puzzled and suspicious backward glance. Zelda felt her heart beating fast. It was partly the thrill of finding the courage to play detective and partly the sweet smell of success. She had found her. Found Keane’s girlfriend. She had been about to ask the waitress if she knew the woman’s name, but realised that, having passed herself off as a friend, such a request would hardly seem necessary. At least she now knew where the woman worked.

Foyles bookshop was huge, but unless the woman worked in the back all the time, it shouldn’t be impossible to track her down. Zelda checked her watch. It was after eight. The shop remained open until nine, she knew, but she might have a better chance if she waited until the following day and took her time. Instead, she lingered over her wine and her Modesty Blaise until after nine, just in case the woman showed up. When she hadn’t turned up by a quarter past, Zelda set off back to her hotel, walking all the way in the soft May evening twilight, down Charing Cross Road and over one of the Golden Jubilee Bridges, then along the waterfront, smoking a cigarette as she walked, past the Southbank complex. She checked behind her once or twice, stopped to look in a shop window, paused on the bridge to admire the view downriver, but was aware of nobody following her.