Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 6

The informal meeting took place in Banks’s office on Thursday morning. The three Homicide and Major Crimes detectives sat around his low, circular table, with coffee and notepads before them: Banks, DI Annie Cabbot and DC Gerry Masterson. Banks missed Winsome; she was always a welcome voice at meetings such as this, often coming from an unexpected angle or picking out a connection others didn’t notice. But her pregnancy had been a difficult one; her blood pressure was too high, and her doctor had insisted she needed complete rest. Her husband, Terry Gilchrist, was only too happy to care for her at home. Still, Banks thought, even if the team was diminished, it was still pretty damn good.

‘Anything more on Blaydon?’ he asked Gerry.

‘DI MacDonald did a thorough job of covering what we’ve got on him, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘And so far, he’s managed to avoid arrest or even questioning for anything. It’s all circumstantial, all guilt by association. And some of the people he associates with are known criminals, like Leka Gashi, who we know has strong connections with the Albanian Mafia. Quite clearly there are deals going on. The drugs squad are aware that the Albanians are taking over the drugs trade, especially in cocaine and heroin. I talked to a DS Norcliffe at County HQ, and he said it’s a worrying development. They’ve forged alliances with the Colombian cartels and pay a pretty low price at wholesale for the stuff, which they bring in through gang-controlled European ports like Rotterdam and Antwerp. And they pass that saving on right down the line. Top quality merchandise, too. They’re intent on taking over the county lines, and God help anyone who gets in their way.’

‘Is Blaydon a user?’ Banks asked.

‘Not known to be, but word has it he’s not averse to a snort now and then, and he usually keeps a few bowls of happy powder around the place to impress his important friends. Likes to fancy himself a bit of a playboy. More than likely he’s working with the Albanians on financial deals behind the scenes, money laundering through his property developments and so forth, sex trafficking through the pop-up brothels. All at several removes. Of course, he’ll probably be doing them favours here and there. That’s how they work, how they draw people in until they’re so deep they can’t get out.’

‘How’s Blaydon’s business doing?’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Gerry. ‘I’d been wondering myself why someone like him — successful legitimate businessman, multi-millionaire and so on — would get involved in risky criminal enterprises.’

‘DI MacDonald said it’s probably because he’s an adventurer type,’ said Banks. ‘A gambler by nature. Maybe thinks he’s above the law? Perhaps a psychopathic personality? I must say, I thought I could pick up on a few of those traits when Annie and I talked to him. It was a perfect performance. He didn’t miss a beat.’

Gerry nodded. ‘Yes, I read that bit. The gambling part is certainly true. Apparently, he’s a high roller, known to a number of casinos and more than a few bookies. On a bit of a losing streak, too, these days, so word on the street has it. As an aside, he also has a bit of a reputation for holding sex parties at his mansion. There may be a few underage girls and boys present on occasion, and perhaps some trafficked girls. That could be how he formed his first links with traffickers and the pop-up brothel scene. Like I said, he’s a bit of a playboy. Craves attention. Likes to be photographed with celebs. Throws lavish parties for visiting pop stars and dignitaries.’

‘Worth bearing in mind,’ said Banks.

‘But his reasons for criminal activity might even be a bit more mundane than DI MacDonald’s speculations would lead one to believe,’ Gerry went on. ‘Practical rather than deeply psychological.’

‘Oh? Do explain.’

‘His business. Unicorn Investments International. It’s in trouble. I’m sure you know as well as I do that the property business in general has been undergoing a bit of a depression for some time — house prices down, market poor, that sort of thing. Brexit hasn’t helped much. Perhaps the only thing it has done is re-energise the trafficking business. They’re seeking out new ways, new routes, new documentation, new tricks for dodging inspections. Anyway, if the slump in the housing and property markets are bad news for Blaydon and his ilk, the big downturn in retail is even worse. Retail property values are down. Nobody wants shopping centres any more. They want online mail order. Just look at all the big department stores closing or in trouble lately — House of Fraser, Poundland, HMV, Debenhams, Marks & Spencer. And half the shops in the big shopping centres are empty. That affects retail income streams, and in some cases Unicorn Investments are taking in less in rent than they’re paying out in maintenance and general running costs.’

‘Blaydon’s losing money?’

‘Big time.’

‘And the proposed Elmet Centre?’

‘Not hotly tipped to be a huge success.’

‘The Albanians won’t like it if they lose their stake.’

‘Not much they can do, as we suspect it’s all laundered money to start with. But you’re right, guv. They’ll be after someone to blame before long, and Blaydon’s right in the firing line. Still, it hasn’t come to that yet, and maybe Blaydon’s thinking he can pull his chestnuts out of the fire by being useful to them in other ways. Markets go up and down, and most businesses weather the storms, especially if they don’t need to pull out the cash right away. But Unicorn has cash flow problems, and I’m sure Blaydon knows that two things you can always rely on to make money are sex and drugs.’

‘So it’s financial?’

‘Yes, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘I think so. At least partly. Maybe wholly. I’m not saying Blaydon isn’t a shit of the first order, in psychological terms, but in reality, he’s also going bust.’

‘Excellent work, Gerry.’

‘I can’t take credit, guv. Most of it’s there in DI MacDonald’s files. I just tried to put it together as succinctly as I could, in a way that makes sense of recent events.’

‘And you succeeded admirably. Anything more on Howard Stokes?’

‘I’ve just come from the mortuary,’ said Annie. ‘Dr Galway says it’s a straightforward heroin overdose. Not a trace of criminal wrongdoing. Vic Manson’s fingerprint analysis bears that out. And the prints and the angle of the needle all bear it out. It happens all too frequently. There’ll be tox screens and so on, but she’s pretty sure it was an o.d.’

‘How do we know someone didn’t sell him a hot shot?’

‘We don’t. Dr Galway wouldn’t speculate on that. There’s just no evidence that anyone did. I mean, if you want to kill a drug addict, an overdose is a pretty foolproof method.’ Annie paused. ‘There were a couple of interesting points that came up, though.’

‘Yes?’

‘Dr Galway also discovered during the post-mortem that Stokes was a diabetic. He didn’t take very good care of himself, as we know, and there’s a good chance he might have lost a foot or a leg before long if he’d carried on the way he was doing.’

‘You might also be interested to know,’ said Gerry, ‘that I checked with the local GPs and dispensing chemists, and Stokes hasn’t received any prescriptions for methadone — or anything other than insulin — for at least six months.’

‘So he’s been getting the real thing from someone?’

‘Looks that way, guv.’

‘And there’s one more thing,’ Annie said. ‘According to Dr Galway, Stokes had cancer. Pancreatic. One of the worst. It had already spread to the liver and lungs.’

‘How long—’

‘Not very long at all. She wouldn’t say exactly, but I got the impression it was weeks rather than months.’

‘So there’s even a chance he killed himself?’ said Banks.

Annie nodded. ‘I’d say so. If you have the means at hand, and you know how bad what’s coming is likely to be... Anyway, I think we can pretty much rule out foul play in Stokes’s case.’

‘Did the drugs squad have anything to say about Blaydon?’ Banks asked.

‘Pretty much the same as DI MacDonald told you, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘They clearly share information with Criminal Intelligence. They suspect that Blaydon is acting as a bagman for the Albanians, especially this bloke Leka Gashi, who’s the front man for the northern drugs operations, helping them take over the local county lines and so on. Apparently, Blaydon and Gashi first met up in Sarandë about ten years ago.’

‘I’ve been there,’ Banks said. ‘Strange place.’ He remembered Sarandë. He had been on a Dalmatian Coast and Greek Island cruise with Sandra years ago, and they had docked there to visit some nearby Roman ruins. What he remembered most of all was the approach from the sea — the tall buildings, and how the closer you got, the more you could see that they were empty — that you could, in fact, see right through the holes where the windows and walls should have been. It was hard to work out whether they were unfinished or had been shelled. He also remembered the town square littered with rubbish and the groups of men sitting around roasting a whole pig, then out in the countryside the isolated cottages, like fairy-tale witch houses with strange effigies nailed to the doors to ward off evil spirits. It had been like stepping back in time, at least as far back as a sixties Hammer horror movie. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry for interrupting. Go on.’

‘Remember, Blaydon’s got a place on Corfu, and it’s just across the water. Even back then, Blaydon was throwing lavish parties on his yacht to impress any celebs and major players passing through, and Gashi was his coke contact. Strictly third division back then, but he’s gone up in the world since. There’s also a rumour that Gashi helped Blaydon get rid of his partner, Norman Peel. Apparently Peel didn’t like the drugs and the Mafia connection, and he was ready to blow the whistle. But Gashi’s no longer involved on a day-to-day basis. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty any more. He has a host of minions to do that for him now.’

‘Minions like Blaydon?’

‘I’d say Blaydon’s a bit higher in the hierarchy than that, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘His value is most likely in areas other than muscle. He’s not without political and judicial influence, and if he has people working for him on the inside, especially police officers...’

‘I see what you mean. The Albanian takeover could upset a few people who’ve already invested heavily in those routes. Locals.’

‘It could,’ said Gerry. ‘And it has. According to my contact on the drugs squad, we don’t exactly have a gang war on our hands, not up here at any rate, but there are a few scuffles on the sidelines, people getting elbowed out of the way, mostly the Leeds dealers. Several hospitalisations, a couple of fatalities.’

‘I’ll have a word with DCI Blackstone.’

‘These days the Albanians can supply a purer product at a cheaper rate,’ Gerry went on. ‘What’s not to like about that?’

‘What about our dead boy? Anything on who he might be yet?’

‘Not yet, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘It’s starting to look more and more as if he’s entered the country illegally, or simply slipped through the cracks. No useful CCTV so far, and only traces of grass and soil and May blossom in the bin and on his clothing.’

‘There are no trees or grass on the East Side Estate,’ said Banks.

‘Oh, come on, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘It’s not as bad as all that. There are a few gardens and a little grass square with swings and roundabouts for the kiddies.’

‘And dealers.’

‘There’s even a tree,’ said Annie. ‘I’m sure I saw it once.’

Gerry rolled her eyes and went on. ‘We do, however, have a couple of sightings that came in from the media appeal. One woman thought she saw the boy on Sunday evening coming out of the McDonald’s near the bus station. He was carrying a backpack and wearing a dark zip-up jacket.’

‘Dr Galway said that the victim had eaten a burger an hour or two before he died,’ Banks said.

Gerry nodded. ‘One of the girls there remembers serving him. There weren’t a lot of customers around that time. And there was another sighting by the Leaview Estate a bit later. Neither witness is sure of the timings, and the second one couldn’t even be sure it was our boy, but it was either around or just after dark on Sunday. We also managed to track down a bus driver who remembered a Middle Eastern lad getting on in Leeds, at the central bus station there, and getting off in Eastvale. The bus arrived at 9.45 p.m., just as it was getting dark.’

‘It’s hardly surprising so few people saw him then. Eastvale’s pretty dead at that time on a Sunday night. The Leaview Estate?’ Banks mused. ‘It’s not the quickest way from the bus station to Hollyfield Lane, if we’re still working on the theory that he was involved in a county line there.’

‘It might be for someone who doesn’t know Eastvale,’ suggested Annie.

‘Good point. Did this second witness have anything to add?’

Gerry scanned the witness statement. ‘Nothing, sir, except this man also says the lad he saw was carrying a backpack. Wearing it, I suppose.’

‘At least the missing items explain why he had nothing but the coke on him. He must have kept his money and stuff in the jacket or the backpack. I wonder what happened to them.’

‘Maybe he dropped them off somewhere on the way, guv?’ Gerry suggested. ‘Somewhere on the Leaview Estate. It was a warm evening, the day before the storm, so maybe he took his jacket off and left it somewhere.’

‘If he left it at Leaview, that rather puts our county lines theory to waste, doesn’t it,’ Banks replied. ‘At least as far as Hollyfield Lane is concerned. It’s unlikely they’d have two trap houses here in Eastvale. Can we link the boy to Stokes at all?’

‘No, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘Not yet, at any rate. We found no trace of the backpack or jacket at his house. But Stefan’s team are still there; if there is a connection, they’ll come up with it eventually.’

‘You’re thinking Howard Stokes was cuckooed, aren’t you?’ Annie asked.

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’ said Banks. ‘Isn’t that how the county lines operate? Send in a kid to distribute the phone orders out of someone’s house. Take over his nest, like a cuckoo. Usually someone who can’t do anything about it. Someone disabled, or a vulnerable junkie like Stokes. It explains why he hadn’t been getting any methadone scripts and was managing to maintain his habit. They’d pay him in heroin.’

‘But why kill him, guv?’ Gerry asked. ‘I mean, whatever Stokes was, he wasn’t a major player. I doubt the boy was, either, even if he was involved. But Stokes did provide them with a safe and solid base to work from.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe Stokes killed himself because of the cancer? There’s a lot we don’t know yet. Maybe if the Albanians are taking over...’

‘A warning?’ said Annie. ‘Like we thought before?’

‘Or a reprisal,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s try knocking on doors along Hollyfield Lane. There must be people still living there.’

‘There are, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘Uniform branch did a door-to-door just after we found Stokes’s body. It turned up nothing.’

‘You do it again, Gerry. Even if Stokes did die of a genuine drug overdose, it doesn’t mean there was no monkey business involved. Show everyone the boy’s picture.’

‘Right, guv.’

‘And up Elmet Hill, too,’ said Banks. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone to think we’re favouring the better off. There’s plenty of people living up there, and they’re not free from suspicion, even though they’ve got more money. They’ve got a Neighbourhood Watch, too. It might be worth having a word with some of them. They may have seen or heard something on their wanderings.’

‘OK.’ Gerry glanced at Annie. ‘By the way, guv. DI Cabbot asked me to look into the Lisa Bartlett sexual assault again. As you know, I handled that case, talked to Lisa at the time. She was pretty upset.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Banks. ‘Poor lass. Make her part of your inquiries in the area. Have another chat with her. See if she can remember anything else. Find out if she’d ever seen our boy or knows who Stokes was.’

Gerry made a note on her pad. ‘Will do, guv.’

Zelda felt a surge of excitement when she woke up the following morning. She was getting closer; she could feel it. She had slept far better than the previous night and could remember no bad dreams, not even fragments. Her nights were unpredictable, as were the moods of despair and feelings of worthlessness that washed over her like tsunamis out of nowhere and swept all hope away. She had no way of foreseeing them. Or the panic attacks. Sometimes she could guess later that a specific incident had set off the chain reaction — a face in the crowd that seemed too much like one of the men who had abused her, groups of men behaving aggressively, men giving her certain glances or making lewd comments, bedraggled, frightened-looking girls sitting on pavements hugging their knees and keeping their heads down as they begged for loose change. But her panic didn’t always require any of those triggers to set it off.

Raymond had learned to leave her alone when such feelings enveloped her, though more and more she found herself going to him for comfort, wanting to be held. That had taken a long time. Her psychiatrist, if she had one, would no doubt have noted it as a positive sign, an acceptance of the need for human warmth and help she had spurned for so long after her traumatic experiences. But Raymond never questioned her, never asked for explanations; he simply gave her comfort when she needed it. Maybe that was why she had started to trust him after so long, to love him. She was quite aware that the only two men she had ever loved, apart from her father, whom she could hardly remember, were much older than she was, but she didn’t dwell on it. She was happy with Raymond, happy in a way she had never thought she could be again, and as happy as she could ever be, given the nightmares and the shame and the guilt — not for what she had done, but for what she had allowed it to do to her.

That morning she indulged herself in a large latte and a blueberry muffin at the Caffè Nero on the ground floor of the Oxo Tower. Joggers flashed by, and already the tourists were holding up their mobiles for selfies along on the waterfront. Two excited young women, who looked as if they were preparing for a modelling session, sat at the next table and discussed angles and locations with their photographer. With her black hair tied back in a loose chignon, accenting her high cheekbones, and her dark eyes, olive complexion and slender but shapely figure, Zelda herself might have been taken for a model, though her uniform of jeans, white open-neck shirt and kidskin jacket were hardly the apex of haute couture. She did notice the photographer glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, as if appraising her, from time to time. It made her feel a little uncomfortable but didn’t bring on a tsunami.

Foyles was in full swing when Zelda arrived, a huge, bright book emporium with a wonderful sense of natural light and space. There were the requisite displays of notebooks and gift items by the ground floor cash registers, but beyond stood a wall of recent titles facing out towards the reader. For a few moments, Zelda just stood there, overwhelmed, reading titles but not really taking them in. On her previous visits she had always been either browsing or searching for a specific title, but this time she had no idea where to begin. She had vaguely worked out how she would approach Keane’s girlfriend, but not how she would find her in the first place. At least she wasn’t working the ground floor tills, so that was a start. These things all seemed so easy in movies, but in real life they were a different matter. She didn’t think she looked threatening or dangerous, so she hoped that the people she talked to would trust her and not feel they needed to hide the truth or call the police.

She decided that the best thing to do would be to check out all five floors first, and if there was no sign of her there, she would start showing the photograph around to members of staff. She was nervous about that, as she had no more of an explanation for it now than she had the previous evening in the restaurant. No doubt she would think of something.

And so she began her search, walking each floor, checking the faces of anyone at an information desk, carrying or stacking piles of books, adjusting shelf displays or talking to customers, until she arrived at the gallery and cafe on the fifth floor. The woman serving behind the counter there definitely wasn’t the one she was looking for; nor were any of the people sitting at a table enjoying a coffee break.

Zelda started working her way back down again, this time showing the photo to every employee she met. She had no idea how many people worked in Foyles, or how the hierarchy functioned, but one or two people she talked to thought they recognised the woman but just couldn’t place her. Some merely seemed suspicious and were unwilling to help her at all.

Finally, Zelda got lucky on the third floor.

‘That looks like Ms Butler,’ said a young girl on her knees, shelving business self-help books.

Zelda’s spirits revived. ‘Where can I find her?’

The girl’s expression turned guarded. ‘Who wants to know?’ she asked. ‘And where did this photograph come from?’

‘I’d just like to talk to her. That’s all.’

‘I wouldn’t want to get her into any trouble.’

‘She’s not in any trouble. Honest,’ said Zelda, dredging up her best smile.

The girl chewed on her lip for a few moments, then said, ‘Ms Butler. Faye. She’s head of our art department. You should find her on the ground floor.’

Hadn’t Banks told her that Keane was involved in the art world when the two of them had crossed swords a few years ago? He had moved on now, if the photograph with Tadić was to be believed, but that didn’t mean he had completely left his earlier interests behind.

‘Thanks very much,’ said Zelda.

The girl nodded and went back to shelving books. Zelda walked down the stairs to the ground floor. She approached a young man rearranging a stack of books on a table centrepiece and asked if Ms Butler was around.

‘Faye?’ said the young man, glancing around. ‘She was here a few moments ago. Must have nipped into the office. Can I help?’

Zelda smiled sweetly. ‘No, thank you. I really need to talk to Ms Butler.’

‘OK. Won’t be a jiffy.’

He disappeared through a STAFF ONLY door and reappeared a minute or two later with the young blonde woman in Zelda’s photograph. It had been difficult to tell her age when Zelda had followed her and Hawkins along Oxford Street just before Christmas, but now Zelda saw her in the flesh, she guessed that Faye Butler was probably about the same age as she was. Faye approached, a puzzled expression on her pixie-ish face, and said, ‘Hello. I’m Faye Butler. Ron here says you want to talk to me.’

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ Zelda said. ‘Yes, I’d like to talk to you if you have a few moments to spare.’

‘What’s it about?’ Faye asked, dismissing Ron with a wave of the hand.

‘It’s about Phil Keane. I understand you go out with him, or used to.’

Faye folded her arms. ‘I don’t know what you want, or who you are, but I’ve never heard of any Phil Keane.’

Before Faye could turn and walk away, Zelda held out the photo. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’

Faye paused and examined the photograph. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where you got it, but it’s me. Perhaps I’d better call the police?’

Zelda took a deep breath. After the next step, there would be no turning back. ‘I am the police,’ she said.

‘Do you have identification?’

Zelda wasn’t sure it would pass muster, but she did have her NCA pass, and it did have the words ‘National Crime Agency’ printed on it, along with an impressive logo, insignia and her photograph.

‘NCA?’ said Faye. ‘That’s the British FBI, isn’t it?’

‘Some newspapers call us that.’

‘It must be important, then. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about. This man in the picture isn’t called Phil Keane. His name is Hugh Foley. And, yes, we used to go out together, but not for a while now.’

It was just after five o’clock when Annie arrived at the wood-panelled facade of Le Coq d’Or. Like Banks, she had never eaten there. The restaurant didn’t open until six, so she knocked at the front door and an elegant young woman in a black turtleneck sweater and matching black slacks answered. When Annie introduced herself, the woman said she was Florence and had been expecting someone from the police. She excused herself for a moment, then she returned, carrying a pack of cigarettes, came outside and closed the door behind her. It was a mild evening, and she seemed comfortable enough without a jacket.

‘Let’s just go down here,’ she said, and led Annie a few yards towards York Road, beyond which the limestone castle was visible, high on its hill against a backdrop of blue sky. They stood outside a closed antiquarian bookshop with a window display of beautiful old maps. ‘I’m dying for a fag,’ Florence went on, ‘and Marcel doesn’t like me smoking right outside the restaurant, even when it’s closed. Says it looks bad. I suppose he’s right, really.’ She smiled nervously, pulled a Rothmans from her packet and lit it with a green Bic. She took a deep drag and let out the smoke slowly. ‘So what did you want to know?’

‘About Sunday night.’

‘Yes.’

‘I understand a man called Connor Clive Blaydon was dining with Tommy and Timmy, the Kerrigan brothers.’

Florence puffed on her cigarette and nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘Do you remember what time they left?’

‘It was just after eleven o’clock. We’d been closed officially for ages, and they were the only ones left, but... well... what can you do?’

‘It does seem rather inconsiderate.’

Florence shrugged. ‘A customer’s a customer.’

‘Big spenders?’

She nodded.

‘And generous tippers?’

‘Generous enough to make it worthwhile staying late. After all, I’ve got nowhere to go except my lonely little flat.’ She laughed dismissively at herself. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t given Marcel every opportunity, but he’s not interested. And his real name’s not Marcel, it’s Roland.’

Annie laughed. ‘Anyone else still there?’

‘By then? Only the kitchen staff. They’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do at the end of a service. Marcel’s a real stickler about cleanliness and hygiene. You have to be if you want Michelin stars.’

‘When the party left, did you see where they went?’

‘They all got into Mr Blaydon’s car.’

‘It was parked outside?’

‘Yes. I opened the restaurant door for them and saw them get into it. A nice black Mercedes. They were all a bit tipsy by then.’

‘What about earlier? Was the car outside all evening?’

‘Oh, no. They couldn’t possibly park there. He had to back out as it was. You can see how the street narrows towards York Road.’

Annie looked in the direction Florence was pointing and saw it was true. It was as Banks had told her.

‘So how did he know what time to turn up?’

‘Mr Blaydon used his mobile to call the driver when they wanted to leave.’

‘And you’re sure the car wasn’t already waiting outside?’

‘Well, I managed to sneak out for a smoke around nine-thirty, just after Marcel had gone home, when the evening’s service was officially finished, and it certainly wasn’t there then.’

‘Was Mr Blaydon in the restaurant all evening, all that time between seven-thirty and eleven?’

‘Yes. Wait a minute. He got a call on his mobile and went outside to answer it.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Around ten.’

‘How long was he gone?’

‘I don’t know. Not long. Five minutes. Ten at the most.’

‘And you’ve no idea who called him?’

‘No.’

‘How did he react to the call?’

‘He didn’t, really. He just answered it and went outside.’

‘How did he seem? Was he upset? Overjoyed?’

‘He didn’t react either way. Just like it was some normal business matter or something. I was passing the table, and I heard him tell the others he’d be back in a couple of minutes.’

‘What about the Kerrigans? Did either of them leave the restaurant at all?’

‘No. They used the toilet once or twice — they had quite a lot to drink — but that’s all. The rest of the time they stayed at the table.’

‘What was the mood like?’

‘Mood?’

‘Yes. The dinner. Were they festive, celebrating, businesslike, laughing, arguing...?’

‘Oh, I see. Well, mostly they seemed in pretty good spirits. There were a few toasts — two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. They were certainly quieter earlier in the evening, when there were other diners present. I suppose they let their hair down a bit when they were the only ones left.’

‘In what way?’

‘You know, raised their voices a bit, that sort of thing.’

‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’

Florence almost choked on her cigarette. ‘I make it a point not to overhear conversations in the restaurant. Marcel wouldn’t approve of my eavesdropping.’

‘But surely you can’t help it now and then? Even if it’s just a word or two.’

Florence flicked ash from her cigarette. ‘There’s always plenty of other stuff to do.’

A young couple walked by hand in hand and Florence smiled at them.

‘Were they just laughing a lot or talking business?’ Annie asked.

‘Bit of both, really. There was some laughter, especially later, after the sweets and Cognac, but mostly I think they must have been talking business, maybe celebrating a success of some sort.’

‘But you don’t know what?’

Florence looked around. Annie followed her gaze back towards the restaurant. The street was empty.

‘They did raise their voices once, just after the last of the other diners had gone.’

‘Who spoke? What did he say? Do you know what it was about?’

‘No. But I think I heard one of them...’ She glanced around her again. ‘It was one of those brothers, the creepy one with the milky eye.’

‘Tommy Kerrigan?’

‘Right. He shouted something about a “fucking Albanian” or something like that.’ She dropped her cigarette and stamped it out in the gutter. ‘You won’t do me for littering, will you?’

Annie shook her head. ‘Are you sure that’s what he said? About the Albanian?’

Florence shrugged. ‘It’s what I thought he said. He was definitely angry, though. His brother had to calm him down. You could tell he was ready to hurt someone.’

‘Hurt who?’

‘Anyone. I’ve seen him like that before. When he gets like that it doesn’t matter. It could easily have been me if I hadn’t made myself scarce. They’re pigs, those two.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t hear anything else?’

‘There was quite a bit of swearing. And the other brother called me a slut.’

‘To your face?’

‘No. I was in the kitchen, but I heard him. He said, “Let’s tell the slut to bring our bill”.’

‘Did he give you a hard time when you appeared?’

Florence blushed. ‘No, not really. Just the usual. “Come home with me, love, and I’ll give you something to smile about.” That sort of thing. And he kept calling me “sugar tits”.’

All class, Timmy Kerrigan, thought Annie.

‘Don’t tell Marcel, please,’ Florence said, touching Annie’s arm. ‘It was nothing, really. They’re good customers, and he’ll think I want him to bar them. He’d never forgive me.’

‘Forgive you?’ Annie said.

‘You know what I mean. If it seemed like I was complaining and trying to make something out of it. He wouldn’t tolerate behaviour like theirs, but he’d blame me. It was no big deal. It happens.’

‘Not so often in a restaurant like Le Coq d’Or, I shouldn’t think,’ said Annie.

‘You’d be surprised. Just because they’re posh doesn’t mean they’re not nasty. Plenty of regulars seem to think they’ve got “coqs d’or” themselves.’ Annie stared at her, mouth open for a couple of seconds, then they both burst out laughing.

When they’d quietened down, Florence said, ‘I’ve got to go now. I still have a few things to do before we open. But there’s one more thing that might interest you.’

Annie’s mobile started to vibrate but she ignored it for the moment. ‘What’s that?’

‘The creepy one. He looked as if he’d been in a fight. He had a cut over one eye and bruising on his cheek.’

‘Ah,’ said Annie. ‘At least we know there’s some justice in the world, then.’

Zelda had expected Keane to have changed his name along with his profession, especially as he was still wanted by the police for the attempted murder of Alan Banks, so she was hardly surprised by what Faye Butler told her. ‘Perhaps we could have a private chat somewhere?’ she said. ‘The cafe? I promise I won’t keep you long.’

‘All right. You’ve got me curious now. Fifteen minutes.’

They headed up the stairs to the cafe and found a secluded corner table. Zelda fetched them two coffees and sat down opposite Faye.

‘What I’d really like,’ Zelda said, ‘is to find this man, whatever name he’s going under.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘What makes you think he’s done anything?’

‘Well, the NCA is asking after him, for a start. And if he had a reason to change his name... I mean, why would someone do that if they didn’t have something to hide?’

‘Did you feel he had something to hide when you were with him?’

‘He could be very secretive. I never felt I really got to know him. It’s like there was always another layer. That was one of the problems, I suppose. I didn’t feel I knew the real Hugh Foley. If there was one.’

‘We don’t know that he has done anything yet,’ Zelda said. ‘We just know that he was friendly with one or two criminals we had under surveillance.’ She lay the picture on the table and tapped it. ‘What do you remember about this other man in the photo with the two of you?’

‘I don’t remember anything. I don’t even remember his name, if I ever did know it. They went off to a table for a private chat for a few minutes. I was talking to some friends from work at the bar. After that, we left and did some window-shopping. It was near Christmas. Then we went back.’

‘Back where?’

‘Hugh’s hotel.’

‘Hotel?’

‘Yes. He travelled a lot in his line of work, so when he was here he usually stayed in a hotel. If we wanted to spend time together... you know... that’s where we’d go. I was sharing a flat with two other girls, so it could be a bit awkward going to my place.’

‘Do you know where he actually lived?’

Faye frowned. ‘Not really. I mean, it never came up. I remember he once told me he was from Portsmouth, but he didn’t live there. I think he might have lived on the continent somewhere. At least, that was the impression I got from the places he talked about.’

‘The same hotel every time?’

‘Yes. He said once you’ve found a good thing why change it.’

‘Must have been expensive.’

Faye shrugged. ‘Money never seemed to be a problem with Hugh.’

Zelda realised that she was living in a hotel at the moment, and money wasn’t a great problem for her, either, though at least a part of her expenses were covered by the NCA. ‘What was it called?’

‘I can’t remember. It was a small place, one of those boutique hotels with a foreign name. Quite nice, really. A city in Eastern Europe. Budapest? Bucharest? No. Belgrade. That’s what it was called. The Belgrade.’

‘Whereabouts is it?’

‘Fitzrovia.’

Zelda knew the area. She had stayed at a Holiday Inn there once.

Faye blew on her coffee. ‘What’s this all about? Can’t you give me just an inkling?’

She was an attractive woman, and Zelda could see how she would appeal to men. She was taller than Zelda remembered, and she now wore her blonde hair cut short, emphasising her heart-shaped face and big blue eyes. She had a sweet smile, when she chose to flash it. Not too sophisticated, but quick, bright and charming, certainly a good enough companion to show off at a business dinner with the boss. Her figure looked good, too, under the work clothes. Zelda imagined she would scrub up well. The problem was that Zelda couldn’t yet decide whether Faye was as crooked as Keane/Foley or merely an innocent bystander. On first impressions, she was inclined towards the latter view, but she was keeping her options open.

‘What does he do?’ she asked.

‘He’s in art and antiques, a buyer for a number of swanky galleries. New York. Paris. Milan. Berlin. That sort of thing. He specialises in eastern and southern European artefacts and paintings. The Balkans, Greece, the ex-Soviet republics. Religious icons, that sort of thing. That’s why he travels such a lot.’

It was a good cover, Zelda thought. ‘Is that how you met?’

‘Yes. Here. In the shop. He wanted to order a book on Bulgarian antiquities. It was out of print, and I said I’d do my best to locate a copy for him. Then... well, one thing led to another. He was quite charming, and very attractive. I suppose I was flattered. He asked me out for a drink. Then dinner. Then... Look, your English is wonderful, but I think I can hear a trace of an accent in the way you talk. Are you from Eastern Europe or somewhere like that?’

‘Somewhere like that,’ said Zelda.

‘Only I met quite a few of them when I was with Hugh. You know, Serbs, Croatians, Bosnians.’

‘I’m from Moldova.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Between Ukraine and Romania. A long way from the Balkans. Far enough, anyway. Did you ever meet a man called Petar Tadić?’

‘Petar? From Croatia? Yes. We had drinks with him a few times. He wasn’t too bad. Quite gallant, really. Nicer than his brother.’

Zelda felt herself tense up. Petar Tadić had been far from gallant when she had met him. ‘His brother Goran?’

Faye hesitated. ‘Yes. I think that was his name. He gave me the creeps.’

‘What do you mean?’

Faye shrugged. ‘You know. He was good-looking enough and all that, but he sort of leered at you. Undressed you with his eyes. Made suggestive comments. He’d lean over and whisper behind his hand in Hugh’s ear, eyeing me all the while. That sort of thing. Hugh didn’t like him, either. I could tell. He just had to do business with him, so he put up with him.’

Zelda nodded. If only that had been all Goran Tadić had done to her: leer and whisper crude comments. ‘So when Hugh met the man in the Italian restaurant the evening that photograph was taken, you didn’t take part in the discussions?’

‘No. I was never involved in any business talks. To be honest, I could hardly imagine anything more boring. Could you? That was one of the things...’ She let the thought trail off.

‘What were you going to say?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Please tell me.’

Faye studied her for a moment, then said, ‘It was one of the bones of contention between us. Hugh’s secrecy. And his business. It seemed there was always something going on, always some more important client, buyer or seller to meet, and I was... Well, it was always more important than me.’

‘You felt you were relegated to second place?’

‘Yes. Or third.’

‘Did you know who this man he met that night was?’

‘No. Hugh just said he was a business contact and he wouldn’t be long.’

‘Do you have any idea what they talked about?’

‘No. It was pretty crowded and noisy. Like I said, I was at the bar chatting. I wasn’t interested in Hugh’s business meetings. Why are you asking all this? What has he done? He must have done something, or you wouldn’t be asking me all these questions.’

‘It’s more the man he met that we’re interested in,’ Zelda lied. ‘Along with the Tadić brothers.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there. I know nothing about them. I wouldn’t be surprised if that Goran Tadić wasn’t up to his neck in something dirty, though. He had that aura about him.’

‘Could you tell me anything more about the meeting in the Italian restaurant, from what you saw — your impressions, whatever?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did they appear to be arguing, problem-solving, joking?’

‘It was just ordinary, really. Just a discussion.’

‘Neither one was angry or particularly animated? No raised voices?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Who did most of the talking?’

‘Well, whenever I looked over to see if he was finished, Hugh seemed to be talking. I did see the other man try to interrupt once, but Hugh cut him off sharply.’

‘As if he was telling him to do something? Lecturing him? Giving him orders?’

‘Or giving him a bollocking. Just a mild one.’

So perhaps Hawkins wasn’t warning Keane about her, after all, Zelda thought. Their meeting could have been about something else entirely, something to do with whatever it was that connected them. ‘Did they exchange anything?’

‘Like what?’

‘Objects, pieces of paper, briefcases, that sort of thing.’

‘No, nothing as far as I could tell. You mean like spies? Is he a spy, this man? Is Hugh a spy? Are you?’

‘When did you stop seeing Hugh Foley?’

‘A couple of months ago.’

‘Why? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘I can’t see as it’s any of the police’s business, but in addition to what I’ve already told you, he was a bit of a bastard. I mean, there was already the important business stuff, and the secrecy, and how he was always disappearing; he was really unreliable, not turning up for dates and so on. But in the end it was the fact that he cheated on me that did it. The straw that broke the camel’s back, you might say. Or at least my back.’

‘Who with?’

‘There was more than one. I suspected for a while.’

‘You caught him red-handed?’

Faye nodded. ‘Eventually.’ She lowered her voice. ‘In flagrante.’ Then she put her hand to her mouth and started laughing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But you had to be there. It was in the hotel. I went up once when he wasn’t expecting me.’

‘And he answered the door?’

‘Yes. Opened it a crack. He wouldn’t let me in, of course, said he wasn’t feeling well, but I could tell what was going on. I even caught a glimpse of her in the mirror.’

Zelda smiled.

‘It was no big deal,’ Faye went on. ‘We weren’t serious or anything. It was just a bit of fun. I wasn’t heartbroken.’

‘Still,’ said Zelda. ‘A girl doesn’t like to be two-timed.’

‘Damn right. But I didn’t shoot the both of them, or set fire to the bed, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

Zelda laughed. ‘Good. Then I really would have to arrest you.’

Faye seemed uncertain for a moment whether she was joking, then she must have seen the humour in Zelda’s expression, because she started laughing again. ‘He was a bastard, plain and simple,’ she said finally. ‘It’s not as if he’s the only one. There are plenty more where he came from. Sometimes I think all men are bastards.’

‘Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,’ Zelda said. ‘Have you seen him since?’

‘No way. Cross me once, and you don’t get another chance.’

‘Who was the new girl?’

‘No idea. Never saw her before. Or since.’

‘Foley hasn’t stalked you, harassed you in any way?’

‘Lord, no.’

‘Tell me about some of these people you met. The Eastern Europeans. Did you and Hugh socialise with them?’

‘Yes. Usually at the hotel. They all seemed to hang out there a lot. The others usually had pretty girls on their arms, but the conversation was never up to much. You know the sort of thing.’

‘Did you ever hear what they were talking about?’

‘Only if we were all chatting together, you know. But some of the girls hardly spoke English.’

‘Chatting about what?’

‘Small talk, usually. The weather. Brexit. Movies. Football.’

‘But not business?’

‘Hugh knew it bored me. If they wanted to talk business, they would go off by themselves and do it.’

Zelda was almost convinced that Faye had nothing to do with Keane’s secret, evil world. ‘You’re best out of it,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’re dangerous people, Faye. Take my word for it. You got out of their world without any serious emotional damage. You should put Hugh Foley right out of your mind and get on with your life. Are you seeing anyone else yet?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

‘May I ask who?’

Faye paused. ‘Well, it’s none of your business, but it’s someone here. At work.’

‘Nothing to do with Foley and his pals?’

‘You must be joking.’

‘Good,’ said Zelda. ‘Excellent.’ She stood up and Faye did likewise. ‘I’m sorry to intrude on your day. I don’t think I’ll have to bother you again.’

‘It’s no bother, really,’ said Faye. ‘Quite exciting, really, being questioned by the NCA. My affair with a master criminal.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ said Zelda, smiling. ‘And it might be best if you weren’t to tell anyone about our meeting.’

Faye put her finger to her mouth. ‘My lips are sealed.’

At least Banks’s office didn’t resemble a government waiting room or an administrative annex, he thought. It had comfortable chairs around a low glass table and looked out over the market square, catching a little evening sunshine through its large sash windows, one of which was open a few inches. Banks had no idea what the couple’s story was — they had just appeared in reception around six o’clock saying they were the dead boy’s aunt and uncle from Huddersfield — but he had a feeling that the offices of foreign authority figures probably had bad memories for them. Even with Annie present, just back from Le Coq d’Or, the room didn’t seem overcrowded.

They were in their late thirties, Banks guessed, and definitely of Middle Eastern origin. The uncle wore a brown suit, white shirt and loose tie, and his wife a western-style long dress that covered every inch of her except her head, over which she wore a simple green silk headscarf as a hijab, covering her head and framing her face and frightened brown eyes. She sat erect, knees together, clutching a brown faux-crocodile handbag on her lap. The uncle seemed more relaxed, legs crossed, leaning back in his chair a little. But his eyes also showed nervousness and had dark shadows under them. Banks knew it couldn’t have been easy for them to come to the police, and he wondered if that was what had delayed them.

‘I am Aimar Hadeed,’ said the man, ‘and this is my wife Ranim. I apologise, but we do not speak very fine English. Our language is Arabic.’

‘We can get a translator if you like?’ said Banks. ‘It may take a while to set up, but if it makes you more comfortable...’

‘I think I can manage,’ Aimar said. ‘It is my wife who does not speak so much.’

Banks smiled at Ranim Hadeed. She gave him a nervous smile in return. ‘As you can imagine,’ Aimar went on, ‘we are both very upset.’

‘Understandably,’ Banks said. ‘Perhaps you can begin by telling me why it took you so long to come here?’

Aimar spread his hands. ‘We did not know. We do not read the newspapers. We do not have television. We are not ignorant people. We come from Aleppo, and we are thought to be very Western in many ways, but here we... we feel lost... We have a community. People like us, who speak our language. We do not drink. We go out very little.’

‘How long have you been here?’ Banks asked.

‘We came in 2017.’

‘And you’ve lived in Huddersfield all that time?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how did you find out about...’

‘His name is Samir,’ Aimar said. ‘Samir Boulad.’

‘How did you find out about Samir?’

‘A neighbour came yesterday. He told us of the boy who had been murdered in North Yorkshire. He showed us a photograph. It was Samir. And so we came here. Can we see him? Can we see Samir?’

‘Yes. Later,’ said Banks. ‘I would like you to identify him for us. We couldn’t find anyone who knew who he was.’

‘We did not know he was here.’

‘In England?’

Aimar nodded. ‘We did not know he had arrived. Such a journey can take a long time.’

‘Did you know he was coming?’

‘Yes. We knew he had left Aleppo. My sister send us letter, but it takes long to arrive. But we do not know what happens after that. Where is Samir. How he travels. There are many perils.’

‘Were you expecting him?’

‘We thought he would come to us. Yes.’

‘Did he know where you lived?’

‘My sister write down address for him, but... the journey... many difficulties. Maybe he loses a small piece of paper?’

‘And it’s a big country,’ said Banks.

Aimar smiled sadly. ‘Yes.’

‘Weren’t you worried when he didn’t turn up?’

‘We worry every day. But we did not know where to look for him or when he would come. You must understand, Mr Banks, that many people make this journey. Many people attempt, but not all arrive. It is always possible he is still in Greece or Italy. Or France. Many people live in camps.’

‘So nobody knew where he was living or what he was doing?’

‘No. These people who sail boats and drive lorries, they are bad men. They rob and they kill. When you set out, you do not know if you will arrive or if you will drown. Or where you will arrive. How long it takes. It’s a dangerous journey. Many rivers to cross. Many seas. There are many routes and many dangers on every one. Border checks, bandits. Samir wanted to come to show he was a true man and to light the way for his mother and father and sisters. To get money for them to come.’

‘They couldn’t afford to come?’

‘They could not all pay, no. These smugglers want much money. And Ranim and I, we could not help. We both work, we clean offices at night, but it is not good job, and not good pay.’

‘Samir’s family was going to follow?’

‘Yes. When Samir could send them money. But sometimes the men with boats, they make you keep paying. Samir very young. Only thirteen. They could make him work many months before they say he has paid them what he owes.’

‘Well, he got here,’ said Banks.

‘But what happened? The paper my friend showed me said someone stabbed him.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Hadeed, but that’s true. Yes.’

An expression of pain passed across his face. ‘But why? He was only a boy. He never hurt anyone.’

‘We don’t know why. Until you came here today, we didn’t even know his name or his nationality.’

Ranim put her head in her hands and wept. Her husband comforted her. When her tears had subsided, Banks asked if they would like more tea, or coffee. Aimar asked for a glass of water for his wife and Banks fetched it. Annie sat next to Ranim and helped comfort her. Banks was beginning to feel sick and angry. Samir had come all this way, suffered God only knew what trials and tribulations in his rite of passage, only to end up dead in a wheelie bin, without even an identity.

‘I won’t keep you much longer,’ Banks said after handing the glass of water to Ranim. ‘Do you know if Samir travelled legally at any stage? Would he have been through the formalities when he arrived here?’

‘I do not know. But maybe I think not.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I mean, we are not from immigration. It’s just a matter of checking with authorities to see if we have any record of him entering the country. Was he an asylum seeker?’

‘He was scared young boy,’ said Aimar. ‘I think he maybe just get off boat and run.’

‘I want to try and arrange for his parents to come to claim his body. I can’t promise you anything, but I will—’

‘No!’ Aimar shook his head. ‘No. You do not understand.’

‘What don’t I understand?’

‘Ali, and my sister Lely. They cannot come here now.’

‘Why not?’

Aimar grasped Ranim’s hand. She was weeping again. ‘Because they are dead,’ he went on. ‘All dead. Mother. Father. Sisters.’

‘My God,’ said Banks. ‘How?’ But even as he asked, he knew it was a silly question.

‘Bomb,’ said Aimar, and with tears in his eyes and a kind of matter-of-fact finality, he made a flying and diving gesture with his hand, then mimicked the sound of an explosion.